A Missing Key 218 Missed Calls One Family Secret novel Chapter 63

Chapter 2** The acrid stench of scorched flesh invaded my senses, a vile taste that clawed at my throat and filled my mouth with an unbearable bitterness. Pain shot through me, a searing agony that blurred my vision into an unforgiving white haze. I tried to scream, to voice the torment that wracked my body, but all that escaped were strangled, gurgling sounds, a pitiful echo of my despair. Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and salty, mingling with the metallic taste of blood that filled my mouth.

When at last she withdrew the iron, I crumpled to the floor, my body collapsing under the weight of pain and shock. The taste of charred flesh lingered, a ghastly reminder of what had just transpired. In that moment of disorientation, the door flew open with a loud bang. “What happened? Mara, what happened?!” Mom rushed in, her face transforming into a mask of calm concern, as if she could will away the horror of the situation with her mere presence.

She knelt beside me, her hands trembling slightly as she dabbed at the blood trickling from my mouth with a handkerchief that seemed woefully inadequate. Her gaze then shifted to Dad, who had just entered the room, his expression shifting from confusion to alarm. “This child-she just had to touch the hot things. Look, she burned herself,” she explained, her tone almost defensive. Dad was by my side in an instant. The moment he took in my condition, his eyes blazed with a mix of anguish and fury, turning a deep crimson. He pivoted towards Mom, his voice raw, laced with an unbearable intensity.

“Catherine! How could you let this happen?! How did she get hurt this badly?!” In that moment, something dark flickered in Mom’s eyes, a flash of something almost predatory before her expression crumpled into one of wounded innocence. “How was I supposed to know she’d suddenly grab it…” she muttered, her voice trailing off as if she were trying to convince herself of her own innocence. Dad, however, didn’t waste time on further arguments. He scooped me up into his arms with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. “Hang on, sweetheart.

Daddy’s taking you to the hospital,” he said, his voice steady, yet I could sense the tremor of fear beneath it. At the hospital, after what felt like an eternity, the doctor finally emerged, his face somber and heavy. He delivered the crushing news with a grave expression: my mouth and vocal cords had sustained severe damage. From this moment on, I was advised not to speak. That day marked the end of my ability to voice my thoughts, my feelings, my fears. I became a mute, my words trapped inside me like butterflies caught in a jar.

In the days that followed, my communication with Dad was reduced to scribbles on a notebook, a pen becoming my lifeline to the world. To compensate for my silence, Dad became even more attentive, his concern manifesting in a myriad of small gestures. One dreary afternoon, as rain fell relentlessly outside, I sat by the window, staring blankly at the droplets racing down the glass. Suddenly, he seemed to recall my obsession with the honey-glazed rotisserie chicken from Murphy’s Diner on the east side.

Ignoring Mom’s protests, he donned a raincoat and disappeared into the storm, his determination palpable. Two long hours later, he returned, completely drenched but clutching a grease-stained paper bag protectively against his chest. “Mara, come eat while it’s still hot,” he said, his voice warm despite the shivers running through him. He handed me the chicken, a small smile breaking through his weariness, but I could see the toll the storm had taken on him. That night, however, his brave facade crumbled.

He developed a raging fever, lying unconscious in bed, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. I perched beside him, my heart heavy with guilt and anguish, watching the rise and fall of his chest, each breath a reminder of my own culpability. This was all my fault. If it weren’t for me, Dad wouldn’t have ventured out into that tempest. Unable to contain it any longer, all the fear and sorrow that had been pent up inside me erupted in a cascade of tears.

I grasped Dad’s hand tightly, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine, and with my ruined, gravelly voice-the voice that had been shattered by the branding iron-I forced out words I hadn’t spoken in what felt like an eternity: “I won’t eat it anymore… Daddy, please get better…” Just then, I heard it-a soft, mocking laugh emanating from the doorway. Mom stood there, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the hallway. With deliberate steps, she approached me, her eyes reflecting a look that sent chills down my spine, reminiscent of the day she had burned me.