4 ALLOWANCE

Charlotte Cane

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𝕊𝕒𝕕𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕒 𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖𝕥𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕨𝕠 𝕘𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕖𝕟𝕤. - 𝕂𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕝 𝔾𝕚𝕓𝕣𝕒𝕟

'Oh, my goodness!' A gentle yet demanding voice rang in my ears and bounced around in my head. It was a distinctive voice that I could tell from a mile away who it was; It was the kind of familiar voice that somehow was serrated, sharp, and undeniably a confirmed crisp clarity.

'Charlotte?' The words hammered in my mind, its melodic soft timber buzzing my ear drums.

I turned around slowly to come directly face to the crystal clear memory that filled my eyes.

'Charlotte?' My mother stood in the hallway between my room and the bathroom. For a swift second, her concerned amber eyes processed me from head to toe.

Standing there in those moments, as she processed me, I watched her. Her light chestnut wavy hair was pulled back into a tight bun, accessorized with a single daisy shaped hair clip on her bangs. That was her favorite hairstyle, a bun with her hair clip she loved. It wasn't just the hair clip, her signature style was also yellow. Everything yellow she loved. That day she was wearing a long daisy pattern dress with a pair of pearl earrings.

I remember my memories of the past, so clearly, and in these flashbacks my mother is clearer than ever.

'Oh, Charlotte, did you hurt yourself?' My mother stepped over to me, her bunny slippers skidding against the ground.

She stopped an arm's distance away from me to reach out her hands. She directed her hand towards my forehead, the glaze of her manicured nails reflecting off in my eyes.

'Ouch.' Mother winced with a light frown as she examined the cut on my forehead. 'How did you hurt yourself?' She peered at me, assessing the gaping, bleeding slice along my forehead.

For some reason, I can't seem to remember what I said to her that day before. Or maybe I said nothing. Was it that day that I was angry? Was it that day that I made a stupid mistake? Or was it the next day? Or was it every day that I did something wrong?

Which day was it that I made my own mother want to die?

Whichever day, I'll never get the answer, will I? How could I get such a thing, when I don't deserve it.

'My, Lotty.' Mother eased into a disheartened light smile. 'Are you still mad about before?' Her eyes tore right into me. Pierced me. Killed me.

'My darling.' She deepened her frown, pulling her careful touch away from my cut. 'Being mad is a sin. You know that, Charlotte. You know.' She raised her hand, and I knew by instinct at that moment to shut my eyes and brace for impact.

THUD.

A noisy clatter of noises pulled out from the flashback of memories that were invading my mind.

Almost as instantly as I tried to grab stability, I was suddenly reminded of the pounding pain on my forehead. My hands shot up to my forehead to feel the wound, but as soon as my fingers contacted my skin there was nothing. No blood. No cut. Nothing. My eyes went from the bathroom door to the polished wooden floors. Not a single droplet of blood touched either surface. There was nothing. I thought I bumped into the door and cut my head, and yet? I touched my forehead, feeling smooth unbroken skin.

Was I that lost in my memories?

I blinked a few times, adjusting my sense back to reality, as I noticed my father dressed in regular business suit attire standing in the door frame of his room door.

"Snap," he said, groaning, whilst bending over to pick up his phone that I have to assume he dropped and created the noise.

"Oh, um, Good Morning, Dad," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. "I didn't know you were still here. I thought you might have left for work already."

He gripped his phone before tapping away at the screen with lighting speed. "Yes, yes, good morning," he said distractedly, eyes glued to his screen.

In a flash, the frown dragging the corners of my lips chewed away my firm grimace. I dedicated my gaze to him, watching as he intently focused on the phone without a hint of recognition my way. I know he's so focused because it's due to work matters most certainly. And I know that he's working so hard for me, to keep the roof over our head and keep the food over the table like mom always said. Not only that, it wasn't easy after the funeral. Father had no time to grieve, and the therapy bills for me were pilling up. Because of me, he had no choice but work without a break.

Of all the things my Father could have done, giving up on me was first. He could have blamed me for her death----although, some days I know he should blame me for what I've done, but he didn't. He took care of me. That's why the only thing I can feel is grateful to my Father. In my heart, I know I should feel that way...but some days, something trickles in and poisons my mind; Some days, I wish he wasn't so preoccupied and caught up with work. Some days I wish he took more care of health. Some days I wish he took more days off for himself. Some days I wish he didn't have to work so hard for me. Some days I wish, well, some days I wish he came home earlier. Sat down with me for meals. Spoke to me.

My heart beat against my chest, a stingy feeling crawling under my skin.

But it can't be helped. He's trying his best, and I should be thankful. I need to be thankful.

"Um, Dad?" I swallowed, observing as he clicked away on his phone.

With that being said, because he's so awfully busy all the time, I never really know when he's going to be home. This morning was a lucky day. I'm glad I got to see him before he pulled another all nighter shift at the office. I should probably ask him, since I might not get to later.

"I know you're busy with work and all, but um." My throat felt dry as I continued speaking with a weakened meek voice. "I was wondering about my allowance."

His eyes remained on the blue glow of his phone. "Allowance?"

"Yeah." I nodded, folding my hands together. "Um, a couple of friends of mines really needed some money, so I was hoping that you could give me---."

He cut me off and peeked at his wristwatch. "Alright." He dug into his trousers and pulled out his wallet to hand me a wad of cash. "Don't be late to school now." Without another word or even a single glance my way, he turned towards the stairs and left.

Our conversation felt as if it lasted seconds.

He never looked at me once.