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November 2nd 2004:
The house didn’t look lived in, more like something you’d find in a stephen king novel. Windows boarded up and doors screaming on their hinges. It looked like a ghost house, and my thoughts would be what haunted it.
I parked in the too small driveway, the grumbling engine of the old pickup truck fading into background noise, something this town needed desperately. The streets were all too quiet, and with the cold air blowing in, even the birds hid in nests instead of singing, leaving heavy, deafening silence in their wake.
Maybe I should've bought somewhere closer to the city, where people pass by tragedy on a daily basis, maybe that would’ve made everything feel less painful, turn me into a numb, walking drone who cares about getting through the day and nothing more. But I'd chosen here, far out where the air smelt of pine and the people knew each other through a dozen generations.
The stairs up the porch creaked under the weight of my steps, and the box in my arms weighed heavy not with objects, but with memories. The door slid open with an almost comical squeak from the hinges, my footsteps the only sound disturbing the air as I walked further in. I placed the box on the dining table, dust shifting like waves, settling down on the next new spot, something you can never really get rid of.
I dragged my nail down the line of tape, the cardboard flaps damp and limp from the rain on the drive over. There wasn’t much in this one, maybe some old cushions and comforters, but those weren’t what i was looking for. I dug further into the box, my hands brushing against fluffed up pillows that I never cared to use, before finding the carvings of cold wood, gentle scratches and buffs marking the frame. I took it out, my hand running over the cold, dusty glass. Seeing my own eyes staring back at me, warmer, softer, laced with something I can't quite place, or remember. There’s a second pair of eyes staring back at me, hair blown past her face from the wind, her smile felt imperfect and organic, its crafted persona broken by the sudden breeze blowing the order away. I placed the frame on the fireplace mantel, bright colours standing out against dark mahogany and painful thoughts. 122 days ago I lost my daughter, and not a single day has felt the same since then.
The sun set over a wall of pine, lost over the horizon beyond where eyes could reach, the rays of warmth freezing in the air in place of chirping crickets and streetlights. I sighed, walking past the leftover boxes and undusted cabinets, up the steep stairs that sagged with weight and hurt. Down a thin hallway that stretched on for miles. Maybe I'd get over it in a night, maybe the hallway would get longer every time I walked it. My hands rested on the cold handle of the bedroom door in front of me, my thoughts drawn away as a knock sounded downstairs, the hallway crashing and shrinking back to size, the knock sounds again. I drag myself back downstairs, grumbling to myself. What would it be? A nosy neighbor? An unwanted welcome wagon? I think I'd even prefer a door to door salesman at this point. I got back to the entryway, pulling the door open with a rough jerk, only to be met with an empty space, great. I sighed, hanging my head low in a mix of annoyance and what almost felt like disappointment. I let my gaze trail over the wooden planks of the porch, finally locking onto something odd. A button? No, maybe a pin of sorts. I picked it up, twisting it between my fingers, clasping the cold metal in my palms. I flipped it over, seeing the small image of a turtle. Simple, its vibrant colours faded to dull, nostalgic. The smooth surface bore only a scratch or two, worn with love and care. But who’d left it? I couldn’t see footsteps in the fresh mud of the garden, though I could hear the crows squawking in the trees above. I held the pin in my hand, walking back into the house with the door closed behind me, shrouding the rest of the world into the dark, devoid of stars and reason.
November 3rd
It hadn’t been warm sun beams or the scent of coffee to wake me up. No muffled laughter or burnt toast scent wafting up into my room. No, it was a cold breeze, pushing in past the barely cracked window and forcing its way under my skin. I shivered, prying the blankets from around myself, staring up at the ceiling above me, dull, dotted with spots of missing paint peeled away by tape. Dust free boxes where posters must’ve been. I imagine this place felt lived in at some point, the walls laced with stories or sweetness and memories. And they must’ve faded when I made my way inside with melancholy radiating off my skin. It had to be early, the sun barely peeked past the pines, and my breath seemed to freeze in the air around me, the mourning doves only now starting to sing. I could hear a scratching, stepping sound under the window, soft and repetitive. I threw my legs over the edge of my bed, slipping my feet into slippers that barely guarded from the icey wooden floors. Through the hallway, down the stairs, the sound fading and growing as whatever it was, maybe a raccoon or squirrel, trotted around outside. I pulled the door open, creeping around my own house like a ghost haunting its walls. The fresh mud clung to my slippers, the air nipping at my skin like mites made of ice. I walked to the back of the house, round the corner to where the backyard started, the fence just barely guarding the home from the forests close by. My eyes widened in shock, my arms slack at my sides when the source of the sound made itself visible. A young girl, her eyes wide with curiosity, not shocked like mine. Her hair hung lazily over her shoulders, curls hanging heavy and leaves stuck in knots and strands. Her shirt hung low, not hers, it was far too big, the hem hanging just above her knees, which were dirtied and scraped. She was barefoot, and seemingly digging through my trash can, an old packet of chips in her arms as she stared up at me.
Why the hell was there a little girl in my yard? She has to be lost, is she hurt? Lord, I hope not. I sighed softly, looking down at her with what I hoped was a calmer expression. The last thing I needed was to scare her.
“Where’s your parents, kid? What’re you doing here?” I questioned, waiting for an answer slightly longer than I'd expected. She simply stared up at me, like a deer in headlights, though I couldn't tell if she was scared, or curious. Her eyes were wide and darting, but her limbs were relaxed rather than tense, her breaths steady. I knelt down, the dirt clinging to my pants, though I had more important matters.
“Can you talk, kid?”
She nods.
“Well are you going to?” I replied, my tone bordering on sarcastic. Maybe she’d appreciate a joke, or she’d take off rushing and I'd have a worse problem.
“Have you seen my turtle pin?” she asked, her voice soft and high pitched. She can’t be older than 8 or 9, can she? Wait, a turtle pen? The one on the steps last night, how would it have gotten there?
“Yeah, yeah i saw your pin kid, i can give it back-”
“Do you have any hot chocolate mister? It’s cold out, and your house looks warm”
Well she doesn’t have any inhibitions, does she? It makes sense that she’s cold, she’s barely covered and the wind keeps picking up. If I left her out here, she’d freeze, what person could have that on their conscience?
“Yeah, I've probably got some hot chocolate kid, you can come in, you look frozen on your feet already.” I replied, standing up and brushing dirt off my legs, extending my hand towards her. I took her hand in mine, her palm soft and small, like silk against my own calloused skin. I led her back to the front of the house, her steps light against the ground, barely leaving marks in the earth. The porch steps didn't creak under her weight, the wooden slats like a dance floor under a ballerina’s feet. We could’ve both been ghosts in that house, I would've haunted it with dark winds and haunting howls, and she’d draw the blinds on hot days, searching for light in a place devoid of the joys of daybreak.
“Where's your parents, kid? You get lost or something?” I asked, flicking the kettle on as she sat at the wooden table, her legs dangling over and barely reaching the floor.
Again, that thoughtless silence, like she picked what parts of me she heard. Well, things can't be good if she looks like this, I swear I could wrap my fingers around her leg without issue. Part of me can't help but feel angry, she's young, what type of person, type of parent lets a kid get this bad.
“You eat chicken? You look like you could use some” I saw a nod out the corner of my eye as I fixed her some hot chocolate. I can't think of the last time I made some, but I remember making it for Cally with practically a whole cup of chocolate powder. I brought both the drink and a chicken sandwich to her, hoping she wouldn't make too much of a fuss over accepting them.
I placed the cup and plate on the table, digging some old first aid stuff out of a box on the counter, kneeling in front of her, looking up at her, her gaze too naive, too kind. Normally kids like her don't have much light in their eyes, yet she looked like she had so much to spare.
“Ok, I'm gonna try to patch up ya scrapes, try not to move around so much” I grumbled, digging some antiseptic out the kit, drenching a cotton pad with it as I patted it over her knee. The first few attempts took away more dirt than blood, but I could see the patterns of old scrapes layered under new on her skin, likely from rocks or gravel. I remember when Cally would come home like this, having fallen at least a dozen times in one day before thinking to get patched up, and she would still come home beaming with joy. And this kid, she barely even flinched, I imagine the two of them could've been clones. This girl even had her eyes, green and hopeful, like looking into a gem and seeing a better version staring back at you.
“What's your name? I can't just keep calling you kid.” I asked, looking up at her once her legs had been dotted in bandages, some random Disney ones, Rapunzel themed from Cally's princess phase.
“You can call me Kal! Most people do anyway” she replied with a shrug, sipping down the last of the hot chocolate.
“Kal, huh? That's a cute name, I knew someone with a similar one” I replied, my voice softer against my will, like I couldn't be harsh thinking of Cally. I'd called her Cal a lot, she'd even had it on all her bags. Thinking back, I can vaguely remember a faded name on the turtle pin, though it had a K instead of a C.
“Yeah, so mister, why's the house so gloomy? You gotta let some light in!” She said, throwing her arms out in a gesture to the ‘gloomy’ room. She was probably right, some sunlight would do wonders, yet even knowing that I can barely care to shine light on a life I'd much rather let rot in the dark.
“Ok, I'll open up the curtains, but you gotta listen to me, ok Kal?” I asked, my hands resting on my now sore legs, my bones aching from kneeling too long.
“Ok, what is it?”
“You gotta go back to your parents, or your home. Do you have a safe home kid?” God I can only dread what the answer might be.
“No mister, this was my home! I didn't know you started living here till I saw your car in front!”
Dammit, is there a chance this kid was just left here? Abandoned in her own home? Like a phantom left to drift and hope, like a dog tied to a post. Who does that to a kid?
I sighed softly, finally standing up once more, looking down at her still sat on the little wooden chair, kicking her feet back and forth
“Ok, I'll let you sleep here tonight, but then we're gonna find your parents, or someone to look after you, alright?”
“Ok! But can we watch a movie? Or get some snacks?”
Is she seriously making requests? God, it's like a little Cally all over again. A movie as often as possible, till they blended into each other every other night.
“I… I guess we can, we still have time to get snacks then too.”
“Yay! You're the best mister….? What can I call you?”
“it's Oliver, you can call me Oli if that's easier”
“Mister Oli it is then!” She said, hopping off the chair and skipping her way towards the front door. “Come on mister Oli, we need snacks!”
“Kal, wait! At least put some shoes on, kid!-" God, this kid is gonna be the death of me, isn't she?
8:34 pm, November 3rd
I can't believe this even, I'd come out here in hopes of leaving behind the need to form bonds just to have some kid waltz into my life like she could save it. We sat on the couch, one I hadn't much time to test out yet, and I flicked through what few DVDs I still had. Nemo, ninja tales, the little mermaid. God, I forgot the ocean phase Cally went through. I guess in a way that's what took us to California, her and her dreams of sea creatures. She planned to study marine biology, and yet she never even made it that far.
“ninja turtles! Let's watch that!”
Kal's voice snapped me out of my thoughts, as she rushed over to the TV and pushed the disc in, running back to the couch and burying herself under blankets as the film started rolling.
It didn't take long to knock her out, it's like she didn't even try to watch the movie. Sure, she'd tried to stay up, like a determined scientist during an experiment, but a cozy blanket and a good movie was a bit more tempting apparently. Her head leaned against my shoulder, her breaths soft and steady with the gentle rise of her chest. I looked down at her, and couldn't help but smile.
For a moment, I could see Cally again, quiet and content. I wish I'd taken more time all those years ago, treated every moment with her like it might've the last. No one told me our moments would be cut short so early.
No, this isn't Cally, it's Kal, and she's not mine, she's not the same and I can't act like she is. Tomorrow, tomorrow she'll be gone, and I'll have to move on, from her and Cally.
November 4th
I can't believe this, I'd told myself I'd take her home today, or more likely a police station, and I'd let her talk me into this.
My boots dug into the dirt with every step, the hem of her coat snagging on branches the more she ran and explored. A short walk, out in the forest outside of town. she'd said she wanted to show me something, and if this has to be the last I see of her, maybe I could at least make her happy before I have to let go.
“Did you like the forest walk mister Oli?”
“Yeah, I liked it Kal, you know your way around.”
“Thank you! I come here a lot, I like to feed the crows!”
Well, that explains the flocks of them that inhabit the trees by the house.
“Well, I'm sure they appreciate it, come on Kal, hop in the car.”
I ushered her to the old Chevy, closing the door behind her, simply hoping we could get back before it got dark. As the engine roared to life, I could see a few crows dart from the trees around. Dozens in every direction, though only one seemed to fly in front of the car.
The sun had set quick, and clouds had darkened the sky far faster than I'd hoped. It hadn't been long before the Chevy seemed to protest, her tank running low and a tire having caught a nail somewhere in the dirt roads. I sighed, too far from the house to walk, yet the only close by place that looked open was an old bar, rowdy and loud. Too far from home, too close to chaos for comfort.
I stopped the car near the parking lot, looking over the wheels and running a hand through my hair. God, we'd have to call a tow truck, wouldn't we? I saw Kal get out of the car, walking over to my side with a curious, though somewhat worried smile, though before I could reassure her, I heard the banging crash of a door slamming open, a belligerent drunk making his way out to us.
“Kal, get in the car kid-”
“Hey! You two! What're you doing out here?! This isn't a bloody daycare, get out!”
“Listen sir, we're not here to cause trouble, we just need a tow-”
“I don't care what you need, don't talk back to me you city scum! ” he spat out, his words sharp and laced with a hatred people only had when they weren't in their right mind. I could see the glaze over his eyes, the lack of sense in his head. I'd seen it before, and it still haunted me on dark nights.
“Hey! Look at me when I talk to you punk! Or is your dumb daughter distracting you!?” He roared, his feet stepping closer and his eyes darting to Kal, my head falling into my stomach as his gaze fell down on her before his hands did.
He shoved her back, maybe less to an adult, but it had been enough to shove her to the floor, her skin dirtied by blood as the cobble scratched at her skin, and his fists found her face.
Her cry had felt so familiar, enough to drag my memories to the front of my head, like dragging an anchor up on a ship too small to carry it. My hands found the man's shoulders before I could grasp at the last of my restraints. My knuckles cracked sickeningly against his face, my vision blurred by tears and my own thoughts. Every light became a siren, every shout and voice a cry for help or questioning officers. Everything took me back to that night. The night Cally's phone had gone radio silent after a simple night out. The night I ran every red light in a haste to find her, to get there in time, to beg her to hold on. The night I'd lost my daughter to a man just like this.
Kal's shouts seemed to mimic hers, her tears following the same pattern down her cheeks. Beneath me, I could see the eyes of an unforgiving killer, and the bloodied face of my daughter, her perfect smile lost behind bruising.
I couldn't hear Kal, I couldn't feel her, not the same. By the time I'd dragged myself off the drunkard, she looked so different, like it wasn't even her.
“Kal… Cally? God, is it you? Why was it you?”
I begged, my hands reaching out to hold Kal, only to be met with cold air, my eyes trailing over an ever-changing sight. I couldn't tell if it was Kal or Cally, her eyes so curious and lifeless, her hair stained with blood in its curls. It wasn't either of them, was it?
My hands clutched at my chest, soaking my top in blood and regret. 124 days I'd lost my daughter, and mere minutes ago I lost all I had left of her. Sirens blared out, every sound around me muffled against my pounding heart. I looked down at my hands, painted in a sickly red that would stain my soul for longer than my life, and in that moment, that blood wasn't the drunkard's, but Cally's.