Oreo Ice Cream

Chapter 27| Karma's a nice thought

Songs for this chapter:

Memories- Maroon 5

Counting Stars- One Republic

Warning: Flora's been shown as an atheist. She has her reasons (stupid or not) for not believing in the existence of God at the age of twelve. These are not meant to offend anyone's religious views or anybody intentionally. Everything written here is fictional, as per Flora's logic. Please don't take anything seriously. I hope you enjoy it!

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When I was a kid, Dad and I used to go to the beach and lie on the cotton towels in the warm sand. We'd stay there till the evening, trying to spot stars in the dim city light and sheen of haze until our eyes would be tired, and I'd beg Dad to buy us coffee ice cream. Sometimes, when the sky was cloudless and, the haziness was gone, Dad would point to the little speck of glitter in the western sky, "Florence, that's Venus. Look!" I giggled and clapped my hands in joy before snuggling closer to Dad.

There's always been something absurdly beautiful and intriguing about Daddy that drew me more towards him than Mum. He's never been the one calling me "my angel" or been the sweetest Dad to not a single damn about whatever his daughter was doing in her life. Instead, he taught me to count the dim stars and solve the jigsaw puzzles of demons and monsters. Our last few days together weren't an exception either; Daddy never spoke about what life can be or our existence. He used to say, "You need to learn to stand up taller and walk. Daddy won't be there to hold you at nights."

Our visits to the beach lessened by the time I was twelve. To Mum, I was old enough to "find something better" to do rather than hang out with Daddy but make my life "worth it." I was never like the other girls chasing boys. Not that I had friends with many except Cole, Lee, Tristan, and a few others. Students called me the "happy wallflower," and teachers named me the "nerdy A+ girl." Days went in a blur of stress, yells, and late-night cries, having piano and art classes, mundane school work, and the constant sting of becoming the "perfect" girl. I never got another chance to count the silver stars or watch Venus from afar; they weren't the things grown-up kids were supposed to "count on."

Happy things got dampened as time flew by. I remember the last time Dad drove me to the beach. It was our quiet Saturday in the hum of waves and the cry of seagulls. Cool air stabbed our nostrils as we approached the seashore. The sky was damp blue with the sun sitting at the end of it — the gentlest stroke of warm pink reflecting on the rising waves. We lied on the towel for hours; the sound of acoustic and drumsticks came low in our ears as Dad hummed to it.

"What's this song, Daddy?" I asked as he laughed. It was one of the rare sounds I liked the most; his deep laughter echoed in my ears till they were replaced by the roar of waves and his voice.

"Oh, little Florence," He tugged me closer to him and kissed my forehead. I giggled, feeling the warmth of his lips on my forehead. "Try to hear closely." He hummed off-key again. "Why a lonely, heavy cross I must bear."

"Presley?" He raised his eyebrows at me. "Is it – it's Presley, isn't it?" He nodded, smiling. "But it's about God, Dad." I whined. God was the only thing I never believed back then. I still remember how Dad's eyes twinkled in amusement when I said, "I don't believe in things I can't see or feel."

"Then don't. Nothing's going to change about it." He kissed me again. We watched the stars and the sky getting darker as Dad's midnight pupils. I wished I had had the same pair of eyes as him; instead, I got Mum's light hazel ones. But I got Dad's golden blonde hair anyway. Every time I looked at them in the mirror, it reminded me of Dad.

That night we got home late, soaked in sweat and dirt. Mum and Dad got into a fight. I peeked through the curtain and found Mum yelling at Dad. Her eyes were wide and red in rage, her hands on her hips, and her voice screeched into my ears like supersonic frequencies. Dad was sitting on the couch, his eyes were tired, and the stubble on his cheek was darker; he repeatedly asked her to calm down so they could "talk about this and come to a proper conclusion." I felt angry with Mum that day; how dare she yells at Dad? Not that they hadn't had any fights before, but this was something else. I didn't go near them and interfere, for Daddy disliked "interrupting elders." Even though Mum could hurt him, I was his darling. And "darling"s don't hurt others. I thought Mum might be high, but seeing how her words cut sharp in the air made me deny the fact.