Cold porcelain pressed against her hip. Daisy stared into the bathroom mirror, her reflection a stranger with haunted eyes and smudged mascara from last night. Her breath hitched, a thin, reedy sound in the quiet room. The party’s lingering haze still clung to her, a bitter aftertaste of false euphoria.
A glint of silver caught the light on the counter. A razor. Not the disposable kind, but a sleek, heavy one her father used, left carelessly within reach.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. The metal felt alien, cold and sharp against her skin. A strange calm settled over her, chilling her from the inside out. Her mind screamed for a release, a tangible pain to eclipse the dull ache in her chest.
One line. Two. The sting brought a strange clarity, a brief, sharp rush that focused her scattered thoughts. Red beads welled, then tracked a path down her forearm, a silent testament to the storm raging within. Her jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut against the sudden wave of nausea.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the counter beside her. Chase. His name flashed bright, an unwelcome interruption. She quickly stashed the razor behind a stack of towels, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Swiping open the message, she saw his casual greeting. *‘Hey, how’s your night going?’*
Her thumbs hovered. A lie formed on her lips, a practiced ease she wore like a second skin. *‘Great! Just chilling. Yours?’*
She waited, watching the three dots appear, then disappear. He replied quickly. *‘Good. Text you later, gotta run.’*
A wave of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, washed over her. Just like that. Dismissed. She hated it. Hated the way she craved his attention even as she pushed everyone else away. She hated how easily she lied.
Shoving the phone into her pocket, Daisy splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing at her eyes until they stung. She pulled down the long sleeves of her hoodie, concealing the fresh marks, the silent screams. No one would see. No one ever did.
---
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, harsh and unforgiving. The scent of coffee and sizzling bacon filled the air, a domestic scene that felt entirely foreign to her. Her father sat at the island, engrossed in a financial report on his tablet.
Elaine stood by the stove, flipping pancakes, her back to Daisy. Her movements were graceful, unhurried. Daisy watched her, a knot tightening in her stomach. Elaine, the new wife. The replacement.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” David said, looking up with a soft smile. He didn’t notice the tension radiating from his daughter. He never did. “Elaine’s made pancakes.”
Elaine turned, a gentle smile gracing her lips. Her eyes, Daisy noticed again, were unnervingly kind. They held a warmth that felt like an invasion, seeing too much, understanding too much. Daisy hated it.
“Good morning, Daisy,” Elaine offered, her voice soft, not quite reaching the saccharine tone Daisy expected. “Help yourself. There’s maple syrup and fresh berries.”
Daisy grunted, pulling out a stool as far from her father as possible. She piled three pancakes onto her plate, dousing them in syrup, not bothering with the berries. Sugar was a balm, a temporary distraction.
Silence descended, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and the rustle of David’s papers. Daisy ate quickly, trying to make herself invisible, hoping they would forget she was there.
Elaine cleared her throat. Daisy braced herself. Here it came. The ‘how was your night’ or ‘are you okay, sweetie’ routine. She was ready with a barbed retort, a shield of indifference.
“You know,” Elaine started, her voice tentative, “I was going through some of David’s old vinyls yesterday. He has quite the collection of classic rock.”
Daisy paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. This wasn’t what she expected. Her father looked up, a fond smile on his face. “She found my Led Zeppelin bootlegs.”
“Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Doors…” Elaine continued, her gaze finding Daisy’s, a flicker of something hopeful in her kind eyes. “I know it’s a bit… old school for your generation, but good music is good music, right? I was thinking of putting some on later.”
A strange sensation prickled at Daisy’s skin. Irritation, yes, sharp and immediate. This woman, trying to find common ground. Trying to bridge the chasm Daisy had carefully constructed. It felt like a subtle assault, a quiet invasion of her carefully guarded world.
But beneath the irritation, a flicker. Something soft, almost painful. Sincerity. Elaine wasn’t trying to lecture her, or fix her. She was just… offering. A small, unexpected gesture that stung with its unexpected genuineness.
“Whatever,” Daisy mumbled, pushing a piece of pancake around her plate. She didn't want to engage, didn't want to admit that her own playlists were heavily populated with those exact bands. It was *her* thing. Not theirs. Not something to share with *her*.
“I remember seeing them live back in the day,” David chimed in, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes. “Before you were a twinkle in my eye, kiddo.” He chuckled, oblivious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s chest.
Elaine smiled, a genuine, easy smile that creased the corners of her eyes. “Those were the days. The energy, the sound… nothing quite like it.” She looked at Daisy again, a question in her gaze. “Do you… do you ever listen to any of them, Daisy?”
Daisy’s jaw tightened. The vulnerability she desperately wanted to suppress clawed at her. It felt like a trap, like if she admitted to liking the music, she’d be opening a door, letting this woman in. And Daisy didn’t let anyone in. Not really.
“Sometimes,” she said, her voice clipped, a deliberate barrier. “Whatever’s on the radio.” A blatant lie. Her phone was a curated vault of 70s rock anthems and grunge classics.
Elaine’s smile didn’t falter, though a hint of disappointment touched her eyes. She simply nodded. “Well, if you ever want to check out the collection, feel free. It’s in the den, by the old record player.”
Her father, sensing the lull, perhaps even the tension, jumped in. “Elaine’s got an amazing ear for music, Daisy. She even got me into some stuff I never thought I’d like.” He put his hand over Elaine’s, a gesture of affection that made Daisy’s stomach churn.
She looked away, focusing on the chipped pattern of her plate. Her chest felt tight, a familiar pressure building. The kindness, the attempts at connection – they were suffocating. They reminded her of what she didn’t have, what she’d lost. Her mother. Her real mother. This woman was just… a stand-in.
“I’m good,” Daisy said, her voice flat, emotionless. She pushed her plate away, the pancakes half-eaten. “Finished.”
She started to stand, eager to escape, to retreat to the sanctuary of her room and the blaring distraction of her headphones. The conversation felt like a slow, painful interrogation, each gentle query a probe into her carefully constructed indifference.
Elaine didn’t press. She simply observed, her gaze lingering on Daisy for a beat too long. Daisy hated that too. The way Elaine saw, or seemed to see, something beneath the surface she worked so hard to maintain.
As Elaine moved to clear the plates, she gestured with her hand, an unconscious movement. Daisy’s eyes snagged on her wrist. A tattoo. Not a typical one, not a butterfly or an anchor. It was a swirling, intricate symbol, almost organic, like roots or twisted branches intertwining. The lines were delicate, ancient, almost otherworldly.
A sudden, disorienting jolt shot through Daisy. Her breath caught. She’d seen it. Not in a book, not on TV, not on a random stranger. She was certain of it. She’d seen that symbol before. In a dream.