The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum floor. The hospital corridor stretched out before him, its walls a dull beige, and the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic. Danny Hebert's footsteps echoed, each one a painful reminder of how far he'd fallen. His daughter was in there—his Taylor—but the doctors and the stern-faced police officers had barred his way. They spoke in hushed tones, their eyes avoiding his, as if he were a criminal.
"Family only," they said. "She needs rest."
He clenched his fists, the knuckles white against his palms. How had it come to this? The call had shattered his world—the shrill ringtone cutting through the monotony of his office. He'd answered, heart pounding, and the nurse's words had left him reeling.
"Mr. Hebert, your daughter is here at the hospital. We need you to arrive here. She's suffered a tragedy."
Tragedy. The word hung in the air, heavy with implications. Mark had abandoned her, hadn't he? Buried himself in work, in grief, in the bottom of a bottle. His wife's death had torn them apart, and he'd retreated into himself, leaving Taylor to fend for herself. He'd watched her from a distance, a silent observer as she navigated the treacherous waters of high school. He'd seen the bruises, the tear-streaked face, but he'd done nothing. Nothing to protect her. Nothing to save her. Far too lost in his own sorrows.
And now this. A parahuman. A freak.
He sank onto the hard plastic chair outside her room, the guilt a weight on his chest. The door was closed, but he could hear muffled voices—the doctors, the nurses, their clinical assessments. Taylor was inside, her pink skin a stark contrast to the sterile white sheets. She'd always been so pale, so fragile. And now this transformation—this curse—had turned her into something else entirely.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hebert," the nurse had said. "She's in shock. We're monitoring her vitals, but she's stable."
Stable. But was she? Danny's gaze fell on the framed family photo he'd brought—a relic from happier times. His wife's smile, Taylor's gap-toothed grin. They'd been a family once, whole and unbroken. But fate had stolen his wife, and Danny had lost himself in grief. He'd pushed Taylor away, unable to bear the weight of his own sorrow, let alone hers.
"I'll be right outside," he'd told the nurse, his voice hoarse.
And now he sat there, the hospital walls closing in on him. The memories flooded back—the nights he'd stumbled home, the empty rooms, the silence that had become his companion. He'd failed her. Failed them both. The depression had swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but shadows and regret.
"Dad?"
The voice was weak, tentative. Danny looked up, and there she was—Taylor, his daughter. Her eyes were wide, her expression a mix of fear and confusion. The pink skin seemed to glow in the harsh light, and Danny's heart twisted. He'd never seen her like this—vulnerable, broken.
"Taylor," he whispered, reaching out. But the police officer stepped forward, a hand on his shoulder.
"Sir, you need to leave."
"No," Danny protested. "She's my daughter."
"She needs rest," the officer insisted.
And so, Danny had to retreat, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. He leaned against the cold wall, tears blurring his vision. He'd lost her once, and now he feared he'd lost her again. The guilt consumed him—the missed birthdays, the empty promises, the chasm that had grown between them. He'd never been able to connect with her, to bridge the gap. And now, as he listened to her cries from behind that closed door, he knew he might never get the chance.
"I'm sorry, Taylor," he whispered into the silence. "I'm so, so sorry."
But the shadows of regret stretched out before him, deeper and darker than ever. And he wondered if there was any way to find redemption—for himself, for his daughter, for the fractured remnants of their family.
The door creaked open, and there he was—Dad. His eyes were red-rimmed, his usual composed demeanor replaced by a visible effort to hold himself together. He took a tentative step into the room, his gaze fixed on me. I could see the questions in his eyes, the fear, the concern. It was a look I hadn't seen since Mom passed away.
"Hey, kiddo," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "How are you feeling?"
I tried to smile, to reassure him, but it felt like a grimace. "I'm... coping," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The pink skin was still a shock to me, a constant reminder of the change I had undergone.
He pulled up a chair beside the bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "The doctors explained a bit, but... Taylor, what happened?"
The hospital room felt too small, the walls closing in on me as Dad sat by my bedside. His presence was a silent question, a plea for answers he had been too absent to ask for before. I could feel the anger bubbling inside me, a seething cauldron of emotions I had kept at bay for too long.
"Dad," I began, my voice a low growl, "do you know what it's like to be hated? To walk down the halls and feel the eyes on you, filled with nothing but loathing?"
He flinched, the lines on his face deepening. "Taylor, I—"
"No," I cut him off, my hand clenching into a fist on the hospital blanket. "You don't. Because you were never there. You didn't see the way they looked at me, the way they pushed me around like I was nothing."
The memories of the locker, the darkness, the suffocating fear, they all came rushing back, and I let them. I let him see the fury in my eyes, the pink hue of my skin a testament to the rage that had triggered my transformation.
"They shoved me into that locker, Dad. It was filled with shit and bio waste. I thought I was going to die. And when I woke up, when I saw what I had become..." I trailed off, my throat tight with unshed tears.
He reached out, his hand hovering over mine, uncertain. "Taylor, I'm so sorry. I should have been there for you."
I pulled my hand away, turning my face to the window. "Sorry doesn't change anything. It doesn't change the fact that I'm a freak now. That I'm... pink."
The word was a bullet, shot through the last vestiges of my self-control. I was angry—at my bullies, at the world, at him. But most of all, I was angry at myself for being weak, for not being able to stop any of it.
"Dad, you were lost in your own grief, and I was just... there. Another reminder of what we lost. But I needed you. I needed you to be my dad, to protect me, and you weren't there."
His face crumpled, and for a moment, I saw the man who used to read me bedtime stories, the man who used to make me laugh. But that man had been gone for a long time, buried under the weight of his own sadness.
"I know I can't change the past, Taylor," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "But I'm here now. And I'll do whatever it takes to help you through this."
I wanted to believe him, to throw my arms around him and pretend that everything would be okay. But the anger was a barrier I couldn't break, not yet.
"We'll see," I said, turning back to face him. "We'll see if you can be the dad I need now."
The room was silent, save for the steady beep of the heart monitor. We were two people, broken and lost, trying to find our way back to each other. But the journey was long, and I wasn't sure if we would make it.
For now, though, he was here. And that was a start.
