22. | the piercing cries

How does one define trust?

When you trust someone, you most likely believe that they are sincere and will not deliberately do anything to harm you. You trust them with your honesty, you show them your most vulnerable side, the side that not many people get to see. It's an emotional act, which is why it hurts when one tosses it away like it's an easy thing to build. It makes you feel like you can never trust again.

But what if the person that has lost your trust is someone close to you? Someone you share the same blood with. Someone you've known since the beginning of your miserable life.

A parent. A father.

My father.

I haven't spoken to him since my visit to Ethan's family, Sara and Lizzie, yesterday. I've been doing anything in my power to avoid him, because if I don't, I'll confront him with my current findings. I don't think there's a scenario in which that would end well.

I'm not ready, not yet. Not until we've built a waterproof fundament for our defense and our allegations against him and whoever he worked and is still possibly working with.

Tomorrow, Ethan's attorney, Cole and I are meeting up and going to discuss what each of us have found. Maybe we'll discover similarities, maybe the stories will fit together into a logical whole. Cole and I will both return to the prison that night, and I'll finally see Ethan again and be able to give him hopeful news. At least, that's the best case scenario for tomorrow.

I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling for what seems like hours. Thinking about how my life is becoming more complicated the more I dig, and I have a bad feeling that my shovel has barely touched the first layer of ground, covering what's underneath.

The secrets that are drowning out the truth. Buried away from me for so long.

Several questions have been­ taunting my mind since yesterday. Did my father try to get a hitman? If so, why wouldn't he get a professional one, why Ethan? Did Ethan speak with my father directly? He would tell me if he did though, I think. Who spoke on behalf of my father then? Who plotted this with him and why? Why my mother? Why? If he wanted to divorce her, he could just do that. What motivated him to get rid of her, for good? Who killed her, since it wasn't Ethan?

Too many unanswered questions.

I have no idea what to do with the things I know. What do I know? Ethan needs someone to back up his actual story, to prove his innocence and I am more than willing to do that. It would honestly be a lot easier if it wouldn't complicate my own personal life. But after Sara barely stuttered my father's name, I just knew that there's a lot coming for me. A lot, and I don't see how I, or anyone, could mentally prepare for that.

Was it him? Did he slit her throat? Why not poison her or shoot a direct bullet to her head? He made her drown and choke on her own blood, until she couldn't breathe and bled out on the streets.

After endlessly staring, I lean over to grab my phone from my nightstand. I let out a frustrated sigh when I see it's already 03:11 AM and I still haven't slept one bit. I force myself out of bed and scuff to the bathroom only to cringe at my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot and my face looks sunken, skin dull as ever.

Well Brooklyn, you look like absolute shit.

I've lost weight in these past couple of weeks. I must admit I haven't been properly eating and caring for myself. Getting myself out of bed is my biggest accomplishment every single day, hopefully living a healthy life comes next.

After washing my face with cold water, I fill up my empty bottle and walk over to my bed. I sit down and take a painkiller from my nightstand, hoping it'll help with the headache. Rubbing my temples, I enjoy the relief that comes with it.

"Shit," I jump a little when someone knocks on the door, spilling some of the water from the bottle on my sheets.

''Open this d-door.'' My father's voice sounds from behind it, sending unpleasant chills through my spine. Why is he here?

I checked his schedule, he's supposed to be at the prison because he has a night shift. If I knew he'd not be there, I wouldn't have slept here. I would have slept at the prison myself, asking Lexi to join me as usual. I didn't notice him entering the house, because if I had, I would've left through the backdoor or a window, even at this time of the night.

I sigh, burying my face in my hands, desperately hoping he'll leave without making much of a scene. He's clearly drunk, I can already notice by the way he's slurring the words.

''Brooklyn...'' His calm undertone makes me shiver all over.

Please leave.

Please leave.

Please leave.

''I really don't want to talk right now, I'm trying to sleep.'' I reply calmly, afraid of his reaction. He's a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any time.

And I don't want to be around him when that happens. I don't think I'll be able to handle more damage when I am already this damaged.

Will he hurt me too?

Again?

''Don't make me kick this door open.'' He spits as he pounds on the door, making my heartbeat accelerate.

Well, shit.

I slowly walk towards the door, opening it just enough to peek through and see my dad with an empty bottle in his hand. He reeks of alcohol and vomit, making my headache get worse right away.

''We need to talk.'' He speaks with a calm yet disturbing voice as he pushes the door entirely open, letting it bang to the wall while bursting into my room. He sits on the chair behind my desk and I sit on the edge of my bed, desperately wanting to be as far from him as possible.

He smells so bad, making me wonder how much he has been drinking again. ''We're going to talk, you and me. '' He points at me with his disgusting finger.

One of many unpleasant nights, a traumatic memory I've been suppressing since childhood, makes it way back to the surface.

''Ryan!'' My mom's screech wakes me up as I hear objects break.

Please, not again.

"Do not fucking touch me Emma!" He spits, continuing the damage as my mom lets out more of the piercing cries.

I can't help myself as I silently tiptoe towards the hallway, to be able to eavesdrop their argument. Another one. One of hundreds.

"Ryan, please, I'm begging you! She's going to wake up." My mom's cries are becoming louder, she's literally begging for him to stop. I can only imagine how scared she must be. I need to help her. I need to protect her from the monster.

I walk downstairs and enter the living room, tears filling my eyes when I see my father hitting my mom, over and over again.

And she just lays there helpless on the floor, curled up while letting out muffled cries.

I feel like I'm frozen to my spot as I watch the abuse with wide eyes. Then, realization hits me and I run towards them, pushing my father.

"NO!" I scream, desperately wanting to stop the assault. "Leave mommy alone!"

That night, he turned to me for the first time. I squinted my eyes, getting ready for the blow. He hit me and I fell to the ground. Just when he was about to hurt me again, my mom started yelling for him to stop, pulling his arms away from me. He turned to her instead and continued to take his anger out on her, while I huddled myself in the corner of the room. My mother wrapped her arms around me, taking blow after blow while making sure none of them hit me.

It wasn't just a single time occasion though, this kept going on for years. It wasn't just physical abuse, the words, the emotional abuse was the worst. Sometimes he'd randomly leave for a few weeks, but he always came back. Somehow, and till this day I still do not know why, my mom always just accepted him back. She swallowed her pride and hid her fear, letting him come near us again. I still don't understand why we didn't run. Why we both stayed in the same house with this monstrous being.

There were days on which I blamed my mother for everything. I begged her to leave him, together, to go and live with grandma in Europe. Now, as an adult and a psychology student, I understand that he was a manipulator. A gaslighter. He had her wrapped around his finger so tightly, her love for me wasn't enough to make her admit that she was a victim of abuse. A victim who was afraid of seeking help and sadly accepted it as her fate.

My dad's drunken slurring brings me back to where I am right now, alone, in a room with the monster himself.

''You know I care a lot about you r-right?'' he whispers, staring at me with an emotion in his eyes I can't really make out. I gulp as I try to grab my phone from underneath my sheets. My hands shake as I look for it while trying to go unnoticed. The second I grab it, I pretend to turn around to take my bottle of water, pressing the record button and hiding my phone back underneath my blanket.

''Brooklyn, you're all I have left.'' He stands up as he kneels in front of me, holding my shaking ­­­hands with his.

Even though I am absolutely terrified by him, and possibly in actual danger, I don't pull away. He's shitfaced. Maybe he'll spill some of the truth and won't remember tomorrow. I have to seize this opportunity.

''What are you not telling me?'' I ask with a trembling tone.

He looks at me, not revealing any emotion on his face. ''Not telling you what?''

I shake my head and let go of his hands, continuing. ''About mom.''

He inhales sharply as he stands up, taking a final step towards me, towering above me dangerously. I gulp as I push myself back in a desperate attempt to keep a certain distance between us.

''We've talked about this so many times. You know the entire story, how it all went down that day. I know it's a painful subject for you, you even left to your grandma to not be part of it. Why do you keep wandering around and getting your nose into other people's business?'' He replies with a suspiciously calm voice, eyes blazing with anger.

''What business? What are you hiding?'' I hiss, getting angrier at his innocent play. ''You're hiding something, and you bet I'm going to find out what.''

''Damnit Brooklyn! Who's fueling you with this?'' His voice is full of venom, just like how I expected it to be.

I let out a mortified yelp when he suddenly takes a step back and slams his fist down on my desk, making some books fall to the ground with a loud thud. I involuntarily whimper when a photo frame with my mom's picture falls harshly on the ground, shattering to pieces.

''Stop being a noisy little bitch.'' He hisses as his eyes turn dark. "That's what got your mother killed." He mumbles so silently, I'm not even sure if he said it. Did I imagine it? Did my phone record it or was it too far away and too silent?

I ignore the pain in my chest. I just want him to leave me alone, he's clearly not going to spill, not even in a drunk state. I get to my feet, holding my chin high. ''Please leave this house or I will call the police.'' I can feel the tears stinging in my eyes as I walk over to the desk.

He mumbles something incoherent under his breath as he stomps out of my room. A few minutes later I hear the front door shut harshly and I can finally let out the breath I've been holding. I get to my feet and lock my door again.

Turning around, I look at the mess that was once a gift from my mother. I start picking up the pieces of glass, the remains of the photo frame. I got this from my mother when I turned 11. It's one of the few touchable memories I have left and now it's ruined.

Wincing when a piece cuts me in my palm, I stop picking up the pieces. Sadness fills my chest as I let my guard down, sobbing uncontrollably. I lay on my side on the ground, pulling the picture to my chest while ignoring the pieces of glass surrounding me. I lay there for a bit, whispering things into the air. Sweet cries and words for my mother. If she only knew how much my heart is aching for her.

That is, until I notice a yellow folded post-it taped to the backside of the photo.

I get up into a sitting position, careful not to tear the photo while pulling the post-it from it, eager to see whatever it contains. However, when I open it, it says something I cannot really make out at first sight.

C. 3576 A

More hot tears fill my eyes when I realize this is one hundred percent my mom's messy handwriting. Did she leave me a message? What does it even mean?

Wondering what it could be, I ignore the mess on the floor and lay on my bed. Trying to think of the possibilities, I feel the physical exhaustion taking over my mental exhauston as I finally give in and drift into a light sleep.

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A/N; the clues are building up (i know it's a slow build, but be patient with me!), yet there's still no connection whatsoever...

what does the message on the post-it mean?

we shall see :)

thanks for reading, i hope you enjoyed.

please don't forget to vote & comment, i really enjoy reading every single one of them.

— lyra b.