Someone Out There Loves You

I stormed out the house, adrenalin pumping through my veins. I was so angry I had to stop for a moment and take deep breaths to calm down. How could my Father want to marry that?

I began to walk down the street in the direction of the City Centre. I needed to get out before I did something that could land me a lifetime in prison. I didn’t even realise it was raining until I got a few blocks away from my house. I wasn’t going to go back for a Jacket. My blood was boiling enough to keep me warm. Anyway I would rather freeze to death than see her and her perverted son’s smug face if I returned after less than five minutes.

Unfortunately although I didn’t need my jacket, I did need the money I kept inside one of the pockets. It looked like I wouldn’t be taking the bus to town. I sighed and wrapped my arms around my body to protect it from the weather and began the long journey.

After a while I noticed the traffic getting busier and realised that I must be getting close. I checked my watched and noticed what should have been a fifteen minute journey in a vehicle had taken me nearly an hour. I blame my imagination for that. I always seem to dawdle when I day dream.

I saw that a few of the shops had begun closing. I hoped my Dad would still be in his office. I snorted to my self which earned me a weird look off a woman who was smart enough to bring an umbrella to work. What a stupid thought. My Dad never leaves his office which of course gives me plenty alone time with my putrid step- mother-to-be and her teenage son.

A wave of relief washed over me when I saw the familiar building my Father likes to call his work place. I had never been inside before and it looked intimidating. Suddenly the main door opened and a short, blonde woman walked out. I watched her curiously as she came nearer. I realised she was talking on her phone so of course she didn’t notice when she stepped into a huge puddle causing the bottom of my already wet jeans to get soaked. I waited for an apology but it never came. Instead she kept on walking leaving only a whiff of her perfume behind which smelt pleasantly like palmer violets. I’d like to say this doesn’t happen a lot, but it does. I’m invisible.

Of course it wasn’t always like this. I’ve only lived with my Father since I was seventeen which explains a lot of arguments that go on between me and his fiancée. Apparently she’s nice when you get used to her. Asking me to get use to her is like asking someone to get use to the taste of out of date milk. It makes me want to be sick.

I quickly checked my reflection in an empty car window. My previously light blue shirt was now navy thanks to the rain. My hair was sticking up and the little make up I had on was smeared down my face. I knew I looked a mess. I sighed and entered the huge building.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Strong bleach that stung my nostrils. It reminded me off an earlier time in my life. After something bad happened I would always reach for the bleach bottle and scrub every visible surface. It gave me some sort of relief knowing that I was killing thousands of germs. You could say it stopped me feeling ever so slightly homicidal.

I stepped into the main lobby area cringing as my soggy converses squeaked against the brightly, polished floors. The woman sitting at the reception desk looked up. I took a deep breath and edged closer.

The woman looked old, at least in her fifties. She had fine, grey, hair which was pinned back tightly against her head. She also had a lot of wrinkles and thick glasses which made her eyes look three times the size they actually are. She moved her eyes slowly over me, not even bothering to be discreet about it. After what seemed like hours but must have only been seconds, she ran her tongue over her lipstick covered teeth in a disapproving way.

“Yes?” Her shrill voice echoed around the empty room.

“Erm…” I lost my train of thought for a moment. Meeting new people always makes me nervous.

She always used to tease me for being shy. She told me not to worry though. She always said people preferred shy people to loud ones. Shy people have an air of mystery about them. Just thinking about her made some painful emotions stir up in side of me and I had to swallow and blink a few times to stop them coming out in the form of tears.

I faintly heard a knocking sound and I realised it was the woman at the reception tapping her expensively manicured nails against her desk impatiently. The noise went through me. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“I’ve come to see Michael Hart.” I said loud and clearly. The woman looked at me suspiciously. “I’m his daughter.” I quickly added. She let her eyes roll over my face then sat back in her chair.

“I didn’t know Mr Hart had a daughter.” She questioned taking her glasses off to clean them before placing them back on her nose. “He only mentions his son, Edward.”

I flinched at the name. “Edward is not his son.” I said clearly so she would understand. “He’s Flora’s son.”

You might be wondering whom Flora is. Allow me to explain. Flora is my Father’s fiancée. Don’t be fooled by the name. I was.

I remember the day I was talking to my Dad on the phone in my social workers office. I would have been Seventeen then. Too old for a social worker but I was a special case. He asked me if I wanted to live with him, Flora and her fourteen year old son Edward. When he mentioned the name Flora, it brought back memories of my childhood.

For my eighth birthday I received a doll. It wasn’t one of those cheap plastic ones that urinate and talk and do just about anything. It was an old fashioned, expensive china doll. She had beautiful golden ringlets and rosy cheeks. I named her Flora. I used to play these imaginary games that I and Flora were princesses and we lived in a castle which was situated underneath the kitchen table. When my Father mentioned the name Flora, I thought princess. Now when someone mentions the name Flora, I think evil Step-Mother. And I’m the Cinderella.

“Flora’s his wife, yes?” The receptionist asked. God, this woman was nosy.

“No, she is his fiancée.” I said the word “fiancée” slow so she would get the message they are not married. Therefore I am no way related to her.

I heard the woman mutter the word “shame” before she picked up the phone and started dialling several numbers. “Mr Hart? Your daughters here to see you.” She removed the phone from her ear and pressed it against her shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.” She asked in a tone that suggested that she wasn’t sorry at all.

“Gabriella Hart.” I answered rolling my eyes. Trust my Father to be precautious. He thinks he’s such a big and powerful business man, the mafia are coming to get him.

The receptionist repeated my name and I stood patiently waiting for the thumbs up so I could go but it never came. “Ooh, Mr Hart. You practically married.” The receptionist giggled. A look of horror must have flashed across my face because she turned so she wasn’t facing me anymore. “Okay, bye.” She laughed putting the phone own. She turned back so she was looking at me once more. I was amazed at how quick her expressions changed. A second ago she was the giggling school girl, now she was the strict head mistress.

“You can go up. Mr Hart’s office is on the third floor, bottom left room.” She announced in monotone before filing through some paper work. I quickly left her to it and headed to go find some stairs. I hated elevators. I don’t like the fact I’m putting my life in someone else’s hand although apparently this elevator has passed all the safety checks according to the stickers on the doors. I’ve done it once and I’m never doing it again. I’ve realised the only person you can trust is yourself.

After climbing three flights of stairs I felt out of breath. I leant against the wall with my eyes closed just embracing the silence. After a few moments I slowly opened my eyes, only to see the cleaner watching me curiously and strangely. I threw a weak smile at him and made my way to my Father’s office.

It wasn’t hard to find it. The big plaque pinned on the door bearing his name gave it away. I cautiously pressed my ear to his door to see if he was alone. I heard voices, but only one. His. That must mean he was on the phone. No doubt it was Flora. I sighed and gently tapped on the door.

I heard his muffled voice pause, for him to shout loudly “Come in.” I slowly opened the door and was met by my Father’s cold glare. “Yes, this is her. See you later tonight, babe.” He said into his phone. My stomach turned at the word “babe.”

“What the hell were you playing at?” He exploded, causing the glass of silence to shatter. I cringed, but kept my mouth shut realising it was a rhetorical question. “You can’t just disappear like that. Your Mother has been worried.” That struck a nerve.

“Flora is not my Mother. And if it wasn’t for Edward trying to touch me up every two minutes, we wouldn’t have had the argument.” I tried to reason.

“Now don’t you go blaming this all on Edward.” My Father threatened.

I rolled my eyes and put my hand on my hip in true drama queen fashion. “Whatever, I wish I never come here.”

“No ones keeping you here.” My Father answered back, rubbing his temples as if he was bored of the whole thing. I finally snapped.

“You know, you always go on about how Mum was a bad Mother. At least she made sure I was okay. She actually cared unlike you.”

“Don’t start Gabriella. I have some paper work to finish.”

“That’s all you care about isn’t it? Paper work and you office. Not to mention Flora the Whore and Pervy Ed.”

“Don’t talk about them like that again.” He warned me, anger glinting in his eyes.

“You’re unbelievable. Sometimes I wish I went with Mum, you know?” I shouted.

“Do you want to know the truth?” My Father yelled, tiny flecks of spit flying out his mouth and hitting his neat, organised desk. I nodded scared. “You really want to know? Okay here it is. I wish you went with your Mother as well. It’s one less problem for me.” As soon as the words left his lips I gasped. A quick glance into his eyes told me he didn’t regret what he just said. I needed to get out. Now.

I flung open his office door and sprinted all the way down the stairs, nearly losing my balance. I didn’t stop running after I barged into another business man talking on his phone. I didn’t stop after the nosy receptionist asked me how my Father was. Some Father. I didn’t stop until I was four blocks away and leaning against a graffiti covered wall.

Breathe Gabriella. Just Breathe. I closed my eyes and felt a few hot tears roll down my face. That’s it, just breathe. Nice and slowly. I was glad it was still raining, because no one would be able to tell I was crying.

You may be wondering what all of the fuss is about. Well, it’s not everyday your own Father admits he wishes you dead.