2AN: Again, this just wrote itself. It's strange how I only get inspiration for angsty stories on fictionpress...
Trust You To Lie
The one you used the most had to be 'everything is just fine, Phoebe'.
Daddy, did you know that every time you lie, you smile? The edges of your eyes crinkle and you flash a grin at me, but your eyes are never focused. Without the light on, they look grey. Sometimes, they look dead. You smile at me a lot, yet you never give me assurance when I need it. You weren't smiling for me when Mum died. I needed you but you were too wrapped up in your own grief to notice.
When I was eight I was part of the class play, Alice in Wonderland. I was the Cheshire Cat. When I told you, I remember you patted my head and told me that I would do great. I believed you. You said you would definitely come to see the performance, that you wouldn't miss it for the world. I remember your exact words: Mark my words, I'll be there. I marked them. I believed you.
But you never came. I kept looking at the auditorium door throughout the play. Even after the late parents arrived, even after the play had finished and we were all having lunch, you didn't come. You lied to me, Dad.
You just kept smiling at me.
In my first year at high school, I ran into you lurking around in the alleyway behind a pub that our teachers had warned us to stay away from. I was with my friends. You smiled again, and you told me that there would be pasta for dinner tonight, and that it would be waiting for me when I got home. You had been acting weird, Dad, I remember. That must have been the first time I saw you with the white powder on your face.
When we walked away, my friends asked me if I knew you, if you were my father.
I lied to them.
I know what you do, Dad. You think I don't know, but I do. As the years came and went, you got worse. I could tell you were deeply distressed by Mum's passing. I don't think you ever recovered. You just fell into a slump. You tried to be the father you once were, but it just wasn't the same anymore.
Everything is just fine, Phoebe, you'd say whenever I found you huddled, shivering, in the kitchen, the failure that was our dinner bubbling in the pot.
By now, I was just trusting you to lie.
As I got older, I got scared for you. Whenever I heard a siren, I would jump and look around. I've told you to stop many times, that you're just making it worse. You always smile and tell me that you will quit for my sake. I could never bring myself to look into your eyes and tell you, 'Dad, you're lying again'.
It finally happened when I was sixteen. I had just started going out with Peter, my grades were looking good, and life was great. I even decided to cook dinner. I went to the market and bought food to cook, and this time I was making the choice to celebrate with you, Dad. I wasn't cooking because you had almost burnt down the house again, or because you had produced something inedible. I was cooking because I was happy and wanted to share the moment with you. You lie to me, I lie about you, but you are still my father, and I don't think I would ever be able to turn my back on you.
There were police cars and an ambulance in front of our house. Something was wrong. I don't know when I dropped the grocery bags, but suddenly I was running, tearing through the yellow tape. A strong arm held me back before I could throw myself through the open door. I tried to tell the man that you were inside, that this was my home. After all, you told me everything would be fine.
"The neighbours called… I'm sorry, miss, it was too late. He died from an overdose."
Why won't the world stop lying to me?