Roses Are Not Red

Alia

Dad's phone is shaking in my hand.

Mum called Dad. After two years of nothing and she just calls him out of the blue the day before he's attacked? It doesn't make any sense. It's too volatile to be a coincidence. Besides, coincidences are just elements of causation in disguise.

Come to think of it, it does make sense. Mum was always bitter about the divorce. She claimed to have a share in Dad's company, but he produced the documents saying that he'd offered her a share and she had not signed. The Court ruled in favour of my Father almost instantly. It has to make sense. Jealously, or plain revenge. I've read enough psychology books to know that these are strong motivators. But for violence? I think back to the most recent available memory of my Mother: she's shuffling around the kitchen, making lasagne, a large black cardigan hanging like a sheet over her coat-rack shoulders. She's so thin, too thin. Her eyes are sunken, as if drained of life. I blink the memory away. No; it doesn't make sense. That woman in my head could never hurt anyone. That woman could barely carrying a bag of frozen peas from one corner of the room to another. That women left us. Left me. I never knew if she cheated, but it would have made it easier to let her go if I knew she had. I bite my tongue to stop the tears forming. She left us. She gave up on us. The least I can do is give up on her.

Gritting my teeth, I slip Dad's phone back into my desk drawer. My Mum did this. All I need to do now if figure out how.

Quickly, I scribble down the phone number. It's a start. Even if it's likely a mobile, I can try to find her.

Opening my laptop, I begin search up Reverse Call services. They might be able to trace the call. Most of them are clearly scams, with disjointed websites spurting all manner of ugly primary colours. It is midnight by the time I finally settle on one. I scroll to the contact section, which sports a pale-yellow background, almost cream, coveted by a large white box. I typed my request, offering my email. Press send. Part of me doubts that I will ever receive a reply. With a sigh, I shut down the laptop. I've never stayed up this late before, not on a college night. I doubt I'll ever achieve REM in the six hours I have left to rest. I laugh to myself. I can't rest. Not now. Not when the police are chasing their tails like dogs caught in a freeze frame. I know they're stretched. I know they're underfunded. But my Dad is just another case to them, a slab of paperwork. A file in a cabinet. I doubt they will speed up their investigation any time soon, so I've had to improvise. I slip into my Galaxy pyjamas, another sixteenth birthday present, before crawling into bed. I'm about to close my eyes when I hear a muffled scream. I sit up.

Dad.

Scrambling for the door, my duvet tangles with my legs, tripping me. I fall against doorframe, wincing as my shoulder catches the wall. I don't stop. As Dad's mumbled cries for help intensify, I sprint across the landing, fling open the bedroom door. Dad's half-out of bed, thrashing at something unseen. He's mumbling for help, trying to cruse, trying to call for the police. His voice is garbled, but it's there. He barely has the cognitive ability to turn around, to see me. I walk into his peripheral vision, hands splayed in a gesture of surrender.

"It's alright," I whisper. I'm not sure whether I'm trying to convince him or myself.

Dad thrashes, trapped in his bedcovers and his own inability to stand or even crawl to safety. I crouch down, shuffling closer.

"Dad?" I ask. "Daddy?"

He freezes. A deer in headlights. From this distance, I can almost see the stiches in the back of his head. His mud-brown hair is plastered to his scalp, while his skin is more than pale. For a moment, I look at him and he's not my Father. He's a man with trembling hands and fear in his eyes. He's a man that I live with, but one I don't know.

As if on cue, Dad curls up into a ball, shivering. I reach out, touching his skin. It's feverish. Dad notices my hand and swings back, catching me in the cheek. It's accident, I know, but tears float my eyes as I fall back onto the carpet.

"Stay there," I say to him, even though I don't know if he can me. "I'll get help".

I rush to the house-phone and dial 999. After that, I run back up to Dad, who is lying, exhausted on the floor, trembling. I try to turn him over, but he bats my hand away. My cheek stings from where he hit me, and I keep reminding myself that he didn't mean to, that he's just scared, but part of me cracks a little.

The Ambulance takes twenty minutes the arrive, minutes I spend staying with Dad, soothing him for a distance. At one point, when he looks up, his eyes are filled with tears. Before I too can shatter, the Paramedics arrive. It's all a blur from there. They ask how long he's been like this, so I tell them about his medical history. Two men in neon green coats kneel on our empty carpet, and ask my Father questions to which he can't respond. I respond for him. One of the Paramedics casts me a glance of sympathy, but I ignore it. I don't need anyone's pity. They lift my Father from the room on a stretcher, as he mumbled incoherently. They offer to let me ride in the Ambulance, but I can't leave the house unattended. Once they leave, in a flash of raging siren squeals, I rush to my room to text Dahlia what happened. Knowing her, she's probably sitting awake in her terraced house, filling the bird bath with fresh water or knitting a jumper for her nephew. I send the text, telling her every detail. Dad, not knowing who I was, trying to speak, but being too uncoordinated to do so. Dahlia instantly tried to call me back, but I ignored it. An hour later, she texted me, saying that I shouldn't be alone tonight.

"It's fine," I mutter to myself. My cheek aches, but I don't much care. Besides, I need wait for an update from the hospital. Rubbing my temple, I put the kettle on. I don't drink coffee, but, with three or so hours till dawn, I decide to remain awake, checking my emails and drinking instant sludge. In the cupboard, I come across Dad's 'Father of the Year' mug. Hands shaking, I push it behind a flask. Out of sight. Dahlia calls again, asking if she can come over.

"You need some company. You shouldn't be alone right now," she's saying in that slightly accented way of hers. My family lost our accent at least a generation ago.

"I'm fine. Really". She scoffs.

"Of course. That's why your voice is trembling". Rolling my eyes, I tell her to go to sleep.

"Only if you do the same," she says. I tell her I'll go straight to bed, but instead I remain awake, sitting in the kitchen, refreshing my emails every minute, waiting for the hospital to call. When they do, as the Dawn Chorus fractures the sky, telling me Dad is settled, telling me that he's fine but they'll keep him for observation just in case, I thank them with tears in my eyes. I manage to hold them back long enough to hang up.