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« if she could put the hollow ache that haunts her into words,
she would tell him "i miss the father you never were" »
– [found on an aesthetic, don't know whose quote]
Eva couldn't sleep.
It was five minutes to midnight, five minutes to the eighth of March, five minutes to the birth of her seventh year.
She was lying on her side, her arms tucked under her small head, the sheets draped lazily over her narrow, bird-like body.
Her big, round blue eyes landed on the old clock above her door, her heart racing in well-contained excitement; the beats underneath the soft skin of her chest seemingly matching the pace of each tick-tock of the bronze pendulum.
She heard the gong of the church nearby and let out a deep breath, a ghost of a smile on her face.
"Happy Birthday, Eva," she murmured to herself and curled her body into a tighter ball, the hope that one or both of her parents sneaking into her room to wish her being crushed and trampled upon like debris under a heavy shoe.
She told herself it didn't matter – it shouldn't matter. And then forced herself into the ignorant bliss of sleep.
°°°
When Eva woke up next morning, the familiar lingering smell hit her nose and her young mind registered it as the drink her father was always washing down his throat.
She almost didn't notice it for it had become a part of her life – a constant like the whiff of baby cologne that hit her nose whenever she applied it after a bath each morning.
It was normal.
It was ordinary.
She descended the stairs, the aroma of frying bacon and melted butter overtaking the foul smell from earlier.
"Did you sleep well, Eva?" her mum's soft-spoken voice broke the loud silence that morning.
Eva wordlessly seated herself on one of the mismatched chairs at the wobbly dining table, her small fingers habitually scraping the already peeling-off wood of the surface.
"Don't do that," ma sighed, "you know pa hates it."
Eva drew back her hand almost instantly, scolding herself for always forgetting.
She couldn't understand why she forgot. Miss Dorothy always told her she had a good memory power, didn't she?
Heavy footsteps behind her told her that pa was approaching and the mouth she'd opened to say something automatically snapped shut.
Why did she have to shut her mouth? She couldn't help but wonder. Why did she always feel something funny happening to her skin and small bubble-like things appearing on her arms whenever he was around?
Eva simply couldn't understand.
Did Lindsay Holmes feel the same way when her father was at home? Maybe she should ask. Maybe she shouldn't.
She didn't know.
"Good Morning, Pa," Eva said, the corners of her lips turning up, rays of the sun catching her eyes and bringing out the cornflower blue in them.
"WHY THE HELL ARE THE CURTAINS DRAWN BACK?!" Her father asked, though to the ears of anyone else it would have been a snarl. Then again, Eva wasn't anyone else – she was used to it. "You know it makes the headache even worse!" Pa dragged the chair back and sat down on it heavily. "Stupid, good for nothing woman. Wonder everyday why I goddamned married ya in the first place!" He muttered under his breath but it could be heard anyway.
Her mother hurriedly covered the windows with the heavy material of the curtains, shutting out the sunlight. The curtains were never drawn back after that morning; sunlight was never present in the house and ironically, it seemed to never be present in Eva's life either.
But when her mum laid down the plates and meal on the table, Eva's eyes took in the fresh, purplish marks on her wrists and forearms. Eva had seen them on her mother countless times before and so without further thought, she dug into her breakfast.
And even when her father lost his temper because ma hadn't remembered to pass him the toast, and proceeded to smash his plate against the wall, Eva didn't flinch.
For after all, she was used to it.
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Written on; 09th February 2016
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