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My calling, I'm calling at night

I hated goodbyes.

The finality of leaving, possibility of never seeing someone ever again; I hated that. My father knew this. The first and last time he'd ever uttered the word 'goodbye' to me, I'd refused to speak to him for three days. I'd been adamant that he was leaving me, never to return again and I resented him for saying the word so crassly.

'Goodbye, my little dove,' he called out that day before he got into his pickup to leave for work. When he came back, seven year old me had managed to throw most of my clothes into my brown suitcase - a sandwich bag included. After hours of screaming and crying - the babysitter at her wits' end with me - I'd managed to convince myself that my father didn't love me anymore and expected me to be gone by the time he got back home. So, heartbroken and shattered, I dragged the biggest suitcase I could find in the closet to my room and proceeded to fill it with my belongings.

Papa reached home in time to see me pulling the overflowing suitcase down the stairs.

'Anya,' he asked, puzzled, 'what are you doing?'

I'd looked up at him, tears in my eyes and started sobbing.

'You said goodbye!'

He'd gathered me into his arms and held me close. 'My dove, what are you talking about? What's wrong?'

I sobbed into his shirt. 'You told me goodbye. Just like Mama. You told me goodbye and I thought that...'

And the rest of my words were swallowed up by the hiccups that overcame me.

'Oh my sweet. Did you think that I was leaving like Mama? Did you think that...' He started to cry.

I wound my arms around his neck and sniffled. 'You don't want me to leave?'

He shook his head. 'I never ever want you to leave. And I will never ever leave you like that, my dove. Ever. I will always be here for you, understand?'

I nodded quietly. 'Promise that you'll never tell me goodbye again. Promise.'

And he had. Papa had promised me. He'd never told me goodbye, or bade me farewell ever again.

So when the day of my departure finally came around, I slipped a note into his bedside drawer and left with my bags before he had the chance to wake up. I was adamant that I'd go through this -
the hardest part of it all, I thought - with my back straight and head held high.

The tears that were streaming down my cheeks by the time I got to the airport, made a mockery of that.

The room was small, just enough to fit two single beds and built in closets. There was a study table to the side, a desk lamp and some old papers on it. Someone had tried to build a bookshelf beside this but gave up soon after starting because the shelves went only halfway what seemed to be its' proper height. The walls were a faded off-white, patches of poorly removed cellotape dotting where posters must've been stuck and two windows - curtained with baby blue lace - ushered in the setting afternoon sun. The beds were covered with standard plain blue bed spreads.

Setting my bags by the side of the door, I took in the newness of it all. This was my room. This was going to be my home for the next eleven months. Overcome by a sudden rush of excitement, I kicked the door shut behind me and rushed towards the beds. Slipping out of my boots, I jumped on the springy mattress and whooped.

My new roommate wasn't due to arrive for another three days so I had the place all to myself until then. To say that I was excited about this was an understatement. After I'd set my side up - framed photo of Papa on the bedside table, posters of some of the great Russian ballets on my side of the walls - I pulled my suitcase onto my bed and proceeded to unpack my clothes. I'd thrown in almost everything I ever owned when I packed and the result was the mess I was looking at now. Cardigans, turtlenecks and t-shirts mixed and matched with scarves, stockings, jeans and leotards. The one thing I'd folded in with care were my dancing shoes and stretch suit. Stretching a foot out, I used my big toe to open the full length closet. A few moths and cobwebs came free. When I'd hung those up, I spread out the small knit mat I'd thrown in (really, I'd been prepared for sleeping on the streets), folded my sleeping bag under the bed and piled my clothes into their respective drawers.

After the initial unpacking - which lasted thirty minutes when I checked - I showered and shrugged on the lightest clothes I had. A plain t shirt, long faded jeans and ankle boots. Pulling out the map that I'd remembered to pick from the tourist booths from my backpack, I locked the door behind me and went exploring.

My first stop was the cafeteria down the block. It was a cute little thing, with wide windows and polished wooden floors. The tables and booths were covered with frilled tablecloths and a few patrons sat hunched over their orders. A couple that I assumed to be around my age sat to the furthest booth, hands intertwined. I smiled at them, ordered myself (in very halted English) some blueberry pie and coffee and took the seat closest to the door. Old habits died hard, I guessed.

When the waitress, a pretty blonde who looked to be about eighteen came with my order, she was smiling. "You're new here, aren't you?"

I blinked at her. The language was going to take some getting used to. While informal English lessons with Papa made me much better than most in my class at the language, it was a far cry from when someone who spoke it everyday addressed me. She must have seen my confusion because she placed the blueberry pie before me and took the empty seat next to me.

"I'm Hannah," she spoke slower now, "you're new to town, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"I am."

She glanced over her shoulder then looked back at me. "I can't place your accent but it sounds really cool."

I just blinked at her. Half my mind was trying to understand the words she spoke as soon as she said them. It wasn't easy.

"Uhm... thank you. I am from Russia."

Hannah extended her hand. I looked at it, then back at her. Did she want me to shake it? Hesitantly, I reached up and grasped it.

"Well, nice to meet you. Listen, if you ever need anything, I work the five to nine shifts here. Drop by anytime, alright?"

Smiling, I nodded. Then, once I realized that she was leaving to go back to her work, I forced the words forward. I had no intention of spending my first day in America being rude to some kind girl. "My name... I mean, I am Anya." I called out at the last minute.

She just smiled. "Nice to meet you, Anya."


I can't wait to read more of this! :)
Aw let's NOT pretend that never happened lol that was kinda cute though :) I'm really excited to see where this goes, I'm loving it!
@breaking faces
@Brand New Fashion
Hey guys! Thank you so much for the comments you've been leaving me :) I'm definitely going to aspire to write better and I hope I don't disappoint.
indigo adam. indigo adam.
This is definitely a plot line that I've never seen done before. You're writing is amazing, as well. I find (especially with this site) that the writing isn't... well, all that great, I guess. But you're way with words is perfection. I hope that you update soon. I saw that you posted a link to the finished product, but I'm afraid to read it there in case something changes lol. Like I said: I really like this. So you should update soon!
breaking faces breaking faces
Whoooo is it at the door? Awe I really love this story! Great update <333