Elena's Perspective
Nine Years Ago
The memory is a warm blanket I can still pull close, my father's lap a haven. His hands, large and comforting, cupped my cheek, and I felt the pure, unfiltered love radiating from him like sunlight. A silent conversation hung in the air between us, broken only when he leaned in, his voice a soft rumble near my ear.
"Goodbye, my moon," he whispered, the weight of the words surprising my small heart. "Always remember that Daddy loves you."
The word 'goodbye' struck me like a sudden, sharp chill. It felt like the closing of a door, one that would never swing open again. "I love you too, Daddy. Don't say goodbye. Say 'see you soon.' Goodbyes are forever, Dad. Please, never say goodbye," I pleaded, my voice a fragile mix of hope and a child's desperate fear. I wanted to hold onto this moment, to keep him with me.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was a sadness there, a shadow I couldn't grasp at that age. "My wise little girl," he said, a heavy note creeping into his tone. "I will miss you a lot. Goodbye, darling."
The shift in his voice was palpable, the air around us suddenly heavier. "Don't make me cry, Dad," I begged, my heart hammering in my small chest. "Promise you won't go anywhere!" I extended my pinky finger, a childhood pact, a fragile thread I hoped would bind him to me.
He chuckled, a forced lightness that didn't quite reach the surface. "Is that Mommy calling you?" he asked, trying to distract me from the growing unease.
But I couldn't be distracted. Instead, I pressed a kiss to his forehead, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne, a comfort I desperately wanted to hold onto forever. I hugged him tightly, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek, a rhythm I knew as intimately as my own. Then, reluctantly, I slid off his lap, my small legs carrying me toward Mom, hoping for the solace her presence always brought.
That day, nine years past, was a bittersweet cocktail of love and a profound sense of impending loss. I may not have understood the true weight of our exchange then, but I feel it now – a chilling reminder of how fragile love can be, and how memories linger, a constant echo in the quiet spaces after a loved one has said goodbye.
Later that night, the air crackled with an unspoken tension as I watched my father step onto the porch, a silhouette framed by the dim light. A cold wave of unease washed through me, a prickling sensation, a warning whisper in the back of my mind. My chest tightened with anxiety, making it hard to breathe. The world outside felt ominous, a storm brewing on the horizon of my young heart.
The lengthening shadows amplified the fear, and tears began to stream down my face. It felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest. Mom rushed to my side, wrapping me in a comforting embrace, her voice a soothing melody amidst the turmoil. "It's okay, sweetie. It's going to be alright," she whispered, but her reassurances felt distant, like sand slipping through my fingers.
Despite her efforts, the sadness engulfed me. The sobs continued, raw echoes of my growing fear, until exhaustion finally pulled me into a restless sleep. But sleep was no refuge. Nightmares took hold, vivid and horrifying scenes playing out behind my eyelids. I dreamt of my father, his head brutally severed from his body, his face contorted in agony and desperation, his voice a haunting whisper begging for one last moment with me, one final chance to say goodbye. I could only watch, paralyzed by terror, my heart shattering with each nightmarish image.
The morning brought a cold, stark reality. My mother's face was pale, her eyes reflecting the horror of my dreams. The news hit me – blunt, sharp, a devastating revelation that ripped through the fragile veil of my sleep. My father was gone. The words crashed over me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for air. A part of me, the part filled with unwavering love, innocence, and trust, vanished with him into the void.
I watched Mom try to maintain her composure, attempting to be the strong pillar I so desperately needed. But beneath her brave façade, I could sense her pain, palpable and radiating, a visible tear in her own carefully constructed armor. I felt the anguish emanating from her, the palpable grief swirling in the air around us – a stark reminder of the life we had lost.
Fueled by the raw anguish of loss and a burning fury for the injustice that had been done, a vow solidified deep within me. My father's death would not be in vain. I would seek justice, uncover the truth behind his passing, and bring those responsible to their knees. This promise, born from grief and pain, has become my sole mission. I will avenge my father, no matter the cost.