I sat hunched over my laptop later on that night. My mother was silently reading in the living room. I was typing away at my keyboard, a new section of my story stabbed into my head. It was fifteen minutes before eleven, but I wasn’t even tired. The nap earlier definitely helped that, but the story impounded in my head was fueling my wakefulness even more-so.

I’m a writer. I’ve been for about a year now. Nothing but ten short stories have been published - no editor, no publisher - just me and Amazon and Google Play. I heavily rely on my editing software as well as my own eyes to catch grammar and spelling errors. So far, so good. The stories have been bought steadily. I’m not that well known, so a couple E-downloads bought each month make me happy enough. Especially since that means an extra five bucks in my pocket every purchase.

This story I’m writing, I’m hoping to make it a novel. If not, at least a novella. But, I feel it’s time for me to take a leap. Especially since this pain is moving me to write, to express the strong emotions in words.

Yet, of course, I’m writing in the eyes of a fictional character. Her life is very similar, though. It practically mirrors everything I’ve experienced and felt. The third chapter I wrote was about her remembering the love her daddy, at one time, showed. Maybe there is a part that I can relate to when writing the chapter, but it must’ve been so long ago - a faded feeling. I just know that something lit in me after I wrote:

A child. So innocent. So pure. And a father, warm and protective in a helpless child’s life. A beacon of hope. Of safety. A perfect dynamic within a family unit. The husband loves his wife as himself, but as a father, he also loves his kids. He’d do most anything for them, especially when at the ages closest to infancy.

What of my father? I knew he loved me. He’d swaddle me in his love. He’d give me a kiss on the forehead every night as he tucked me in, and I knew nothing would ever happen to him. He was to be a permanent fixture in my life. One I’d always look to, and look up to, as a child. But, then everything changed relatively close to my being thirteen. Four years later, never did I expect to loathe, my once-loving father, so much.

He was like a crimson stain on snow, white linen.

It was hard to stop my hands from typing after I started the chapter. Once I was done, it felt like I’d given up every good thing that I had. Except, these good things were now a burden just waiting to be let go. And you know what? It felt good. I don’t think I was able to suppress those good feelings, or that smile, for a few weeks.