Dismissing Dakota | ✓

»21. Trouble«

{a/n: if it's italicized, it's a flashback}

Dakota's P.O.V.

The weekend I planned to meet my father was pushed back more often than I wanted. There was nothing to say. I wanted to speak to my father, but my mind went blank when it came time to aligning what my questions for him would be. How was I supposed to look him in the face - look that monster in the face - and ask him why he hurt my mother? Why did he hurt me? I didn't think he set that fire, but that didn't mean I thought he was a good man. I'd seen him raise his hand to my mother, terrorizing each of us in the Ridgewood household.

I was seven years old when I almost died. The first time.

These scars under my tattoos weren't self-inflicted, like many of the rumors in this dumb town would like to make you believe. I had those senseless lies follow me all throughout school, making me feel almost obligated to get them covered up with ink. But deep down, I knew my classmates knew the truth. They created those fabricated stories to entertain their own boring lives.

Everyone remembered what almost took my life. I hadn't told Silvia about it - more so because it never felt needed to be told. The past was the past and I didn't want to bring that story out from the dark.

After the incident, I didn't speak for an entire year. School appointed therapists said I should express myself through art. That summer, I picked up a brush for the first time drew my nightmares and dreams on to paper, leaving my imagination and entering the real world.

To this day, I can't talk about that day without wanting to crumble back into that defenseless little kid I was all those years ago.

....

At the prepubescent age of seven years old, I had accomplished only a small fraction of the things I thought I would've done before dying. Granted, most of the things on my bucket list consisted of meeting G.I. Joe or buy a mega-phone so I could piss off my little sister, Diana.

If I'd known that this fateful night could've been my last, then maybe I wouldn't have gotten into that car with my father. Maybe I should've stopped myself when I got a whiff of stale booze on his lips. Or the way he wobbled in front of me, racing for the car.

I had gone with him to the liquor store so I could buy myself a snack. I entered the store, trailing behind my father. Something was whispered in his direction, followed by short snippets of laughter. I was still tired of this reaction my family caused in public. It was like this town had nothing better to do but gossip.

A tall man, about two feet taller than my, walked up to where I was standing. He through me a small smile, quite retrained. As if he had a secret he wanted to tell me, but couldn't. He was dressed in a well-pressed suit, crisp and fitted to his body. "Hello, what's your name?"

"D...d...d.." I stammered.

"His name's Dakota." My father hissed, throwing my bag of chips, a six-pack, and the money to the cashier . I frowned at the floor, disappointed that I hadn't said it myself. I knew he was embarrassed of me when it came to my stutter. Dion was the only one that tried to help by having me read out loud when I come back from school. My father, on the other hand, took a more physical approach.

"That's an interesting name," the man mused, grinning down at me. He stretched his hand to me. "I'm Jonah. I actually went to school with your dad here."

I nodded, a bit in amazement. "Wow, t...t...t...that's cool."

"He lies for a living," Dad grumbled. "Which is quite fitting considering what you used to do back in school."