04-09-2015, 03:47 PM
Had the sun burnt red?
Instead of black, I see red. I see anger, and frustration, and angst. I feel his voice pound into me like a hammer hits a nail. I am his iron pain, his nail to unleash anger, and he will. I don’t flinch, hell I don’t even blink. He starts off soft—maybe even hurt. He starts off like he cares; like the father who was there a few months ago is here again.
I can almost feel him soften.
And then I watch as his cool demeanor turns to a stone hard pillar of aggression. His tone hits me like a blast of ice and cools me in places I never thought could get colder. My stomach feels empty and full of regret and frustration. You were never supposed to happen, I can hear him think, you are the mistake I never asked for.
He is right. I am no prize. I am bambi—young and naïve and innocent. I have nothing to amount to, I have nothing going for me. My mother is a flake, my father a monster. I am no political present for him to raise, I am no warrior in the making.
I am not a man.
I am a female—a girl he never asked for at that. This child that was just dropped off at the doorstep of his home and practically tossed at. He caught me like a child catches a ball or set of keys—don’t let it hit the floor, but don’t hold on either. He caught me, wrapped his claws around my heart because at least I had him—at least I had a dad. Then he had set me aside like a set of keys, I have caught you now, but I don’t want to hold you and keep you and use you. I did my job. You didn’t hit the floor. Thank me for not letting you hit the floor.
My nostrils flare.
He uses his position in the army as an excuse. I lick my lips in show of anxiousness and frustration—why doesn’t he see it how I do? He had done me no favour. I would have been better off soaking in a current of mud and rain water than raised how I was.
Doesn’t he see that caring for his kingdom is no different than caring for his child? He uses the excuse of being an unfit father, but I never saw him try to make best of me. I was a burden, a curse—a constant reminder of all the fuck up’s he had ever made. And how dare he be so entitled as to label his position in the army the source of our drowned relationship.
“Well. Thank God you had a child then, dad” I squeak out through choked words and a stuttered tongue. My heart feels heavy and I just want to lay down—I just want to escape whatever this is. I don’t deal with emotions, I don’t balance with common sense. I just feel, I just act. “We are in agreement, then...”
I don’t know what I am saying or why—it is all tumbling out from my mouth like a broken record skipping tracks with no ambition to stop. Let me help you dad. Let me erase your little blip in life. Let me rewrite this story for you. A man meets a woman. A woman does not conceive with said man. A man does not have a child. A man is happy.
“..I am dead to you.”
Instead of black, I see red. I see anger, and frustration, and angst. I feel his voice pound into me like a hammer hits a nail. I am his iron pain, his nail to unleash anger, and he will. I don’t flinch, hell I don’t even blink. He starts off soft—maybe even hurt. He starts off like he cares; like the father who was there a few months ago is here again.
I can almost feel him soften.
And then I watch as his cool demeanor turns to a stone hard pillar of aggression. His tone hits me like a blast of ice and cools me in places I never thought could get colder. My stomach feels empty and full of regret and frustration. You were never supposed to happen, I can hear him think, you are the mistake I never asked for.
He is right. I am no prize. I am bambi—young and naïve and innocent. I have nothing to amount to, I have nothing going for me. My mother is a flake, my father a monster. I am no political present for him to raise, I am no warrior in the making.
I am not a man.
I am a female—a girl he never asked for at that. This child that was just dropped off at the doorstep of his home and practically tossed at. He caught me like a child catches a ball or set of keys—don’t let it hit the floor, but don’t hold on either. He caught me, wrapped his claws around my heart because at least I had him—at least I had a dad. Then he had set me aside like a set of keys, I have caught you now, but I don’t want to hold you and keep you and use you. I did my job. You didn’t hit the floor. Thank me for not letting you hit the floor.
My nostrils flare.
He uses his position in the army as an excuse. I lick my lips in show of anxiousness and frustration—why doesn’t he see it how I do? He had done me no favour. I would have been better off soaking in a current of mud and rain water than raised how I was.
Doesn’t he see that caring for his kingdom is no different than caring for his child? He uses the excuse of being an unfit father, but I never saw him try to make best of me. I was a burden, a curse—a constant reminder of all the fuck up’s he had ever made. And how dare he be so entitled as to label his position in the army the source of our drowned relationship.
“Well. Thank God you had a child then, dad” I squeak out through choked words and a stuttered tongue. My heart feels heavy and I just want to lay down—I just want to escape whatever this is. I don’t deal with emotions, I don’t balance with common sense. I just feel, I just act. “We are in agreement, then...”
I don’t know what I am saying or why—it is all tumbling out from my mouth like a broken record skipping tracks with no ambition to stop. Let me help you dad. Let me erase your little blip in life. Let me rewrite this story for you. A man meets a woman. A woman does not conceive with said man. A man does not have a child. A man is happy.
“..I am dead to you.”