YOU COULD BREAK MY HEART IN TWO,

BUT WHEN IT HEALS, IT BEATS FOR YOU

back to you,

Your father is. . . something. What he is, well, you don't quite know - don't want to know.

Perhaps in the same way as you did with the memories of your mother, bequeathing your glossy eyes was a mirror of blurred memories. Maybe you wanted this to hurt, drawn to the disaster that expanded inside your crushed soul. Because you know well what kind of person you are, what kind of person your father was and is - he's split in two and showed you time and time again so maybe you did notice.

Maybe you did notice, little by little, how your life was fractured.

Beer bottles on the coffee table.

Dead flowers on the pathway.

Relentless rain on car windows.

Dead bodies and more.

All your fears seem to dissolve on your tongue just sourly thinking about it - the heartache that mended only to break. The way your life was a bullet train filled with never-ending screams and nails digging into skin and twitching envy. And then there's that awful train wreck, almost like you're standing idly by and watching it unfold. You're watching everything waste away pitifully, unable to look away because...

Because it's so, what? Beautiful? Intriguing? Heart-breaking?

The time on the train back to Sendai gave you time you wish you gave away. The past has a way of healing all your scars, yet the memory of your home only inflicts deeper ones onto your father's. Do you understand it now? Why Father's hands shook when he brushed dirt over the make-shift grave, why his eyes seemed so dead as he sat in front of the television, why he looked behind his shoulder when night crawls into the sky.

He, himself, was drowning, pulled into the current of her sea - Mother- trapped in a riptide that dragged him further and further from the shore, from the comforting bliss and ignorance. Oh to think that you could wash your guilt and pain away, wash away the existence of curses. Just thinking about them blights your mind like the foul stench of alcohol.

Ah, didn't you make that mistake too? Blindly taking Itadori's hand and admiring this world at first, the disconnection from safety, the saccharine peach of danger. The honey that you were addicted to, the adrenaline fizzling and going haywire in your veins, the scramble to safety, that feeling when you look into the eyes of a curse... it's all replaced with venom. The good memories are painted over with black and drip in ebony at the back of your mind, clawing for escape, to spill that horror into the world; no matter how hard you try, running away from all of this, you cannot escape something that is inherent. You cannot escape yourself.

You're fidgeting with your fingers now, unmoving eyes watching the environment blur away out of the window, the minutes up to the stop, mind deteriorating the more you drag yourself to think about the past.

No matter how hard you try, how many times you dream and dream, you can't change it - Hell, you can barely remember it. Who your Mother was.

A chill circles your body much like a hug devoid of warmth, an unsettling reminder of your past; she used to wrap you in that word... what was it? What did she like to call you?

Special.

And she'd tie the bow with a gentle whisper: I love you.

A present, a sacrifice.

You feel your lips tremble, just thinking about the aftermath... the empty bedroom and the silent, weeping house. Good things never last, you had told yourself once, slugging upstairs when you heard your father throw a vase onto the ground in the kitchen. So why did I think she would?

It's so easy to play pretend when you can repress this sort of shit, to act like the world isn't crumbling around you, sweep it under the carpet with a broomstick you will snap in two. You held her hand as it collapsed, wondering if death was bad. (You decided it was bad.)

Junpei whispers, it's very, very bad.

The train conductor's voice shatters the disillusioned thoughts and for a split-second, you idly return to reality, gently turning your head to see Gojo-sensei nodding off as he slumbers. It's a rare moment where that blindfold of his seems to have loosened as his head droops.

You tried to push him away, but that didn't quite work. Was it to protect you or him?

When he said that you were going back home for a few days, you most certainly didn't expect him to drop you off.

"I'm sorry, Gojo-sensei," You murmur, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as you look sadly out of the window, wanting to dream of something poetically familiar. I'm sorry, for failing you.

And then, you hear him shuffle, a lazy voice poking out, surprising you greatly, "You haven't failed yet," He mumbles, as if he had subconsciously read your mind.

Your lips remain pursed in deep thought for the rest of the journey.

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Your home seems so average, so undelightfully mundane.

From first glance, it would be unlikely anyone could figure out that your mother was buried just half a mile behind, her feelings fading with her corpse as skin rotted away, the love for you and Father did too. And then, when bones became the only reminder of her existence on this earth, you alongside everyone, would be stick with knowing who she was and what she did because you're starting to piece it together.

You're standing in the hallway - Mother died here - and Father leans in the doorway to the living room. Gojo-sensei is gone and the air is dead, weighing you down more than your suitcase and backpack. You feel the stare: the voice without words - naive, foolish, inferior. Because what were you thinking, hm? Going off to fight curses like that?

Did you discard reality because you so desperately wanted to escape her? Mother? There is no emotion in death, merely and simply memories, and that has made it so much more worse.

Father looks different. He looks worse. Did your absence dwell on him?

Great, now you feel more guilty.

The air is webbed with that familiar scent of liquor and Father feels like he's swaying unmajestically. You've learnt well over the course of six years just how sharp the murder of alcohol goes. An alcoholic does harm the same way a firework of razor blades would - unconsciously and without comprehension of the vile damage they do. The damage to him and the damage to you.

Despite his efforts to keep you out of it, to push you away, you still feel caught in the crossfire. Because you're still there in that pitiful house, day in and day out when school is over and life still fucking goes on even when Mother died - just because you're quiet doesn't mean you're not there. And you watch that man waste away and watch those beer bottles dull the pain, dull and dumb down even joy, even self-control.

Where did he go? Where did the man before The Incident go?

As your eyes look wearily at Father, you realise you've forgotten him already, forgotten everything good and everything bad, and everything and anything you would ever want to know. Maybe you know it subconsciously, but he still feels like a stranger and it hurts.

Grey dust lies cold in an ashtray by the window ledge.

"That's new," Your lips curl with distaste, realising you'd have to deal with flecks of cold flakes and sticks of death.

Even his voice sounds different - more sad, "I'll quit, soon enough."

You sigh, and after rubbing your forehead sorely, you lift your head and look glumly at Father, "Do you want me to clean up the house? I imagine my room hasn't been touched for a while."

Your eyes linger on his gruff attire, the wrinkled, baggy shirt and trousers, the ones he practically lives in because he lives off the unemployment pension. The two of you are basically screaming it.

You know, the HELP ME scream. The PLEASE, MAKE ALL MY PROBLEMS GO AWAY look in your eyes. Two people standing in that dusty hallways, tears wanting to stream down cheeks, a brief exchange of malevolence just at the remembrance of lips stained red with the blood of a bleeding heart - beaten and broken.

And then, those tears bleed an inferno.

You straighten your spine, "Dad? Did you hear me?"

His cloudy eyes seem to drip with sanguine, words turning to dust on his tongue; the alcohol seems to divide him inside. Mix those feelings like water and wine, and one will take over the other inevitably. "Yeah, yeah! Uh, I'll clear everything... downstairs... make yourself at home, kiddo. It's good to see you."

He steps forwards, hands gently trapped in that typical tremor, the shake of a drunk, almost like he's twitching at warmth, unsure of wanting to hug you.

You blink, doing the same, and because you know your father won't ever bring himself to do it (and yet he's still a stranger), you pull him into one of those fragile, awkward hugs. You know, those hugs where you're afraid and you're uncertain and empathy feels so far away.

When you release, you turn sharply on your heel and hurry up the stairs, pinching your nose to disguise that stench of alcohol, leaving your father downstairs in an ocean of his unsorted feelings.

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Everything is one big hellfire.

Family photographs drowning and burnt in the holy water of untold memories like every ounce of pain in the years to come was worth it. Dust gathering everything and everywhere in a soul-shattering manner and no one's there to pick up the pieces when you watch the specks of dust float down merrily like fake snowflakes - false hope. Untouched wardrobes and cold clothes that have never know the scorch of skin and brightness of confidence, the flame by flame of a foggy mind.

Everywhere you go, it stares you right in the face and you kind of understand it now, why your Dad went crazy, why he fell into a pit of despair, used alcohol as a crutch. Because you can't escape it! She's everywhere.

Because Mother died in this house and she lived in this house and she existed and why can't you move on. Why can't you whack your head against the shower wall and let amnesia wash away all of this?

The tears lodge in your throat just wanting to confront the past, unspoken words left bitter on your tongue that unfathomable solitude. Misery loves company, but hatred loves to be alone.

You seem to effortlessly glide down the stairs without a single sound, almost as if your mind had remembered all the creaks and croaks, which steps made what sounds. And when you pass by the unpacked luggage, you stand on the cold wooden floor in the same clothes with a mournful expression, like happiness is slipping through your fingers like sand.

The sun's out. There's are roses oddly growing outside your window on the side of the house. The windows are open now and all the stuffy air seems to be filtered out like draining a colander.

You keep telling yourself all these terrible things - it makes you narrow-minded. It makes you grieve for the loss of someone who isn't gone (you) but the part of them that you loved is. (Maybe that's you shit-talking yourself.)

And you inhale with a shaky breath because you need a reason to smile today. You need a reason. Anything. Give me anything, please.

And you hear Father's voice coming from the kitchen and you walk past the sofas littered with things and the television that buzzes in the background with the local news (Sendai Gymnasium opened yesterday), and you walk right into his arms.

He's at the table and he puts on a smile and for once, you smile back. It's that weak, unsure smile you give because you're reserved and nervous. And he's smiling like he's scared, like he's trying hard, like he wants to be hopeful.

Be hopeful that hey! Everything is going to turn out okay. (Because in the movies, it always does.)

And you see why; scrambled eggs for dinner. Just like what he used to do when Mother worked long nights. It's the easiest and best dinner one can fix.

They aren't the same, but like you would expect the exact thing.

You see he's made more than enough for the two of you and he's set the table - fork, knives, glasses (of juice).

"Dinner?" You quirk your eyebrows, asking the obvious.

He nods, squirming in nervousness as he awaits your assent, "I wanted to make something special because it's the first time you've visited since... since you started going to that magic school."

Magic school, you stifle a chuckle; he never failed to make you laugh lightly.

"I'm sorry, by the way," You say as you start cutting up dinner with your cutlery. (You say 'I'm Sorry' an awful lot, hm.) "I know you don't approve of it."

You didn't want to ruin this small, nice moment but you just had to bring it up - you needed to bring it up. Part of coming home was to stop shutting the monsters and bad memories in the closet and address all the horrible things that rot unforgivingly in your head at all times. Those things include, but are not limited to: Mother, her death and the [L/n] clan.

Father sighs - it's so long and drawn out that it makes you think he's struggling to slur his words together. Maybe it's because he's itching for a drink. "No, I should be apologising," He says finally, "I didn't want you to end up like... like your mother. I can't lose you too, [F/n]."

"I... I can't lose you either," You whisper in response, "It's why... I don't like to see you like this. Like you've lost yourself within your own echoes."

He gulps, putting his hands on the table surface, ignoring their slight shaky outlines, "Please, [F/n]. Please, you need to understand... God, you were so young. I don't why I didn't do anything. I would have done something if I knew..."

"Knew what?" You narrow your eyes, listening to his voice warble and waver as he wails.

And then, Father looks you dead in the eyes, a lifeless, dark stare, the unwanted and terrifying truth that makes the mind battle to stay sane, "Your mother was not the best person in the world, [F/n]. I don't want to break that image and memory you have of her but it's ... it's the truth."

Your grip tightens like iron around your utensils, "She... she... How can you say that? You spend all your time getting drunk and now smoking! You have no right to criticise her life!"

"I know."

His response momentarily stuns you - he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deny his abyssal despair, but maybe at the same time, he doesn't want to confront it, perhaps that being the reason why he hoards Mother's photograph alongside a pint of gin.

Father lowers his head, his voice cracking, "I know... I couldn't face you. I was so ashamed. I'm destroying myself as if it will do anything. I know that what I do doesn't solve everything, that she is still dead. Because I buried her with these hands, do you understand? Please forgive me, [F/n]."

You let your food go cold, kicking your chair away and ignoring the squeaky sound it makes as you walk over to the other side of the table and wrap your arms around your father.

"I forgive you," Your words are almost lost, so quiet and it scurries away in the dead air of the house. Just as you forgave me, for following Mother's footsteps.

The evening goes by delightfully slow and beautifully, as if all that tension seemed to have been resolved as you sit cross-legged on the sofa next to your father, laughing because that old TV show you used to watch as a kid was doing reruns.

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In the night, it was frightening to be alive. There was something spine-chilling about knowing outside of your window was an ebony sable blackness that rocketed the skies and crawled along the surfaces of almost everything, casting that untainted shadow. It's the kind of black that could throw a mind into free-fall in only more sense were to be removed.

That's probably why you were still awake even at the dead of night. The fear of drifting into nothingness, latching onto the past which stares at you with such menace, blurs together as you struggle to sleep.

And just when you press your eyelids shut to dream of something fantastically unattainable, you have to open them again. There's a shuffling sound downstairs, retreating footsteps and then... the back door opens.

You hear it, the sound as clear as day, the sound of... water splashing?

Swinging your legs over your bedside and getting to your feet, you lean on the ledge of the nearest window in your bedroom, practically pressing your face against the window.

And then you see why.

Father has a plastic bag in his hand and a bottle of gin in another. A secret, late-night drink? You scoff, if you want to drink, you don't have to hide it from me. I know your habits, Dad.

But he doesn't drink. Instead, he tilts the glass bottle at an angle and the liquor sloshes out and all over the grass. The bottle clinks with a light hollow sound, like he's trying to not wake you up but it's too late, and you realise he's emptying it. Emptying everything.

And you watch, watch him empty every bottle. Until that plastic bag is dropped in the outdoor bin and he returns empty-handed.

When you go to sleep, you find yourself lightly smiling just thinking about how much your Father tries to do for you. Because if he can do it, then so can you.