The World Tried to Break Me
Part One: Myra Sees a Ghost
Myra couldn't see his face, but it didn't make a difference.
Ellie, she thought, remembering the early years of her childhood. She'd quietly confessed to her father that she hated the name "Myra", and much preferred her middle name, "Eleanor". But since her mother had liked the name - she'd often stated it as one of the reasons they chosen to adopt the little girl from Providence - she didn't want to express her dissatisfaction openly. So her father had agreed that, when it was just the two of them, he'd call her Ellie. As time went on and Myra grew to accept her first name, it became a signal of an inside joke or secret plans for a surprise. But when her father had died, so had the nickname.
Or so she thought, until she'd seen him in the hallway fifteen years later, followed him to the small, isolated office they stood in now. She found herself speechless, unsure if she should hug him or hit him. They were a few feet apart, his back turned to her, somehow neither one quite willing to close the gap. For a long time, they simply stood in silence, Myra too stunned, her father remaining aloof.
"You've grown up," he finally said, expertly keeping any trace of emotion from his voice.
"Yeah," Myra murmured. "It tends to happen."
She stared at him for a moment, studying the half of his face he kept turned toward her, even though it was cast in shadow from the flickering light overhead. It still wasn't real for her, no matter how much she looked for some non-existent flaw, and without even realizing it, she started to move slowly toward him, one step at a time.
"Why won't you look at me?" she asked, pausing. She'd closed the distance between them by half, but his refusal to turn and face her made him seem miles away.
"I want to," he admitted. "But I don't think I could stand it."
"What do you mean?" Myra pressed, confused. "I'm not some hideous creature -"
"No, you're not," he said quickly. "But I am."
The urge to cry returned, and Myra swallowed hard to fight it back. She slowly closed the remaining distance, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on his shoulder. She remembered when she used to stare up at her father, when he seemed like a giant towering over her. now he seemed small, withered; whatever had happened in the intervening years had clearly taken its toll on him.
"Dad," she urged gently. "I don't care. Look at me."
Slowly, he turned to face her, and she understood why he'd been so hesitant. The left side of his face now bore a hideous scar around his left eye, which had been replaced by a glass prosthetic. Her hand moved gently to his face, tears rolling down her cheeks as her fingertips studied the damage. His gaze fell to the floor.
"You shouldn't have to see me like this," he said quietly.
"Are you serious?" she said. "I don't give a damn what you look like, Dad..."
She hugged him tightly resting her head on his shoulder, smiling softly as she felt his arms wrap around her.
"You're alive."
[Once again, to be continued...]
Myra couldn't see his face, but it didn't make a difference.
Ellie, she thought, remembering the early years of her childhood. She'd quietly confessed to her father that she hated the name "Myra", and much preferred her middle name, "Eleanor". But since her mother had liked the name - she'd often stated it as one of the reasons they chosen to adopt the little girl from Providence - she didn't want to express her dissatisfaction openly. So her father had agreed that, when it was just the two of them, he'd call her Ellie. As time went on and Myra grew to accept her first name, it became a signal of an inside joke or secret plans for a surprise. But when her father had died, so had the nickname.
Or so she thought, until she'd seen him in the hallway fifteen years later, followed him to the small, isolated office they stood in now. She found herself speechless, unsure if she should hug him or hit him. They were a few feet apart, his back turned to her, somehow neither one quite willing to close the gap. For a long time, they simply stood in silence, Myra too stunned, her father remaining aloof.
"You've grown up," he finally said, expertly keeping any trace of emotion from his voice.
"Yeah," Myra murmured. "It tends to happen."
She stared at him for a moment, studying the half of his face he kept turned toward her, even though it was cast in shadow from the flickering light overhead. It still wasn't real for her, no matter how much she looked for some non-existent flaw, and without even realizing it, she started to move slowly toward him, one step at a time.
"Why won't you look at me?" she asked, pausing. She'd closed the distance between them by half, but his refusal to turn and face her made him seem miles away.
"I want to," he admitted. "But I don't think I could stand it."
"What do you mean?" Myra pressed, confused. "I'm not some hideous creature -"
"No, you're not," he said quickly. "But I am."
The urge to cry returned, and Myra swallowed hard to fight it back. She slowly closed the remaining distance, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on his shoulder. She remembered when she used to stare up at her father, when he seemed like a giant towering over her. now he seemed small, withered; whatever had happened in the intervening years had clearly taken its toll on him.
"Dad," she urged gently. "I don't care. Look at me."
Slowly, he turned to face her, and she understood why he'd been so hesitant. The left side of his face now bore a hideous scar around his left eye, which had been replaced by a glass prosthetic. Her hand moved gently to his face, tears rolling down her cheeks as her fingertips studied the damage. His gaze fell to the floor.
"You shouldn't have to see me like this," he said quietly.
"Are you serious?" she said. "I don't give a damn what you look like, Dad..."
She hugged him tightly resting her head on his shoulder, smiling softly as she felt his arms wrap around her.
"You're alive."
[Once again, to be continued...]