Barefoot Princess

I haven't been using this thing.

I'm pretty sure you've noticed, if you're reading this. You probably squinted at the username for a second and went "Who the heck is that?" because it's been so long. When I do use it, it's ususally to bitch, for writing, or to bitch about writing.

I'll be honest, I've never been a huge fan of keeping a journal. I always have the best of intentions, and this is by far the longest running journal I've kept, but in the end, nonfiction essays for no point aren't my thing. I have truly enjoyed talking and interacting with a lot of the people on my friends list, and if you want to keep in contact, I have a Twitter account, AIM, etc.

But I think this journal is done. There might be an update or two like the last one: using it as a helpful place to stash writing, but...I don't know. I guess I wanted to apologize for the lack of updates and pretty much confirm the swan's song. (Did I use that right? Oh, it doesn't matter.)

It's been fun.

-pip

He wasn't supposed be a father, especially not to a little girl.

He thought this over and over. When she asked him why her chest hurt when she ran and he realized belatedly she needed bras. When she talked excitedly about how strange her teacher's legs looked, encased in pantyhose. When she first noticed make up and other girls dating. When she shot up a foot and a half and got her legs, fucking legs for miles. When he was called in the middle of the day to pick her up from school, because she'd gotten her period and was too upset to be approached, and really, Mr. Worth, the SWAT team had already been to the school once this week to restrain her.

The school had taught her, but not easily; she was years behind the kids in some things, years advanced in others. They never really fit in. The teachers, the principal, the other students and the PTA had no idea how to handle either of them, the little girl with her sunshine hair and collar, him with his guns and scars. He hadn't understood grades or why they were important, he hadn't cared that she got in a fight when some little bitch pulled her hair. The girl walked again eventually and she'd been asking for it anyway. What, he was going to teach his girl to take abuse?

Wasn't like she killed the kid, which was better than what he threatened to the parents, in some stupid thing they called a 'conference to discuss a reasonable, mutually acceptable consequence.'

Kage might have done better dealing with the bitch of a principal. Tallulah surely would have. It had made his head ache, the whole thing reminded him of court, prision. When they were done, he took Lily out and bought her her first gun.

He kept time by the calendars they gave her, little planners for her to put homework in. Eight of them in a pile, then she was out and buying her own, nine, ten, eleven. Years passed in paper calendars; he never was any good with time. He sat and stared at them and heard Kage: 'Just go with the girl. I'll be right down, cupcake. Look at this guy, can't stand to be away from me for an hour?'

He didn't know why Kage talked him off the boat, why he left. He did know it had been a hell of a lot longer than an hour. Endless days, nights longer than years- he still woke up screaming and sobbing for him. He slept less and less, not that he'd ever slept much before.

In some ways, he was the perfect father. She never scared him, not the way she might have scared some. The dog didn't bother him at all, though it was a merciless, wild thing. He knew how to control the violence inside and he taught it her, showed her how to make the dog something she could handle. When she couldn't, when the dog bared its teeth and ripped at the world, he taught her how to clean up after it, how to reap what was sown and live with it. He taught her a sniper's stillness and how to wait.

Even if it seemd like forever.

And when he caught her watching the ocean, he let it lie, because he stared out after the horizon often enough, himself. She picked up his habit of sleeping fitfully despite his attempts to give her normalcy, bedtime stories and lullabies—the alphabet song and Amazing Grace, long after she was too old for such things.

He tried and tried to give her what she should have. School shopping and clothes shopping and reading books to her, each of them trying to puzzle out the harder words. He taught her to shoot and to kill, to ride a motorcycle and fix an engine, but also played with her dolls and drank the tea she served, offered honest opinions on dresses and shoes and hairstyles. They figured out how to make cupcakes, spend an entire summer baking dozens and dozens. The taste of icing bittersweet. He took her places when she started looking too much like him, when she said she'd rather stay in. He kept track of the days on his bedroom wall, little tickmarks-- more than four days spent in, hidden away, and he'd drag her out to some stupid thing, the park or the mall or wherever it was he saw other women her age.

But they weren't a part of it. They were waiting. The only two people in the world to reach the Golden Shore and want to go back.

They fought, though she minded him well enough, most of the time. The first time he'd caught her with a boy, he shot at the kid. He missed—he'd just wanted to scare the boy away, but she'd still screamed and stomped her foot at him and locked herself into her room. Worse, when she did open the door to find him sitting in the hall, waiting her out, she'd said his name in that way of hers, oh Even.

It still happened a few times more, (he never shot at another one, but he never needed his guns to be a threat, less so after all the time spent without them,) until the boys didn't talk to her and her patience with him snapped. She was a girl and she wanted to be a girl; this bit of normalcy something even he hadn't been able to mess up or stop. Why can't you just leave them alone!? I can take care of myself!

And she could. But that wasn't it, not the entire thing. He tried to explain.

Girl. Any guy you can get easy ain't gonna to be one you want. He might not have had a hand in her creation, but she was his girl. The ones they wanted were on the boat; he was made his peace with her pick slowly, watching her pine for the mechanic. Maybe it was why Kage—

He slammed down on that train of thought any time it showed up, wrested himself back to her. Guy you want, he's gonna want you bad enough that an old gun like me isn't gonna scare him off. He'll kill me to get you and you bring me a guy like that, I'll give you my goddamn blessing. But they ain't him, so stop wastin' your goddamn time.

He wasn't sure how much she understood, but over the years, it came clearer. He never mentioned the mechanic by name (and she didn't talk about Kage;) but for all the abuse he'd thrown at the mechanic, B had always come back to Lily, right up until they were left on the shore. She'd known this was the love she needed long before she knew she needed love.

They were not the same breed as the people here; they were a breed apart, dangerous and drifting, waiting. Watching.

Snipers with their mark, waiting for their shot.

This journal is Friends Only. Please comment to be added.

-pip