1. The Last Flight Chapter 11


    Date: 5/19/2017, Categories: Lesbian, Author: Annamagique, Rating: 4, Source: LushStories

    she replied, her honesty taking me a little by surprise. “Only you can know that and again, only by speaking with him. Now, I shall get him, yes?” I nodded and waited impatiently for her return. As my 'father' walked slowly through the door, my fear returned and I began to tremble again. He stood just inside the doorway, not speaking but just looking and wringing his cap in his hands. I studied him for a minute as I had no idea what to say to this man. He didn't look like my father. This man had grey hair and a grey moustache. My father, when last I saw him, had jet black hair and was clean shaven. This man looked so much older than the fifty years my father would have been and yet, something inside of me stirred in recognition. Although his face was badly scarred, as though he had been in a terrible accident, I could see in his eyes that he was my dad! I didn't know how to feel. I knew he could not hurt me, not here, and yet I didn't feel threatened by this pitiful figure before me. My fears had somehow given way to something very different, a strange joy that my father, my dad , was not dead after all. I don't know why but the first words I spoke were not as I planned them. “I don't know you,” I said calmly, “Why are you here?” Once again, I saw a tear form and drip slowly from the corner of his eye. “You know me, Karen,” he replied gently, “I can see in your face that you know me. I came to beg forgiveness and to make amends with my daughter for the terrible life I gave ...
    her.” Another tear formed and fell to the floor at his feet. “Will you give me the chance?” My anger and fear had all but gone now, replaced by a feeling of pity. I looked across to Françoise who gave an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. “Yes,” I said, keeping any indication of what I was feeling inside hidden from him. “I will listen.” Françoise placed the chair beside my bed for him to sit and turned towards the door. “Are you leaving?” I said to her. “Listen to his story, Karen. I will be near.” I frowned but she was right, I would be safe. I didn't feel the threat I expected, so I said nothing as she closed the door behind her. Although not old, this grey haired man sat down with some difficulty. He seemed like Eighty rather than Fifty but as he spoke his voice was young and seemed so out of place compared to his appearance. “When I last saw you,” he began, “You said you would kill me if I touched you or your mother again. I went back to the army a broken man. Those few words had made me realise what a vile man I had become and you and your mother would be better without me.” I didn't speak but remembered vividly the day he knocked me across the dining room table. “I know any amount of explanation cannot make up for what I was and, when I have finished, if you want me to, I will go.” He quickly wiped his eyes with his fingers, which, I noticed, were as calloused and cracked as those of a labourer. “I lived every day with memories of the horrors of the trenches,” he ...
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