Chapter 1
Mireya
Play - Goodbye by Billie Eilish
Hope is dying slowly
It’s strange, isn’t it?
Being a father’s daughter.
Some girls love their dad; they laugh together, they share jokes over dinner, and they even call him their hero.
Some see in their fathers the kind of man they want to love someday, the kind of dad they want for their own kids.
Some feel safe in their arms and call them home.
And then there are the others. The ones who flinch when the front door opens. The ones who learn silence before they learn words. The ones who smile on command, even if they don’t want to.
I’m from that category.
The broken one.
Father, but never dad.
People say a father shapes his daughter’s world. Mine built walls instead. Walls so high it hid the sun and the stars.
It hid happiness and peace from me.
He taught me how to lie with a steady voice, how to make bruises sound like clumsiness, how to disappear inside my own head and call it my safe place.
He taught me that love can come with rules, with fear, with the sound of a belt sliding through loops, the pain that comes from that on fragile skin.
And still, every morning, I call him Dad.
Like the word might save me someday or find a true meaning. But It never does.
“Say it, say you love your father.”
I said it repeatedly. Until I made myself believe it and forgot how painful a lie could sound in the mouth of a broken child.
Daughters aren’t born afraid of their fathers.
It takes years of practice, silence, footsteps, and locked doors, slaps and abuse to feel this way.
Years of focusing on something to mask the pain enough to feel like it doesn’t exist anymore.
He says everything he does is for me and that I should be grateful, that I should smile more and be a good daughter.
And I do; I smile, then hide in my room, taking the same pills Ethan would give me and stop smiling then.
I know exactly what I’m doing, but it doesn’t help; it just feels like I could pretend for as long as they worked that it was never my fault.
Cocaine, and cocaine, even when I write to myself, even when I draw.
Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be someone else, someone who doesn’t count footsteps outside her door before falling asleep. Someone who doesn’t mix up drugs and alcohol to function daily.
If anyone ever reads this, know that I tried.
I tried to be a good daughter.
But silence can only hold so much.
And I think mine is about to break. I tried.
I tried.
Now, I’m tired.
Play - Spitting Off the Edge of the World by Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Perfume Genius
Adults can be sad too.
They can cry for no reason, feel empty for no reason. They can feel so lonely that even surrounded by people, it’s still not enough to fill that seclusion.
I do feel lonely and sad, and empty at the same time.
It happens mostly when I'm trying to think about something stupid. The thoughts escalate, it can start with a question like “was the dinner good enough?” and then I’d think about dying and I'd feel anxious and think about disappearing completely.
That’s when my skin starts to itch. And I know that the solution is in Mom’s makeup bag. I spread a line if I get some time, and snort it until I can feel the burn in my nose. That’s when, the questions stop, the noise, the constant fucking banging I hear, the exhaustion… it all pulls back.
A quiet relief for a lifetime of loud violence.
It could kill me, I know. But the idea of dying numb always felt better than living hollow.
The roof is cold under my bare and bruised legs, and the sky hasn’t decided whether it was night or morning. Neither had I apparently. I stopped trying to sleep around three in the morning.
The nightmares always feel so vivid. Uninvited hands, violent words… that’s when I give up on closing my eyes and move out of bed. I usually climb out the window every night.
The stars are so clear here when it’s dark out, they look so close but so far away from me at the same time. It helps, because when I look at them, I remember how small I am.
How insignificant my soul is in this ocean of people and universe.
I like the stars.
I used to be really scared of the dark when I was younger, but Mom loved it. She said that even the stars needed the dark to shine brightly. I remember one night, after the shouting had finally ceased and the bleeding had finally stopped, she came into my room to comfort me.
I was crying a lot back then. I think little me just thought it was easier to let the tears flow than scream how painful it felt to live in this house.
She just smiled for the first time in so long and took a blank page and a pencil. The tiny square of paper felt strange at first, but then, she said I had to write down what I wanted at that moment, fold it into a star, and send it to the sky.
Make a wish, the stars will always answer...
It was supposed to keep me safe, so I still do it, I never stopped doing it.
A few hours ago, I folded a paper star and wrote a word inside, “Safe.” I whispered it quietly for a few seconds and tossed it over the rooftop.
Silly, but it works. It makes my chest loosen up enough for me to breathe, like the anxiety just evaporates for a small instant.
Standing here now, on the edge of the world, I watch the stars fade as morning comes. For a little while, I feel like I’m allowed to be alone and be normal, even just for a moment, without all the noise pressing in.
This city is strange, the air in Seraphin Bay always smells wet and clean, it feels like nostalgia and secrets all at once. I can see the ocean from here, the families in the neighborhood waking up. I can even see my best friend’s house.
I draw a shaky breath and let it out slowly, and the smoke curls from the cigarette between my fingers. It’s pathetic in a way, standing on this roof with the sky opening before me, trying to feel awake, trying to feel alive, puffing smoke like it can fill the cracks in my chest.
The first golden and orange rays scrape across the tiles, and for a heartbeat, the cold in my bones feels warm.
I can just breathe.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out
Fresh air tastes like freedom, even if it doesn’t last forever, let alone the entire day. But that’s how I start my days before going to work. I sit with my sketchbook balanced on my knees, pencil between my thighs, and music in my ears.
The same playlist I’ve had since I was sixteen.
Drawing helps me when I feel like this too.
Sometimes it’s my little brother I draw, my favorite flowers, or what I think my mom looked like, and sometimes it’s just shapes that look like him.
Dark lines, shapes that try to hold the fear he leaves behind.
Most of the time, I hate the drawing before I finish it and tear it out, because nothing can make sense of him.
A window creaks open below me and my stomach knots before I even look down. Dad is awake. Always the same scrape of metal against the frame, and the same knot is my stomach aching with anxiety.
I flick the cigarette stub off the edge, crouch, and crawl back into my room, putting some perfume and popping a piece of gum to cover the cigarette smell as I hide the makeup bag away.
I know Dad would be pissed if there wasn’t anything on the table when he went downstairs.
Years of fear and punches had taught me to move quickly, to never be late for anything he demanded. I still hate mornings like this, because that fear never really leaves you even when you grow up.
My brother is still half asleep when I open his door. I smile at the dinosaur blanket spread across his bed and lower myself to wake him up. “Hey, firefly, time to get up,” I say, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
“Five more minutes, please sissy,” he mumbles, hugging his pillow. Milo has Mom’s eyes.
They’re soft, green, full of innocence and hope.
How did someone like him end up with a dad like ours?
“Nope,” I say, tugging the covers off and kissing his soft, curly hair. “The bus isn’t waiting for anyone, especially not you.”
He groans, but then sits up with a grumpy expression.
I practically run to the kitchen, passing Dad’s always-closed door. The anxiety hits me like a punch, but my body moves automatically. I know the routine by heart.
Keep moving. Don’t look. Don’t breathe too loudly.
Automatic pilot is on, eggs are sizzled in the small black pan, and toast is popped up. My brother, still in his pjs, climbs onto a chair, swinging his legs.
“Can I stir, Reya?” He asks, pointing at the eggs.
“Sure, but don’t make a mess."
“No worries. I’m the best stirrer, you’ll see!” He says, puffing out his chest.
I laugh and hand him the spatula.
The buzzer rings, and Milo throws the spatula back at me, running to the door, before returning with a few letters in his small hands.
“Thanks, buddy,” I say, ruffling his hair as he grins proudly. “Okay, now go get dressed and come back quickly to eat, okay?”
Milo nods and heads back to his room as I hear Dad coming down the stairs.
He even said hello to his son, the one he had always dreamed of having but never really cared for. A few seconds later, while I finish preparing breakfast, I hear the fridge open and the clink of a beer can. So, I do what I know best, stay quiet and slip past him with the mail.
I just need to keep breathing and not let him know I’m scared.
He doesn’t say anything, no hello, no look. The only time he glances at me, the rejection and disgust in his eyes says it all.
“I won’t be here this week either, I have the boat until Saturday morning. When I get back, I’ll bring a friend or two. You’ll make dinner like usual.”
My hands freeze in the air before even putting the plates on the table. His friends.
“I’ll leave the little one at Edna's,” I say a few seconds later.
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't see this.
Just keep him safe. That’s all that matters.
Milo comes back down, all dressed up, happy as always with a big smile on his face and sits to eat without sensing how tense things are.
“I’ll take you to school today, firefly,” I say, as he finishes his food.
“But I thought I was taking the bus."