Short Story on Belonging Yo

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Her father had loved literature his whole life. Once a book fell on he floor he would pick it up, pat it lovingly and place it back where it belonged. Once he was done with a book he would pass it on to someone who he believed would love it as much as he. It was the greatest way he could show affection, sometimes she believed the only way, the only passion that seemed to colour his once vibrant soul, that seemed to soften a face twisted and distorted by pain. Her mother had left them many years ago, and as she had stolen out silently into the darkness of that warm October night without any sort of warning, she stole pieces of their lives. Tahlia and her father were like a ruined jigsaw puzzle, whose pieces no longer quite fit. She took solace in her social life. He lived lives through the heroes/ heroines in his books. They were alienated from one another, in two separate worlds that would not intertwine. She acted indifferent to his world, and he did not know how to care for hers without the pain of remembering his former life. The bond between daughter and father seemed non existent to them. She had learned to live this way, the longing for fatherly love, attention and compassion, was placed elsewhere. They continued to live their separate lives, blissfully ignorant of what they could do for one another. She had become accustomed to ignoring him, not happy with the situation yet dwelling on it as little as possible, too little to be sad. Tahlia had held no regrets. Until it was too late, but regrets are like that. They sneak up on you and appear at the most inconvenient moments. Not only did these regrets start to form, but they started to twist and curl and painfully exist amongst all of her waking thoughts. Two policeman showed up on her doorstep, sympathy in their eyes and spoke to her words that her brain could not seem to comprehend. A car accident, it seemed so unfitting. That was her first thought. He was always such a gentle, quiet man. To die in...
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