The Father

Chapter 32

"Katherine."

My voice is a low whisper, I barely hear it, and slowly look around my bedroom. The dream I was having replays through my mind slowly. It was of her, of her face, her body, and it's made my stomach twist, my breathing uneven, and my heart pound.

I lay back down slowly, roll onto my side, pull my knees to my chest, and bury my face into the pillow.

Just a dream, that's all.

I want to cry, but there are no more tears to be cried. They dried up a long time ago, but that same feeling of hurt is still there. I think that'll last forever and I've come to accept that. I'd hoped after the first year it would get easier, but even after almost three and a half years, it's still just as hard. She haunts me like a ghost, both when I'm asleep and when I'm awake. There's no actual escape from her.

Every morning I wake up with the same sick feeling in my stomach and spend the day trying to find ways to subdue it. Some days I let it fester inside of me and don't do a damn thing, but others I do light exercise, watch television, or even go out with Joe. He's recently convinced me to spend just about every Friday night at the bar with him. I drink two beers every time, play a couple games of pool, and then leave. He's insistent on trying to get me in bed with someone, he's sure that that would help me move on, but I know that isn't true.

My biggest vice has become something I never thought I would indulge in: tattoos.

Once I've woken up a little more I sit up, stand, and stretch. I walk to the floor mirror that hangs on the back of my bedroom door and look at my body up and down. I have covered myself in ink, black and white and colors. Both of my arms and legs don't have even an inch of skin left untouched. And today I'm getting my first one on my chest. An old style devil, just like Katherine suggested I should get, the same one she had on her thigh.

Sometimes it's hard to even look at myself now because I always think of how much she would've loved these tattoos. She always wanted me to get one and I've done better than just one. I'm covered and I wonder if I would be her type now. My plain skin must not have been enough for her and a wave of jealousy comes over me as I think of who she could be with right now. It's a thought I often have and no matter what I do, it's one that doesn't go away. And it never hurts any less to think about.

I make the walk to the kitchen without using my cane after I've pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, start a pot of coffee, and glance in the fridge. It's bare except for some leftover Chinese food from last week. I can't eat right now anyway, I remind myself. I couldn't stomach it, not after dreaming of her, and I know that.

Once the coffee is done I pour a cup, open the blinds in the living room, and sit down on the couch. It's only a little bit after eleven now and I look her name up on my phone the same way that I have every single morning since I found out she left. No Facebook, no Instagram, nothing. I didn't really expect anything different.

I stare blankly at the television as I take a sip from my mug, then look down to my leg. Beneath the ink that covers it in the form of a skull, the scar from that bullet is visible on my thigh. I run my thumb across it, back and forth, and close my eyes as I think of that night. It's just as fresh in my mind as it was when I woke up after. All of it is.

I've spoken to Helena a handful of times since I left. Trish's graduation was the first time I saw her again after everything. I'd already gotten a few tattoos on my arms and she was shocked. The time after that was when we moved Trish in to her dorm at Yale. By then I had done everything I could to stay in contact with her, going out to lunch, dinner, buying her anything she asked for. And she finally said she forgave me. We cried together and talked it over, I apologized for hurting her, and made sure she understood that none of it was her fault. That feels like it was so long ago.