Please R & R!!!! Thanks! I will update again soon! With longer chapters!!
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I believe it was my stomach that encouraged me to venture outside of my room. Everything was chaotic, nothing stood intact except his piano. I looked around nervously. No sign of my beloved father. Not one single sign except the debris of his last rage. It was hours before he returned. And he was not the same.
His eyes were bloodshot, he smelled of wine and blood. His hands were covered in it, dark sticky redness that frightened me with its vivid brightness against his chalky pallor. I barely dared to look at him as tears filled my eyes. He brushed my cheek briefly before sitting at his piano and playing a tragically melancholy ballad. I just stared. But I was hungry.
So I went to the kitchen. There was only a single apple, so I tried to cut it in half, to act like a big girl. As I pushed with all my might, the knife slid and sliced my finger viciously. I whimpered for a moment, frightened, trying not to cry. But blood was pouring over the counter. So I ran to Father, holding it tightly as blood dripped onto the floor.
"Father! Father!" I cried, bursting into terrified sobs. "I cut my finger!" I shouted. He didn't respond. I gripped his shirt, smearing blood on it, and yanked. He turned lethargically and looked at me. Then his eyes grew wide and he swore mightily. He actually ripped his shirt off and wound it around my finger, pressing hard. It hurt terribly for a moment then went numb. He whispered to me to calm down, and he took me upstairs to Madam Giry.
She looked at my finger and looked at father, she accused him of many things that I cannot remember. But she poured something on my cut and wrapped it up in a bandage. It was deep, but clean, so it healed quickly. I still have the scar in fact.
But Father was not the same man he had been before that dreadful night. He barely acknowledged me except to make sure I ate, and to cut things up for me. He was an empty body. He didn't speak, not once, for many weeks. I couldn't make him happy, no matter what I said or did. He left for many hours, and always came home drunk and disheveled, sometimes with blood on his hands. If Madam Giry spoke to him, I didn't know, but I barely saw her anymore, when I did, he cleaned up and appeared as if nothing had changed, but it was plain he had given up all will to live.
I noticed that he was putting things in a box. Everything. I asked him why, many times I asked, but he never replied. Not once. Then one morning, I woke to find my entire room gathered up. As soon as I woke, the first thing I heard him say in many weeks was we were going "away". I asked where. No response. So we gathered the smallest, most important things and loaded them into a carriage loaned by Madam Giry. And we left, never to return. I cried silently as Father sat up front and guided the horses, veiled heavily and hidden in the thick fog. I would miss my home, my Maman Giry. But perhaps Father would be happy again once we left all the memories of her…
Sorry about the shamefully-short length!! I just couldn't help it with the natural breaks already there!! Thanks, please review!!!