Charity initially wanted to decline, but the overwhelming worry and lack of sleep helped her realize it may be better to accept his gracious offer. She agreed, and the two made their way to the parking lot where a rusted, timeworn truck awaited them. Charity was surprised to see that Andrew drove such an old vehicle and even more surprised to see it kept in such good condition, given its mileage. She glanced at Andrew, who had already opened the passenger door for her. Why would someone with so many achievements choose such a modest vehicle? But the worry for her parents quickly eclipsed her curiosity. She needed to focus on them, on making sure her fears were unfounded.

  Silence hung heavily in the car, broken only by the occasional direction from Charity and the insistent trill of her phone as she repeatedly tried calling her father. Andrew drove, glancing at her tense posture each time the call went unanswered, acutely aware of Charity’s every fidget and sigh. The house, when they finally reached it, was a small, unassuming brick structure dwarfed by the immense oak tree in the front yard.

  Charity leapt out of the truck without waiting for Andrew to bring it to a complete stop and ran toward an old screen door. Andrew followed quickly and managed to catch up to Charity as she fumbled with her keys. With quivering hands, Charity unlocked a decrepit, green door whose hinges protested loudly as it swung open.

  “Dad?” Her voice echoed in a dark, empty kitchen. Her trembling hands reached for the lights, and the moment the fluorescent bulbs illuminated the room, she immediately wished she had never touched the switch. What used to be a cozy, familiar room that was always neatly organized and decorated to her mother’s liking was now a crime scene. Pots and pans were thrown about. Plates and cups were shattered, and glass shards were everywhere–some even protruding out of the wall. Papers were torn and peppered the floor, and the dining room table Charity had laughed at with her family barely a week ago was splintered into pieces.

  “Dad!” Charity screamed, running to her parents’ bedroom. Tears blurred her view, but Charity was thankful for it, fearing what other horrid scene may be awaiting her the moment her vision cleared. She burst into the room with inhuman force and released the breath she had not realized she was holding the moment she saw a big, burly man curled up on a large bed. His hands covered his face, and his massive shoulders shook violently as though he were weeping, yet no sounds were uttered.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “D-Dad?” Charity uttered in a shaky whisper.

  Peter shot up the moment he heard his daughter. His red face and swollen eyes met Charity’s scared expression. He ran to her and hugged her tightly. His silent weeping rocked them both with such force that Charity feared he may crack her ribs.

  “Oh, Charity,” Peter sobbed, “I should have never let her go. I should have stopped her before she left. I knew that group was trouble.”

  “What are you talking about, Dad?”

  “Your mother,” Peter pulled away and looked at Charity, his eyes brimming with regret. “My Rose. My flower. She’s… She’s-” Peter couldn’t find the strength to finish the sentence. He covered his face with his hands and dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

  Dead, Charity thought. The room began to spin as reality came crashing down on her. She lost her balance, and Andrew gently grabbed her around the waist and supported her. He brought them both down to the ground and knelt beside her weeping father. Charity began hyperventilating. The weight of the situation was an elephant on her chest, and she couldn’t breathe. She dug her nails into Andrew’s arm as though he was her only lifeline, a float that kept her from drowning in the sudden shock.

  She looked at him, desperate for Andrew to tell her this wasn’t real, that it was all just another nightmare, but he only held her tightly and said nothing. Unfamiliar groans escaped Charity’s mouth as her body filled with an overwhelming and painful grief. Graphic images from her nightmares flashed through her head. She tightened her grip on Andrew and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the images would go away.

  Andrew said nothing. He stroked Charity’s hair and listened to hers and her father’s heavy weeping. His arm began to bleed as Charity desperately clung to him, but he neither moved nor requested she loosen her grip.

  After what felt like hours, Peter and Charity’s sobs slowed, but neither were ready to move or speak. Charity eventually let go of Andrew and wrapped her thin arms around her father. Peter shook violently as he cried into his daughter’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Charity. I’m so sorry,” he cried.