+Bad Catholics+ Frank Iero

PROLOGUE

      My father didn't teach me much before he died. Not much that rendered important, at least- how to dig up the best kind of worms, or the kind of shoes that made the biggest splash in a rain puddle. He taught me how to throw a mean fast pitch, and how to measure just the right amount of milk for my mac and cheese. Where the best ice cream in Jersey was, and where grandma hid my toys when I was misbehaving.

    Where to hide in the house when those men came for us.

    I would be lying if I said that my father was a good person- though if a stranger only witnessed the things I had mentioned above, they likely wouldn't believe that unfortunate fact. It's something I grew up understanding as the secrets began filling my world to the brim, knowing that every soul that mine touched would only know the good things on the surface. Really in a roundabout way you could say that he taught me patience, too. Patience to keep my mouth shut when I knew the truth.

    I often yearned for the days that I was too young to understand that my dad only had a soft spot for two things in this world- literature, and me. I'm sure you can guess which one he kept secret from his friends. When I got older, it made me feel special knowing that there was one part of him that I had to myself. Something that all of Jersey didn't know, just me, and I let that tiny bit of solace carry me when things started to get worse. I had found that safe space in my closet, nose buried in a book, the silent words somehow loud enough to drown out the gunshots in the living room. Sometimes I would pretend that he was in there reading it with me.

    I loved him, but I never wanted to be like him. I never wanted that life of drug running, getting drunk in seedy places, or doing dangerous things. All of that stole the chance I had of living like a normal teenager away from me, and so I simply pretended that it didn't exist. My world became nothing but school, and forcing the idea on my classmates that I was destined for perfection.

    No one had to know about who my father was, or what he's done.

    No one had to know that my soul ached for something more.

    No one had to know that sometimes at night, after the whole city was asleep I would climb out of my window. With nothing but a flashlight I'd walk through the field behind our home where the freight trains passed through every night, hiding in the tall grass at any sign of headlights on the road up ahead. I would find that sweet spot on the bridge- one that I marked with my initials as a child- and climbed up to where I could touch the tracks with my hands.

    There I would wait until I could feel the rumble that bled from my fingertips down into my heels. I pushed my fingers up through the spaces between the planks that held the tracks until the very last moment- before the train rushed overhead and I could feel the sparks raining down onto my skin. The roar of the wheels pounding into the steel above me was deafening.

    Sometimes I would scream, or laugh, or cry. Regardless of what I did, the wailing horn always disguised my sounds as if they were home to the train, and not my hollow chest. It was the only safe place that I had to feel anything at all, even if some nights it was merely a rush of adrenaline. I could howl my secrets into the ether of the smoke and it would never betray me- only carrying it away into the sky where no one could find them, not even my father.

    Part of me sometimes thought that he knew where I went when he would catch me sneaking back in. He would just smile, and go back to getting ready to leave for whatever destruction he had planned to cause that night. At least while he was still around to catch me.

    Before he died, my father was the most notorious criminal in the state of New Jersey. Every headline in the papers, and every breaking news update- every cold, bloated body found in the rivers and ponds. All of it was connected to him, whether the blood was on his successors' hands or his own. This was no secret- adults and children alike were familiar with his name like they were familiar with George Washington's name.

    The real secret was me.

    That I was his daughter- that sometimes mere hours before murders or drug deals he would be reading me to sleep, or making me a sandwich to come home from school to. That even though he was a bad person, he was a good father.

    From the day I understood who he was, I planned to keep it all to myself until the day I took my last breath. I told myself that no amount of fear or uncertainty could cause those words to come out of my mouth- no mutual trust would allow my guard to crumble, that is if I would ever have the chance to experience that in the first place.

    Instead of Daisy Mae Dean, daughter of Ellis Dean- the Reaper of Jersey- I would be Daisy Mae Harper, the quiet valedictorian of Belleville Catholic School.

    At least until a boy weaseled his way into my story. To him, I think I was someone completely new.

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Chapters coming soon- Hope you're all ready for this one xo