My father's words echo in my head.
"God knows life in the vault isn't perfect, but at least you'll be safe."
Right. Safe. My father must have found a different dictionary than normal because being shot at and hunted in the only home I've ever known is definitely not mydefinition of safe. And how the hell could he know that I'd be safe while he went off to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what? Unless he'd somehow kept in touch with me to find out, which, based on his whole maybe we'll see each other again spiel, I highly doubt he would.
The note he left with now-dead-as-a-doorknob-Jonas to supposedly give to me is as heavy in my pocket as in my conflicted heart. The speech he gave me tells me nothing, really; just the information that I already know - that he's gone, and that he most likely won't come back on his own, not willingly. I've listened to it so many times in the past half hour that I've got the stupid thing memorized, right down to the hesitation in his first words. "I…I really don't know how to tell you this."
Everything in me that's bled and screamed and trembled since this shit started wants to find him, grab him, and shake him for how stupid he's being. Everything else quails at the thought because - goddamnit - he's my father and I know he loves me, and I'm supposed to always respect and love him back. Shaking and swearing and yelling at him doesn't necessarily conform to that. Neither does taking potshots at him with my Bbgun, but at this point, there's a good chance that I don't really care.
He tells me I'm an adult and yet he doesn't trust me with his reasons for leaving, whatever the fuck they are. He doesn't trust me to understand, doesn't trust me enough to give me a chance to, and because of that, he's gone off outside alone. So now - like in those stereotypical holovids Amata and I used to watch late at night - I'm left dealing with the mess he left behind, and not even his parting words can soothe the ache.
"Goodbye. I love you."