Star

Chapter 1- Forgive Me Father

Star woke up screaming.

That was how she woke up now. Screams and tears. Her father didn't mind or care, and she didn't tell him because he didn't mind or care. He even had the nerve to cry at her funeral, like he had somehow loved her, like he would miss her.

She had never hated anyone in her life, not truly. But the more she let it sit and simmer, the more she knew it like she knew her own name: she hated him.

More than anything.

She got up from her bed, left with her towel and went to the bathroom. She loved hot showers, it felt like the water was washing away who she was, and she could just exist there, in that small space of living and unliving. When she got out, she saw the toothbrush there, her mother's, in all its bright pink glory. She cried then; her tears as hot as the water that bathed her.

They had laid her mother down a week ago and she hadn't spoken a word since. Family members, relatives, and friends of the family had come with their condolences, but she barely heard their empty words. They told her how it was a tragedy that someone as kind as her mother would die so soon.

They said how strange it was that the trailer came out of nowhere, didn't she see it? But all would be well, they said, at least she had a kind warm father who would take care of her.

She said nothing in response.

"Do you want more?" He asked as they both sat down to eat breakfast.

Her mother's omelettes had been the best, she always had the right amount of peppers and tomatoes; his was bland and looked like cat food—cat food that the cat itself had spat out in disgust at being fed such.

But she was hungry, and so, she ate.

She shook her head at his request, though. Because she had to eat didn't mean she had to endure more of the torture than was necessary. And she didn't want to talk to him. The only person she wanted to talk to was lying 6 feet deep in St Anthony's Cathedral cemetery.

She absentmindedly picked at the plasters on her hand. The nurse had put them all on her hands and legs, places where the glass had cut her. They itched sometimes. They weren't itching now, though, she just wanted her mind to wander.

Her father moved to say something, but he thought better of it and held it in, keeping the words inside him.

School started in two weeks when the Easter break ended, her mother always took her shopping around this time—she hated last minute. She always knew what to do and when. She doubted that he even knew when her birthday was. She ate, washed her plate and left to her room as he sat on the empty table, alone.

She sat in her room and waited, and waited.

And then, she fell asleep.

That was when the dreams came for her.

They were dark murky nightmares that waited at the corner for her, baring their sharp teeth and wicked claws.

She was woken up by the door slamming and she sat up and tried to remember what the nightmares had been about, but as soon as she tried to get hold of them, they fluttered in her grasp. She put on her black jeans and her pink top and left her room.

She paused to look at the hallway mirror, and staring back at her was a very angry, very sad, very lonely twelve-year-old girl. Her eyes were sunken and her cheeks were sullen but she didn't care. She checked if her small phone was charged, picked up her mother's house keys and was about to leave the house when she paused and looked at the guitar—it was the only thing apart from her that survived the crash. She took a breath and left, slamming the door behind her, the broken misshapen guitar shuddering.