Dahlia Wellburg hates her misery as much as she loves it. She sees herself as a stone: ordinary and unwanted. Yet, they know her to be a rose: soft, but with thorns.
. . .
Mature Content. Check the tags.
"In his arms, I slowly unfolded like a love note read in secret."
- Jill S. Alexander, Paradise . . .
Dahlia
Tw - self harm. Just a tiny mention of it.
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All I could feel was panic as if someone was holding me above an endless pit of darkness. My hands gripped the armrests of the chair, my eyes fixed on the desk, as my father sat across from me, unspeaking.
"I don't want to," I whispered. "Please." I looked at the papers on the table, they were barely visible because of how blurry my eyes were. But I knew what they read.
The house was meant to be mine, Dahlia, Dad had said. It belonged to my brother.And now it's supposed to belong to me. And I am choosing to sell it. Just sign.
"You don't have a choice," he said. I hated how he sounded like he felt nothing while my heart was on the floor. "We never ask you of anything. You don't even live there. The buyer is very interested. It's good money. It will help the company."
"I..." I don't care about the company. I don't care about the money. "Please."
"Sign."
"...Dad, please. He loved that house-"
"He is dead. I am your father. Sign."
I picked up the pen. "I hate you," I whispered to him as I signed. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you-"
"That's enough." He took the papers away and handed them to his lawyer who just tucked them in her file. "Go to your mother. She cooked for you."
"I already ate." I wanted to throw up.
"Go and eat, Dahlia. Don't make this harder on me."
I walked out of the office. My hands were shaking too much. How I was walking, and where I was going was all a blur till I collapsed on the bench in the greenhouse and my head was clutched in my hands as utter devastation fell upon me.
What about the books? Would he let me take them?
There were so many books. Where would I keep them? I wouldn't sell them - ever.
I just sat there, in silence, wondering if this would make Dad better to me.
It wouldn't. I needed to stop looking at him for approval. I was never going to get it. Emilia got it for just breathing. But, after everything that had happened to her, breathing was indeed an accomplishment.
I looked down at my hand and I could barely see the line which was almost perfectly horizontal on my palm.
It had been ages ago when I cut my hand. My intention had been my wrist, but my sister saw me and tried to take the knife away, my hand somehow slipped and the day ended with about fifteen stitches on my palm.
