The End of the World Ch.2 Too Much

Darcy closed the door in a movement torn between wanting to slam it and wishing it wouldn’t be heard. She reached the middle of the room before her father’s quiet steps behind her made her aware of him. Unwillingly she turned to look at him; his face was set.

He didn’t say anything, just studied her quietly and she turned away again, not wanting him to catch the glint of tears in her eyes. His resigned sigh stabbed at her and she couldn’t stand the burning wave rising up inside her. It was almost a physical pain.

If there had been anything to hurl at him just then, she would’ve, but the room seemed to echo with disuse and apart from the boxes the movers had abandoned in its midst there were nothing but some worn out furniture. She swallowed the anger, a sharp lump that stuck in her throat, threatening to choke her like a stone.

With more resolve than she actually felt she grabbed the boxes with her name on them. They were light, impossibly light, as if they wanted to prove to her just how little of her old life they held. She’d left so much behind.

Her father held a door opened for her and she walked past him without looking up, giving the door a kick even as he let it go. It shut behind her with a bang.

She dropped the boxes on the floor; three small cartons of memories landing in the dust, a cloud rising around them, only to settle again. She stared at them for a long moment, wondering what it would do to her to start unpacking them.

Sinking down on the bed she lifted her eyes and looked around the room. No, not a room, a cell. Bare and claustrophobic. Her hands ran over the fabric beneath her, the blanket must have once been a lush red, but both the color and the floral pattern had faded from the wear and tear. At the further end of the room was a dresser, cobwebs threaded around its legs, covered in dust.

She looked back down at the boxes, then closed her eyes and summoned up strength. She opened the large one and immediately her eyes fell on the framed photo of herself as a toddler carried by her mother.

She’d almost forgotten to pack it, it had been sitting in the bookshelf forever and she had rarely even thought about it. It was the only picture that she knew existed of both her parents and herself. Now she couldn’t take her eyes of it. Slowly she picked it up and held it, her fingertips gingerly stroking the figures behind the glass. Then she put it down on the nightstand, hesitantly letting it go.

They looked happy. Her mother was holding her so close and her smile was so warm; she didn’t look anything like a woman who would only a few months later pack her bags and leave for France, never to look back.

Darcy could still remember asking, again and again, when mommy was coming home and her father looking away when he said: “soon” in a distant voice that meant “never” even to a three year old girl.

They never talked about her after Darcy stopped asking. Her father never brought her up and Darcy’s memories of her had faded over time to only vague images that might as well be from a dream. Yet here, in this chilled out, dusty place the photo seemed to throw her back in time and she could almost sense her mother’s perfume and how soft her hair was when she curled her fingers around it.

She felt her chest tighten and her stomach convulse, even though she tried to hold it back, a dry sob broke free and then another, before she knew it the tears were flowing and her mouth opened in a silent wail. She cried hard, the noise being swallowed up inside her, suffocating her.

Still, some sound must have escaped because the door opened cautiously and her father came in; he moved to place his hands around her, but she pushed him away, the despair turning into a sudden explosion of anger.

“Get out!” she screamed. “GET OUT!!”

He stumbled backward, looking hurt and confused for a moment and then exasperated, but he said nothing just shook his head and left. She couldn’t keep quiet anymore, she threw herself down on the bed and abandoned herself to the crying, beating her fists against the covers until she had no energy left except to lie there and sob into the pillow.

It was much later when she finally managed to sit up. Her whole body felt drained like a washed out rag and her head throbbed. The air in the room was stale and seemed to be smothering her.

She staggered up from the bed and let her hand close around the door handle. She hesitated, not sure whether she could stand facing her father, but she badly needed to use the toilet.

He was sitting at the kitchen table. Their eyes met briefly, but she quickly looked away. For a moment she almost panicked when she realized she didn’t know which door led to the bathroom, but then she picked the most likely one and hastily shut it behind her.

The bathroom was simply disgusting, the ingrained stains of old soap and muck had seeped into every crack in the tile and covered every surface. The tub’s faucet looked as if it had rusted shut.

She pulled out a length of the old stiff paper and placed several layers on the seat before she tentatively sat down. She did what she had to and almost flew up again, revulsion turning her stomach.

As she tried to flush the paper down, the toilet made a pained groan and water bubbled up with a sucking noise. Darcy jumped back, crying out in disgust.

Her father was already on his feet when she rushed out, slamming the door behind her. She retched and shuddered feeling as if she was covered in filth herself. Glaring at her father she noted a glint of amusement that he tried desperately to suppress. She felt her eyes shape themselves into slits.

“What happened, honey?” he asked after clearing his throat.

“I hate this place!” she hissed and then raised her voice, “and I hate you!” he winced, but she didn’t stay to wait for a reply, instead she ran out the front door, her father’s voce calling her name in vain.

“Darcy!” he shouted pleadingly as the door slammed hard into the doorframe. He sighed heavily, he had the distinct feeling that slamming doors were going to be a recurring phenomenon in their home for the foreseeable future.

He wondered if it was a good sign that she was talking to him again, it didn’t feel like it was.

He hesitantly opened the bathroom door and took in the clogged toilet and the flow of water on the floor. Groaning he walked out and closed the door.

A look around the cabinets in the kitchen revealed unopened preserves, long forgotten and well past any expiration date. The wood of the cabinets was lined with mildew and a suspicious hole reminded him that spiders might not be the only visitors they could expect.

He finally found a plunger under the sink and throwing his jacket over a chair he returned to the bathroom and set to work. It was evident that he would need to have most of the plumbing replaced, it had been years since anyone had bothered with maintenance.

Half an hour later, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead on his sleeve and listened to the toilet flush at last with the gurgling sound of a dying manatee, he thought for the first time that maybe he was in over his head.

He had imagined fixing the place up himself, a coat of paint a little TLC and they would have a dream home, but he would have to admit to himself that he simply wasn’t cut out for as big a job as this was turning out to be.

Of course, he had no one to blame but himself and on top of it he had Darcy to worry about. He hadn’t heard her come back so he supposed she had gone for a walk to blow off some steam. Hopefully she would be more reasonable when she came home.

The daylight was slowly fading outside the window. Daniel closed his computer and got up. The house was still and even as he opened the door to Darcy’s bedroom he knew it would be empty. She was still out somewhere.

He decided to make dinner while he waited. Mac and cheese, not perhaps the best way to earn points with his picky girl, but she would have to deal with it, he had only brought some essentials, thinking he would go into the the little town the next day for groceries.

Despite his best efforts the macaroni and cheese mix managed to stick to the bottom of the pot, giving it that slightly charred taste. He sighed and resigned himself to the would be complaints as he spooned it up into two bowls and set the table.

Outside the shadows had melted into each other as the last of the sun’s crimson vanished behind the hillside and there were still no sign of Darcy.

He went through the house looking out the windows, his fingers twitching nervously against his leg. The road outside was deserted and in the sky the first faint stars were breaking through.

He returned to the kitchen and gathered up his jacket, taking his phone from the pocket as he slipped it on. Then he pressed the speed dial for Darcy’s number. He listened to the signals until it switched to voicemail.

“Darce, it’s dad, where are you?” his voice sounded strained to his own ears.

He tried two more times, but nothing.

His mind was racing. How far had she walked? Which direction? She could be anywhere.

The high cliffs and the sea’s distant whispers came unbidden to the forefront of his mind and he closed his eyes hard, trying to battle down the panic that rose in him. With a shaking hand he tried her phone again…

<-- Previous Chapter -- Next Chapter -->