Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I was the odd girl, the girl who never leaves the house, the girl who refuses to leave her mother's side. And I remember Norman appearing. He had been watching from afar, a few plots down. I remember his face now, when he approached me. I thought he'd known my mother somehow, that he'd taken pity on a young girl who'd suddenly lost the world.

What I didn't know is that slow hesitant approach, that look of caution and regret in his expression when he finally stood in front of me were the eyes of a father who was trying to right his biggest wrong.

He did what he knew I'd accept, and he offered me a new city, a new job prospect—a new start. He told me I'd begin at the lowest part of the chain, and depending on how I take to it, maybe there would be more in that future.

On the plane ride to New York City, he asked me how I was holding up, to which I replied, "I'm glad."

"Glad for what?" he asked.

"That she got away," I answered.

I was damaged, and he could see it. I remember how much I liked him that he didn't answer me on that, or force me to explain. He was smart enough to understand. I don't know, now that I know everything, maybe it was his guilt that silenced him.

Because guilt is an odd thing.

We rarely ever deserve to feel it, and yet, it's physically impossible to get rid of. No matter how many people drill into your brain that you're not to blame, it's there, eating at your insides.

I can only imagine how long his has been gnawing at his body.

I can only hope he knows that his guilt was what brought us back together, was what right his wrongs. We've had a short span of time without secrets between us, but that time has been spent with careful reflection, as it should have been.

"Scarlett."

At Giovanni's whisper, I glance up at his chin, and then turn my head to Norman, who's opened his eyes, and is blinking up at the ceiling. As every hair on my body stands to attention, his breathing comes in desperate drones, difficult, short gasps of air.

My face cracks, my chest bleeding at the sight as my fear becomes reality.

He woke up.

I scramble off of Giovanni, gasping, only able to think that my father is dying. He's dying and I can't let him die alone. I climb onto the bed, and notice the doctor straightening, but he remains planted in his place. He isn't needed.

This is the end.

With no grace, no caution whatsoever, I crawl over the mattress and lay flat beside him, wrapping my arms around his body as he struggles to breathe, struggles to take his last gasps of air. His breathing is so shallow, so congested. I rest my head on his shoulder, crying for all the lost years, and all the ones we'll never get.

I cry at the fact that I've gotten a father only to have him taken away this fast.

I weep into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter, sure that if I'm giving him any pain right now, it's redeemed by the safe reassurance of my arms. The knowledge of knowing someone, someone you love, that loves you back will be there the moment you leave.

His breaths grow less desperate as if he doesn't need them as badly anymore.

And I try to tell him everything, everything I can in those last moments.

"I love you."

"It's okay to go. I'll be okay. It's going to be okay."

"I love you, dad."

My last words, "Thank you," are uttered at the exact moment I feel his chest sink, a heavy sigh leaving his mouth.

The exact moment he's gone.

I lay there, not saying another word, waiting for another gasp even though I know it's not going to come. Holding my breath, my eyes dart across the room to the doctor, who has his head down, his arms crossed over his chest. To the nurse, who is at the edge of the couch, a look on her face that lets me know she's seen this before. And then to Giovanni, who's standing at the end of the bed, his eyes wide, and swarmed with water.

It's the look on his face, and the endless realizations in my mind that begin to sink in, filling me with horror and the striking, desolate feeling of loss. And forces me to turn back to Norman, and lower down onto him, as my pain erupts from deep within me, escaping my throat in low, gutting sounds.

The grief is sharp, and blinding, and so fucking real.

It's not hard to lose myself in it.

I hear the door squeak softly as it's shut, the room leaving me to this moment.

But before I can feel alone, clutching to the lifeless person who made me, Giovanni's fingers graze my ankle with hesitance, until his hand wraps completely around it by the end of the bed. The mattress sinks as he sits, prepared to wait with me until I'm ready to go.

Until I'm ready to let go.