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I have taken a while without continuing the story, but here i now return.
...Year after year, thereafter, and she would remember that day...
>The Story from start so far
The time was the same. It always was the same: midnight. Or there about, and the door would knock.
Claire tried to ignore the thoughts, tried to force sleep on her eyes, but couldn’t. At the wall, the clock ticked. She pulled the blanket over her head, snugged inside.
But her ears knew the familiar tick-tok, and they followed the count down: Tick-tok-tick-tok...
***
And she was right. Not long. And the door knocked. Her heart leaped. The two familiar emotions took over.
One, of gladness that he had returned home safe, and the other, of sadness of what that return meant to the woman whose footsteps she now heard in the flap of sandals going to open the door….
***
For an eternity of a time, she waited, and waited, and expected…now it would start!
“Claire!” a voice called.
It was a soft, concerned voice, still it startled Claire.
“Un, Huh” she stammered, struggling to reclaim consciousness from the reverie.
Where am i? She inwardly wondered. But the wall tapestries of Jesus, and other saints quickly re-registered her location.
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She signed, audibly. Glad to be jerked from the reverie, and accordingly, the clutches of her past.
“It’s okay my daughter,” the old parish priest now said, sitting beside her. He had stood there and watched Claire for nearly half an hour.....
***
The girl was troubled. The old priest knew. For the previous week running, he had watched her come into the church, quietly sit for hours in solitude, as though in contemplation, then finally leave, tear-streaked.
“It is okay”, he said to her, taking her hand into his two large palms, “You may tell me”.
Clare blinked, desperate to lock away, or at the very least control the rush of pictures and sounds that now flooded from memory.
15 years of silence. 15 years of running. They all gave way, as did her heart.…
***
Now the outpourings began. Claire returned to the beginning.
Theirs was a family of 3. She was not just an only girl, she was an only child, an only loved, or so, it was in the beginning.
At work by day, home by evening, moonlight walks by night. She recalled the kisses good night, being tucked in bed, the bed time stories about wolves and eagles…..
Papa and mama, and her playing hide and seek. Papa liked to hide behind doors, mama behind the cupboard, and her, well, her place was under the bed.
***
“It was a good time,” She said, “he was a good man”, she added, rather rhetorically. The Priest said nothing.
He knew better than interrupt the free release into which Claire had entered, so he simply listened, and listened.
And the girl traveled back into the fine fabric of time, telling of purpose as a child, as a family.
How did the hurt start? At what point did everything, and every one change?
He left home late, returned early, to mama, to her. But then one day he returned late.
And another day late, another, and another. A pattern started to form, then quarrels with mama started and fights came in.
He’d leave her bruised, she would be sick for weeks. Unwavering, mama would still open the door.
But then she sooner tired. And then one day, he returned as usual. That day mama delayed to get off her bed, delayed to open the door.
And when after knocking for long, mama finally stepped out to open the door…
“I was wide awake, snugged inside the blanket, but I was awake!” she said, tears now streaming down her eyes.
She wiped them with the back of her hand, remaining silent for a moment, as if to gather the strength to continue. And continue she did.
She heard the door lock click, and then, and then…
The fighting and breaking of plates and spoons was so intense, she left her bed and came to the siting room.
There at the door, she stood motionless as they both turned to regard her. Now papa, carrying a bottle of alcohol pointed at her, goaded mama,
“There, tell her now! Tell her the truth!”
But she could not. The tears that now flooded from her eyes broke young Claire’s heart, but not as much as what next papa said after mama had sat down crying:
Pointing at her in anger, he sliced her heart, shattered it: “You are not my daughter!”
The memory of that night, and of those words was Claire’s bitterest. Even now, her hands trembling, it was obvious, after all these years, that the memory still held the power to hurt her.
Papa would later apologize, but that didn’t mend her heart, not least because it was the truth: she was not his daughter. He hated him for saying it that night, and now she hated mama for keeping it from her all those years….
***
***
***
Year after year, thereafter, and she would remember that day. She never forgave them. Two years later, on the eve of her 13th birthday, she left home, never to return.
And for the last 15 years, she had lived apart, hundreds of miles away from the man, and woman who had broken her heart.
Did they search for her? Did they care to know her whereabouts? It didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t want to be found.
But 15 years was a long time. Now a woman, she had seen enough to look back to her childhood with reason, to consider her pain with calmness.
Nights were now restless. A part of her, in deed, a large part of her missed them, longed for them.
Had they a choice? Life rings too much, it takes too much to not break. Papa broke. And mama, how was she? Did she too finally break?
“Papa was broken already,” she finally spoke, wiping her tears, “But mama, Mama..” she stammered, the tears again flooding. How was she? Claire knew her fragility, and was now almost certain, she broke her.
But after 15 years, what could she do? 15 years was a lifetime. Were they even still alive? She wished so, prayed so. But then what?
“I am sorry, Father” she said, “I am so sorry”.
For all that the old priest could tell the broken woman, he knew there was only one inevitability: for her to return to the beginning.
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***
>To be continued after 24 hours
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