For My Aching Soul

Chapter 4

My father was rarely home and when he was...awkwardness surged throughout the entire house. I closed the door behind me quietly with all intention of heading right up the mahogany stairs to my room. But of course, my only peace existed at the studio.

"You lost your manners out there?" It was my father's deep darting voice that pierced my side as I placed my foot on the first stair.

I sigh heavily, "No sir." It's impossible to mask my annoyance.

"Don't get feisty with me Nicole," I force myself to look over at him. He's in the living area, sitting on the couch with his back facing me, paper work spread out all over the piece of artwork we had for a coffee table.

It was quite odd seeing him there, the downstairs of the house was barely ever used. It was quite showcase like with everything looking brand new and untouched. Marie, the housekeeper, dusted it down like a trophy three times a week.

I sigh instead of answering him. Richard Sinclair could only be described as a blank formidable 6'1 balding African-American black-suited (always) man who turned his pain from losing his wife into armor trained to protect him against anything that reminded him of her.

He was always a bit intimidating. I guess being a well-renowned business man did that to him. But he always knew how to be a dad when the time came for it. Now he was different. He was like a robot only programmed to do work. I thought my mother's death would bring us closer, so we could mourn and eventually heal together but it didn't.

My father threw himself even deeper into his work and started staying away from home even more. He gave me a card linked to his account so I could get all the things I needed. Clothes, toiletries and food. I became my own parent at a very young age, only having Maria for female advice when she came the three times a week and Junie when I went over for Sunday dinner. It ruined my childhood but it made me wise.

I shook my head slowly and headed upstairs to my baby pink room filled with white furniture. Little ballerina cutouts grazed the walls, pops of color made appearances here and there from my favorite blanket to the mass of cushions thrown about the place.

Other than the studio and Sherby's, this was the only place I didn't feel so tense. I took a shower and hoped into bed and threw myself into the book I've been reading over and over since the age of 13, 'Lolita' by Vladimir Nabokov.

By the time I got to chapter 3 my door flew open to reveal who I knew was my father, "Don't you ever knock?" I don't bother to look up at him.

"This is my house, I do what I want," Richard's responses were always a defense.

"Hmph," I flip the page of my book and continue to read. This pisses him off as he rips my book away from me.

"Hey!" I sit up in bed now, my annoyance from having to communicate with him any at all increases hundredfold.

He doesn't bother to address my anger with what he's just done. Instead he shoves what looks like brochures and pamphlets right at me.

I hesitate to take them but eventually I grab them from his hand. He folds his arms over his chest and waits for me to look at them. I look over them and notice that they are all brochures from different dance studios all across Cali, "Why are you showing me these? We've had this conversation, I only dance for Stanley."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs dramatically,"Nicole, as much as I wish you would take up another activity than dancing I know you won't so I'm just trying to show you better options than that worn down dirty pla-"

I cut him off, "That dirty place is where I feel comfortable. That dirty place is where my mother learned to dance!"

"DON'T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT HER!" he raises his voice and I can see a vein in the side of his head pop out.

"You pretend like she never existed!" I challenge.

He doesn't say anything at first but before I know it his hand is reaching out. It takes a while for me to register that he's slapped me.

He bites at his lip before turning sharply and leaving my room, slamming my door behind him.

Looking back at it, the slap was like a rude awakening. A foreshadowing of the tragedy that was to come only a week later.