Amore Mio ✓

LXXXVI. Please, Don't Cry

Alice's POV:

There's a long silence between us. "I understand, Angel. I'll pick you up at seven." He presses a gentle kiss on the top of my head.

The next day blurs, barely caught by my eyes.

I'm on my doorstep, with Neilson's large coat over my shoulders. My eyes laid on the old brown Welcome Home mat, attempting to gather up all the courage to walk inside the door.

My brain was always searching for any sign, but what sign am I searching for?

My stomach shifts uneasily, and I notice that the hands that I am hugging myself with are pinching into my skin. I release my hands, but then I can't figure out what to do with them, so instead, they clasp and unclasp each other as if in constant need of touch and reassurance.

I couldn't think straight this morning. I put one of Neilson's pocket knives in the wrong pocket and then panicked when I couldn't find it. Yes, Neilson has a collection of rare pocket knives. He only used three of them, one from his papa, another from his dad, and the last one from his younger brother whenever he goes camping. His younger brother gave it to him after they had this huge fight when they first met each other as a peace treaty.

I stood up, but I wasn't ready, so I unnecessarily walked around town. My eyes link to a cafe, and I decide to go inside. Once I got the cup, I sat in the cafe corner for nearly two hours before I went back to the house.

Sitting back at the original spot, I spread my hands like pale starfish around my standard-issue coffee cup. The cup was cold, too, resisting the warmth that struggles to seep into them.

I rushed my trembling fingers through my tangled hair. I must be quite gaunt, but I'll not be looking in the mirror today. I don't want to see my face, probably paler than usual.

I rest my forehead against the nearly empty cup, unable to stop my legs from shaking. The tears drip on the Welcome Home mat. "You can do this, Alice. Just tell him you want to leave. He will understand."

Popping my face back up, I noticed it was completely dark outside. I glance down at my watch, noting the time, 7:16 pm.

I push my hand into my pocket and grab the house key. Unlocking the door, it clicked, and I took a step inside the darkness. Just stepping into the place I once called home makes my breathing rapid and shallow. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples.

"You can do this," I mumble words of encouragement to myself as I take one massive step after another.

I stood in front of the brown door, noticing the dimmed lights lurking behind it. Pushing it open, I walked inside, eyes seeing dad at his usual spot. He sat there, with a bottle of beer in one hand and the remote in the other.

With ill-kempt hair and pallid craggy skin, he did not reflect his age. Dad used to be a handsome man, one who won many women's hearts. He was kind and charming to everyone, even me, years ago.

I remember the days he used to take me to the homeless shelter and orphanage, teaching me how to take care of those who need aids. He used to tell me how they aren't unfortunate, and I shouldn't treat them as such. They just happened to be people whose luck isn't beside them.

Dad and I used to do everything together. We would fish at the lake early in the morning while watching the sunrise. He would take me to the park and push me on swings despite working long hours. I remember the times we laid under the stars inside our poorly built treehouse, and he would teach me about the consolation.

We laughed.

We sang songs.

We danced like goofs.

I wished we could go back to that time together.