Ties and Tangles

Chapter 2 – The Puppeteer

The black roses on her grave are decomposing— fast, just like the way she died. I dab my wet face with a napkin, the tearlines hurting like feet blisters at the edge of my lids.

The church bells chime from across town, ravens complementing the dark facade of the occasion and our emotions especially. At that instant, the unavoidable epiphany strikes: eventually, we’ll find ourselves in coffins six feet deep.

No happiness, no suffering, no dread—just the unyielding grip of shadow.

"Carla Mirada." That was everything Dad had etched into her stone—an emptiness more eloquent than any inscription could ever be.

"We have court," Dad reminds me, his eyes drifting from the void where his love now lies.

It has been two lengthy months since the disaster. Each day, I see dad walking back and forth by Tenuta Carla—at times coming to terms with his sorrow, other times engulfed in denial—holding onto a faint hope that a miracle could rescue him from these relentless nightmares.

Still, nothing has changed—not a reassuring touch, not even a murmur from destiny. The truth is harsh.

“…and by the moment Abby Carla traversed Carleton’s tight alleys to the flickering light of streetlights, Mirada Carla had already met her end…” the attorney’s voice resonated in the courtroom that day.

Much was expressed at that time. It was obvious we were engaged in a futile struggle. Lacking clear evidence connecting Gabriele to Mom's murder, each lead turned into disappointment. We followed every lead—Mom’s phone, each hint—but all we found was a free espresso card featuring Gabrielo’s name. Even the criminals melted into darkness. I never mentioned his name to Dad; it felt like acknowledging it would render our search even more pointless.

Arzhael, in contrast, never hesitated to say his name. His tone carried a conviction that he would never be discovered, a self-assurance stemming from a reality in which ethics were dispensable. I still tremble at the idea of what those men might suffer—or cause—to achieve such greatness.

The death of my mother feels incredibly unfair. The cowardice of men—too indolent, too self-centered, too consumed by ambition—thinks that gaining power justifies the sacrifice of innocent lives.

In the courtroom, the phrase “not guilty” echoed throughout the room. I tightened my fists so hard that my nails pressed into my palms, with tears falling down my cheeks. Each moment of inactivity etched fresh scars, a continuous loop of hopelessness and anguish.

Ray’s soft touch on dad’s shoulder caught my eye. Dad's sunken eyes and pale complexion revealed a sorrow that was beyond expression. "Bring them home. I have somewhere to go," he stated, giving Ray the car keys with a tone full of resignation.

Ray nodded, and I looked at Dad—and then at my watch.

4:00 p.m.

He'll be seeing Mom once more.

For reasons I can't understand, I remained awake throughout the night, observing Dad from within Tenuta Carla. I wasn't able to hear every word he whispered, but the depth of his unspoken sorrow conveyed much. Extremely tired and unable to sleep, I eventually roused to the sound of my alarm and started getting ready for school.

I selected a flared skirt and Rain's jersey—a sentimental outfit that used to make me feel little and valued. Now, it merely brought to mind everything that has been lost. While looking for a matching sock, I bent down under the bed, my flashlight cutting through the collected dust. At that moment, my phone started ringing.

“Hey girl, it’s Daya,”. Her voice was unusually soft, like her demons had been quieted.

“I heard about your mom.” "I'm really sorry," she stated, a clear shift from her typical sassy demeanor. "I get it if you can't attend practice today." Are you alright? “Are you looking for someone to talk with?”

I forced out a feeble, “I’m okay. Thank you for reaching out," although the phrase seemed empty. Daya, the captain of the cheer squad—and honestly, the school's biggest diva—had caught me off guard. Each time she flicked that unmistakable ponytail, it had concealed something more profound, yet at this moment, her worry seemed authentic.

“If you ever need someone to chat with, I'm always available,” she said before ending the conversation.

I gazed at the screen in shock—never had I thought Daya Ocrimeno would be the one to provide comfort. Maybe she wasn’t completely what she appeared to be after all.

Suddenly, Dad walked into my room unexpectedly. The bulging vein on his forehead pulsed as he gripped his staff tighter, as if preparing to attack.

"Why are you all dressed up?" he inquired, his tone sharp.

"I'm... heading to school," I hesitated, my voice just above a murmur.

“I have classes today,” I reiterated, this time with a touch of resistance.

"I never want to see you at that school again." "Do I make myself clear?" His words carried a rage that penetrated more profoundly than any scolding.

Rain entered after one knock, his arrival accompanied by a soothing trace of petrichor. “Dad, relax,” he spoke gently.

"Stay out of this, young man," Dad retorted, his fury unchanged.

Rain sighed, obviously not interested in the outburst.

“And you,” Dad faced me again, his voice shaking with deep emotion, “you’re the reason my wife is gone. “It should have been you in that casket. As of today , you no longer exist to me". His words, laden with remorse and sorrow, broke apart.

“Enough!” Rain roared, cutting through the tension.

With that, dad rushed out, leaving me in a heap on the floor. His accusation echoed in my thoughts—a persistent reminder of guilt and possibilities. Had I stayed home… Had I chosen differently… perhaps, just perhaps she would still be here. A profound silence surrounded me, devoid of tears and cries—only the calm acceptance that I must endure this unbearable burden alone.