Chapter 3 - The shadows that followed

Daisy POV

As I trudged through the front door, the weight of my mother’s passing still heavy on my heart, I was met with a sight that made my confusion and grief swirl into a whirlpool of emotions.

My father, Victor, a man I had not seen nor heard from in weeks, stood in our living room, his hands moving with a sense of urgency as he packed my clothes into a small duffel bag.

The sound of zippers, and fabric rustling filled the air, a stark contrast to the eerie silence that had enveloped our home since Mom’s passing.

I felt like I was living in a dream, a surreal scene that couldn’t possibly be real. My eyes scanned the room looking for answers but I was stuck with more questions in my head.

Dad’s eyes, once warm and loving, now seemed cold and detached, his jaw set in a determined line. The bags under his eyes and the pallor of his skin only added to my growing unease.

My mind raced as I tried to process what was happening. Where had he been? Why was he here? Why was he here now, packing my things like a stranger? The hospital, the funeral, the endless days of mourning-he had been absent for all of it.

Dad, what are you doing? I asked, feeling a mix of confusion and fear as I watched him pack my bags with a sense of urgency..“We’re leaving this place now, so get your things and let’s go” he replied in a harsh tone.

“What!! Dad, how can you do this? Mum just passed away and you want us to leave? I felt a surge of anger and resistance, unwilling to abandon the memories we’d made in our home, the only place that still felt like hers.

But my father was insistent, his eyes cold and determined. I knew I had no choice or say in the matter as his mind was already made up.

As I yanked away from the only home I had ever known, I was consumed by the feeling of despair. My feet seemed rooted to the spot, refusing to move, as if trying to anchor myself to the memories that lingered within those walls.

But my father’s grip was unyielding, his fingers dipping into my arm like a vice. I stumbled along beside him being pulled by him, my eyes still fixed on the house that held so many precious moments, laughter filled days and warm embraces.

The thought of leaving it all behind was like a knife twisting my heart.

As we reached the taxi, I planted my feet firmly on the ground, my body resisting the pull of my father’s tight grip. But he was too strong, too determined.

He pushed me into the cab, his eyes flashing with a mix of urgency and desperation. I fell onto my seat, my gaze fixed on the house as the taxi drove.

Through the rear window, I watched as our home receded into a distance, turning smaller and smaller, a tiny, unreachable dot on the horizon, until it vanished from sight altogether.

Tears streamed down my face, my heart shattering into a million pieces as I realized I might never set foot in that house again, never feel the warmth of those walls, never smell the scent of my mother’s cooking coming from the kitchen.

I felt like a wanderer, traveling from one place to another. Every month, a new town, a new house, a new school.

I felt like a leaf blown away by the wind, without direction or purpose. My dad silence and my own anger created a bridge between us that grew wider.

I longed to understand why we were always on the run, why we could never stay in one place long enough to call it home. What was my dad hiding? What was he running from? I asked myself countless times but never found any answer to my questions.

Every time we moved to a new school, I was forced to start anew, navigating unfamiliar faces, classrooms and the whispers and snickers a constant reminder that I didn’t belong.

The bullying and taunts was relentless from both boys and girls, as if they sensed my vulnerability.

They’d call me names, cruel and heartless, like “loser” and “freak”. They’d push me around, trip me in the hallways, and steal my lunch money. I was a target, a punching bag for their insecurities and fear.

They sensed my fragile heart, and they pounced on it like predators. I was alone, always alone, with no one to turn to, no one to defend me.

But the one that hurt the most was “daughter of a mad man”. They’d say it with a sneer, a taunt that cut deep into my soul. “Drunkard's daughter!” they’d jeer, their laughter echoing through the halls like a cruel chant.

My dad’s reputation preceded us, a dark cloud that shadowed our every move. His alcohol fueled outbursts, his loud rants, and his chaotic behavior made him a spectacle, a “mad man” in the eyes of our neighbors.

The whispers and stares followed us everywhere, a constant reminder that we were different, that we were trouble.

I was trapped in a cycle of shame and humiliation, my dad’s behavior reflecting on me like a bad omen. I believed that I was worthless, that I was nothing.

The pain and the shame became my identity, my self-worth measured by the number of tears I cried each night.

I felt like a prisoner, trapped in a life I didn’t choose, and with a father who couldn’t escape his demons.

Finally, after years of wandering, my dad and I settled in a small city called Willow Creek when I was 19. The countless moves had blurred together like a never-ending dream, but this one felt different.

I sensed a glimmer of stability, a chance to put down roots and call a place a home. As we unpacked our bags and settled into our new life, I was nervous but hopeful.

Would this be the place where we finally found peace? Where my dad’s demons would quiet, and we could build a life free from the shackles of our past? Only time would tell, for the first time in my life, I dared to dream of a future that wasn’t shrouded in uncertainty.