Hating Hades

C H A P T E R 6 - Dilara.

The air that had heated up when I had closed the door hadn’t even managed to close before it was pulled open again, and when I turned around, I was expecting to see my mother standing there with a look of regret on her face, but on the contrary, it was my father. And it didn’t seem like his mood had improved at all since then. He looked just as angry and bitter as he did before.

                “Leaving so soon?”

His comment didn’t allow me to feel any better than I had before, and telling myself that I didn’t deserve to get worked up about all of this like I was allowing myself to be, because this was what I should have been expecting, since the moment that I had arrived here. How could I have been so foolish to believe that everyone had missed me as much as my mother had, to believe that they would be just as excited to see me as she was?

I should have known better.

I should have had the common sense to expect worse than what everyone was actually exhibiting. That way I wouldn’t have been disappointed right now.

                “I was raised not to stay where I’m not welcome.”

                “Strangers are never welcome.”

It was like he didn’t miss a beat, almost as if he had known exactly what it was that I was going to say, and he had known exactly what he would be saying back. It had been a like a prepared speech, one that he had been over prepared for. But then again, was there even such a thing as being over prepared? I didn’t think so.

                “Strangers will remain strangers if they aren’t welcomed.”

I started walking away, telling myself that this wasn’t worth it. None of this was worth it. It hadn’t been worth the expense that it was to travel here, and as it turned out, the visit itself wasn’t worth it either. At least my mother had seen me, at least she would be able to sleep tonight knowing that there wasn’t anything wrong with me, knowing that I was healthy enough to live for another five years before I saw her again.

                “Strangers who don’t stay will remain strangers.”

There was something different about his voice this time, something different about the tone with which he had spoken, and then of course there was the actual content of his sentence that actually made me stop walking, that made me wonder whether or not there was some part of him that wanted me here, some part that didn’t want to see me go, some part that wanted me to stay.

There was so much uncertainty within my heart and soul at the moment, and I honestly had no idea what I was supposed to do in this instance. Did I walk away, as I had been doing in the first place, or did I turn around and dare to see the expression on his face say something much different in comparison to what he was verbally saying.

I took a deep breath, asking myself what difference would it make if I turned around and gave him one last chance. The only difference that it would make, would be by delaying my departure, and possibly making my decision to leave so final that there would be no hope for me to change my mind at a later stage, at a later time.

But if I just left now, I would have enough time to make it back home and open the shop—perhaps I would be able to make back some of the money back that I had wasted on this trip. And ultimately, I wouldn’t be making it back, but I would be able to cut back on some of the losses that I had already made.

Even though I was thinking about all of this, although I was thinking so logically, I found myself turning back to my father, turning back despite all of my best instincts, despite all of the interests that were my best interests—all of them being the exact opposite of this. But here I was, turning back to him. And for what reason, I didn’t know. I didn’t think that there even was a reason, at least not one that was believable.

He was standing there one the porch, just as I had known he would, and although the distance between us—both physical and emotional—was more than enough to make it nearly impossible to interpret what it was that he was saying. No matter how much or how hard I tried, no matter how much focus I put into trying to interpret the expression on his face, it was impossible—because he looked like a literal block of granite to me.

                “What is wrong with you?”

I don’t know where that came from, or what it could have been that had prompted me to say that, but one thing that I did know, was that it was more than acceptable for me to have said that. He was throwing nothing but mixed signals my way, and I didn’t like it. What if I stayed and this was what my entire weekend was going to be filled with? What if, what if, what if. A life of uncertainty had been the very life that I had run away from, and I wasn’t about to allow myself to return to it.

                “What is wrong with me? Last time that I checked, you were the one who moved to goodness knows where and has been avoiding us since then—and you seem to think that the problem is with me?”

No matter how much I tried to think of something to say to him, tried to think of something to defend myself with, there wasn’t a single thing that came to mind. Not one. And I knew that spending more time trying to think of one wasn’t really going to change anything, wasn’t going to bring it to mind. There was nothing and that was simply the way that it was and the way that it would continue to be.

                “Everything that I did, I did for a reason—”

                “What reason? Because you were seeing things? Because you can’t seem to accept the simple truth—”

                “Truth? You mean that I couldn’t accept your truth, couldn’t accept the story that you somehow managed to fall for? I was there. I was the only one who was there. The only place that you guys were, was beside my hospital bed, and yet, you deemed it fit to believe someone else over me.”

I don’t know why I was even bothering, because I had said this particular speech so many times that I had lost count, so many times that it was memorised now, memorised to the point where I didn’t even need to think about what I was going to say, or even how I was supposed to say it. This time would prove to be just as pointless as it had been during the times before. But here I was, wasting my breath, hoping against hope that this time would be different while knowing that it wouldn’t.

                “You knocked your head—”

                “And? What difference was that supposed to make? Please explain that to me. I am your daughter. You’re supposed to make an effort to believe me even if I told you that the sky was purple instead of blue. But did you? No. You believed some stranger who told you that I was mentally ill for saying what I was saying. And you’re allowed to be angry at me because I stayed away for five years—but you drove me away for those five years.”