May 24, 2022
Daisy Francis
Everyone has their own way of dealing with pain; mine is to ignore the shit out of it. But this time, I simply can't. And there's no suitable analogy to describe as to why I can't feel the same way as before.
"Daisy, we'd love hear from you as well," said Uncle Kevin. I stood up from my place reluctantly, feeling the same way I did when I was called on stage in school for playing mad hatter. Everyone pivoted there sight at me as I walked towards the speech podium. I tried to conceal my perturbation with a façade of composure. This isn't the day I wanted to witness.
This day, when I got selected in my dream faculty, should have been adorned with happiness and celebration. This day was deemed to be mine. I was the one who had to be fare welled. Why does life has to take such turns which in-turn, turns your life upside down?
I can picture my father raising a glass of champagne, proudly addressing my winnings. He was the only person I adhered to as I never got a chance to grow up around a mother. I wasn't a-daddy's princess (more of a tomboy), and neither was he a very attentive father, but I still loved him. And I still do. I hate to break it down that how strongly I want to confess my love for him -cavil around like a child, throw tantrums because he owes me and request for buying me a horse-and how impossible it is for me.
I struggled in trying not to grieve on my regrets for a while and focused on giving the eulogy. Adjusting the printed speech I surfed online on the wooden glazed platform, I realised how futile this formality of rewarding the dead is for who they used to be. Half of the audience doesn't give a shit about how profound this state of trauma is for the ones who were close to the dead. And the other half is more concerned about who will be the possessor of the wealth and belongings.
It wouldn't be unfair to not think about who the holder of property would be because my father, 'Francis William' was the owner of a known firm, William and son's cooperate
. . . "and there's no pain far greater than losing a loved one."
I ended my speech and lifted my gaze. Whoa, everyone looks like manicured corpse brides looking straight at me. Probably
because I am wearing trainers with a dress. Or maybe someone passed down the confidential about where I got my speech from.
However, I didn't bother any further about what people are thinking about me. These intrusive thoughts are shackled this time. It's new to feel this way, to not feel anything. This unsettling atmosphere of depressing energy and chaotic
exchange of sympathies is draining.
I now don't want to hear about how young I am to live without a family. Or hear someone recall the death of my mother while delivering me.
Uncle Kevin figured I was about to burst upon hearing advices to marrying someone who's established and will be able to take care of me. He grabbed my arm slightly aggressively and took me to the church porch. "Honey I know you're done hearing this crap but I need you here, okay? Stay firm. The way daisies are supposed to be," he says. Wiping off a tear from my cheek, he ruffles my ironed hairs and retracts in the church
I sit on the teak bench on the porch and decide to not head back in for a while. Amidst attending my wounds, I match with my environment. The weather seems sad. It is about to rain. The dark grey clouds looks oddly comforting. Even the resonation of thunder bolts sounds like a melody in its own
way. I take a look down at the trainers I'm wearing. They don't look that bad. Had it not been Uncle Kev tensing up everything, I would've found myself a fine pair of heels, perhaps.
The rustic wooden panels running across the porch has several creaks on it. One of the creaks has a tiny daisy flower cropping up from it. I wonder how it managed to thrive here and not be stepped on by someone. Walking towards it to take a closer look at it, I thought about plucking it out. But, wouldn't it be too evil of me? I plucked it anyway. Just like dad used to do. He told me about the time when he proposed my mother by handing her a bouquet of hand-picked daisies. He and his family were going through financial crisis due to which he survived on pennies and couldn't even buy her a ring. But soon after marrying my mother, the family business started to prosper unbelievably. From barely affording groceries for a week, to tables being full with over fifteen meals, life took a pretty sharp turn. A good one supposedly. Few years after their marriage, they had me. Dad told that my mother had complications throughout her pregnancy.When the due date was right around the corner, she was rushed to the hospital for her state got too critical to be handled. The doctors operated her longer than other patients and had safely brought me in this world. Natheless, doctors didn't expect her to wake up again. Regardless, Dad said that he knew his love was strong enough to bring her back, even for a few moments. And she did. She did wake up, held me in her arms and said my name. A brief pause and she left.
A few moments of synchronization with the past is seized when I see a man walking towards me -the church- wearing a vest suite holding his coat in one hand and the other in his pocket.
He locks eyes with me and he tosses his coat on his broad shoulders and he stops. So did my heart,
"Is this the funeral of late Francis William?" he asks.
"Yes."
"You must be his daughter Daisy if l'm not mistaken!?"
He knows me. Perhaps he's dad's attorney.
"I never thought about my appearance resembling with my
father this much," I reply.
"Oh, no you don't resemble him in any way. It's the keys of Bugatti in your hands. Only four of these are in our town and two of them are registered under Francis's name."
Now this is brutally embarrassing. But how does he know about this? Probably he's here for handing me some important documents regarding the business transaction or is possibly a espionage in disguise
As I was about to make him speak more about himself, he says, "I'm Detective Luke Voss. Hardly three to four days back Francis filed a case of fraud and criminal threats against anonymous men which he claimed to have never met."
He further adds, "I believe this case has to take a turn for being a high profile homicide case instead."
"But the Reports put forward suggests that he died in a car accident." I confront.
"Gauging by the 'deep knowledge' about your father's death you have, l assume you haven't met the pathologist who did his postmortem." He said sardonically.
I didn't respond. I couldn't actually because this is insane. What should I be feeling to be precise? Should I be happy to find out that dad didn't die in a barbaric car crash. Or should I scream my guts out because my dad was potentially MURDERED!
"The mortician did a good job on Francis by the way. You should consider giving him a raise," he says.
Now I want to smack his perfect face and break his sheer supreme specs in two. Nobody cares about your loss as I mentioned earlier and I know where he's steering. It's all about the banknotes he'll get for apparently dismissing the case. He has no soft corner for . . . for someone who he met a couple of minutes ago.
Without hearing him any further, I say, "I'm quite sure about the fact that there are other high-profile cases' which would aid your annual expense. Besides, what reasons are there for
gentlemen like you other than feeding your bank account?"
I am dashing my agitation on him for no apparent reason, just assumptions. And the best thing I can do to avoid this is to walk off from here. And, as I start paving forward, the detective calls back. I tilt my head without making eye contact with him. He slowly walks towards me and says from behind, "There are other ways to subsist for a record, Ms Daisy. Being a detective is just a side hustle, and if it is about the sterling's you think I'll stash up, then you're pathetically incorrect. The other two cars I mentioned prior, belongs to me." Now that's some serious flex.
I shift my gaze at him upon hearing what he said. Does he relate with loss I am going through? Or he mocked me once again? I'll go with the second one.
He is looking intently in my eyes and so am I. It's getting dark
but I can still figure out his amber tinted eyes through his blacked rimmed glasses. His ducktail beard and a scar on his
forehead running through his eyebrow midway, makes him look like a detective straight from a crime investigation movie. But, he is comparatively tougher.
Changing the subject, I suggested him to talk to Uncle Kev, because I need not to get loaded with paper works which are based on mere hypothesis over clear facts. He nodded sarcastically and said,
"I thought you really loved your father. Loved him enough to at least reveal the truth of his death and seek justice for him."
Was he not given the toys he was dying for in his childhood?
He can't understand, and I can't make him understand. I'm stupid enough to annihilate everything with a single move.
Sounds like a destructive super power. Though I'm pretty smart with other things (like smoking pot secretly), but engaging in such a sensitive project is totally unacceptable. Thus, I try again to wrap it all up around Uncle Kev and retort, "Uncle Kevin has expertise in this field and he can help. . ."
Interrupting, he says, "When available, I prefer working with close kin rather than family friends.
Crap. He knows Uncle Kevin is dad's friend and not his biological brother. But they were like brothers ever since
they ve met. I always saw dad treating him unlike any other.
Hence, I started calling him Uncle Kevin' instead of Kev'. It
sounds much more respectful.
I cleared my throat and said, "Detective Luke w-a-s-h, even if
will, I still can't prove to be of any help.
"I'll only need a few weeks," he says in a convincing tone.
Had I been vain like you Mr. Detective, I'd definitely consider working on a case revolving around your assumptions. Gosh,
wish I was brave enough to voice this ongoing conversation in my head.
"If you still don't bother considering it, I'll urge the court to dismiss the case." At this point I really am holding back my tears. A month ago I applied for a reputable university in New York and got selected, the day my father died. I thought he'd be here to share this moment with me, taunt me a little, but soon after I got my selection email, I got a call from dad's manager telling me that he died in a car accident. This ache I felt made me realize that I don't lack a heart. And it hurts as if I'm being thrown off a skyscraper over and over again.
The funeral was held the same day he died so I couldn't even visit him one last time in the hospital. I had to rush with the preparations so I wasn't able to spruce up or write a eulogy
from scratch. Even ended up wearing sneakers with a dress. Which is classy to be honest.
I paused for a second on the sound of lightening and retaliated, "I'm leaving tomorrow."
The Detective stood there expressionless.