Through the window of her back garden porch, her bedroom light glistened on her skin like porcelain. The way she frolicked around her room, careless to the world, a free spirit left to her own devices. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but why did it feel so right? The nervous trembles got worse by the minute, my vision beginning to cloud.
That inner voice that’s bangs in the back of your head persisted, “Your time is up. Better run.” But I didn’t care.
With a slow draw of my camera, I tried to savour the moment, but the flash. The panic that follows and the screams of horror. If only she got to know me first, she’d know I mean no harm.
That following morning, the red and blue flashes of light fed me my own medicine, as my chest began thudding. My war drum of a heart scored my life in that moment, stamping me with that awful brand I can now never wash away.
Goodbye mon petit secret.
The smell of burning rubber haunts me still. 3 years. 7 months. 12 days. Your crys of laughter blur with those of despair. Lily Rose Camble. Each letter so small etched into that marble slab.
Your room still sits waiting, toys standing eager. I drove by the park today, it was nice to see the swings in use again. The lamp post still bent out of shape, the tyre dug trench blossoms though. A young boy ran laps round his mum, swinging his toy plane around, up and down, left and right. He reminded me of you. I bet you two would’ve been good friends. You’re in everything.
My sweet Lily. The friend someone never met. The lover someone never had. I’m sorry. 3 years, 7 months, 12 days sober. The man I should have been for you.
Dad.
