Just a little short about Maka, her childhood and her Papa. Read, have fun, it's a bit sad, a bit funny and a little bit Dance remix. Okay, so there's not really dance remix, but you can imagine.

Enjoy

My earliest recollection comes from when I was around three or four. I was waiting outside of a library, I think it was the one on Baywreath avenue, I had my library card in hand and was staring intently at the clock on a church across the street and then, after a few minutes, left and right down the road. The last part of that memory I can recall is me, crying on Mama's shoulder as I looked at the clock through blurry eyes. There were two sets of numbers engraved into my mind, even today.

2:25 pm and 5:18 pm.

The next thing I remember, if I try to think hard about my childhood, was when I was five. I'm certain I was five because it was my birthday. He had stumbled in and scared the living daylights out of my friends from school and the parents that were there with his loud, slurring voice and his incredible stench of alcohol and cheap perfume. He was a mess and he was disgusting and he was my idiot, drunken father, who had single-handedly ended my party two hours early because he was too intoxicated for anyone to want around their kids. I think that after that day was when I started to notice the whispering.

It wasn't particularly hard to know what those people were saying.

"That's Death-scythe's daughter isn't it? Poor girl, her fathers' always off drunk someplace or grabbing some woman's ass."

"It's any wonder he's still married at all."

"He's a whore, a slut. If ever there was a more sleazy man on the planet, I'd be surprised."

I didn't pay any attention. I just kept telling myself that they didn't know anything, he was a good Papa and Mama and I love him.

I was still five years old when I walked into my parents' room to get them to read me a book. Papa walked out the door yelling to my mom that he wasn't cheating and my mom screaming back that she wasn't an idiot. I saw Papa, out of the corner of my eye, pull out a cigarette and heard him slam the door. The only thing I heard after that was my Mama sobbing into her pillow, so I dropped my book and, without a word, slipped into my Mama's arms and stayed there for the rest of the night as she held me tightly.

I started to get sad when I thought of Papa when I was six. When Papa didn't come home one night and he wasn't there the next evening, I decided, as Mama had shown a very open indifference and slight under tone of bitterness, that I would bring him home. I had always been intelligent and since Mama had been reading me some Sherlock Holmes, I did the best psycho analysis a six year old could muster and deduced he was at a place called Club Abatina based off a post-it that read names of various girls and the name of the establishment. Not understanding what this club was, I put on my yellow jacket and headed out without my mothers' knowledge to bring my Papa home. Following the city directory I got from an information booth, I made my way down town into the slums of the city, ignoring the stares I got from obscure looking men and scantily clad women, and found my destination, a pink neon sign confirming my travels. Walking in, with only a bit of hesitation, I finally saw my father in his domain. Sipping fruity coloured drinks and kissing a girl with heavy make-up and almost no clothes, unable to contain my panic I shouted as loudly as I could.

"PAPA LOVES MAMA!"

Looking up from the girl to me, my Papa also panicked and attempted to run to my side, only to be dragged back down to the women. Beginning to tear up, I hiccuped.

"P-papa...l-loves...M-mama~"

I ran out of the club as fast as my legs could carry me. I don't remember when, but soon I found myself choking out the same phrase in Mama's arms in between sobs as she walked us home. The last thing I remember her saying was in a strained voice, as though she were about to break.

"I...I don't think Papa does, Maka."

It was Four months later that they were divorced and my sadness very suddenly turned into anger.

I was not a weapon and seeing my father as a womanizing drunkard made me happy that I wasn't. I didn't want to be associated with some slutty man whore who had a penchant for liquor and a taste for women, being a weapon would force people to lump me with him more than they already had. Watching my wonderful mother, who was my ultimate idol, I wanted to be a strong and beautiful meister just like her. My dad, who always seemed bent on breaking up my family and hurting Mama and I, was like a villain in my eyes. However, when I was ten, exactly one month after I began living with only my mother, who had hands down won the custody battle after a few years of joint custody, my father began to shower me and my mother with love, and by love I mean countless presents and words of undying affection. He'd cling to me, and tell me how much he loved me and my mother and after a while of this, I snapped. Out of an instinct I hadn't known I possessed, I grabbed the book I had been holding and slammed it into his skull with as much force as I could and yelled a phrase that seemed to come out of nowhere.

"MAKA CHOP!!"

As steam rose from my Papa's twitching form I shouted that he was no Papa of mine and to get his sorry ass off the floor. As I dully noted in the back of my mind that Maka Chop sounded very good, in the forefront, it was painfully obvious that I had given far too much credit to my Papa. He was not some clever and malicious villain. He was just an idiot.

The day came when I finally enrolled into the prestigious Shibusen, an academy for fledgling weapons and technicians to train and become warriors for the great and powerful Shinigami-sama. As I walked in, catching the faintest tones of a piano coming from somewhere, I had decided that while I didn't truly hate my Papa, he was an idiot and a letch and the worst husband and father imaginable, who made Mama and I suffer for years and I was gonna make him pay. I would take advantage of his mildly disturbing daughter complex and constantly voice my distaste for him. I was gonna Maka Chop him into the next century every time he did something even more repulsive than usual. Lastly, the most important part. I was gonna make a death-scythe that was even more powerful than my Papa.

And I was gonna kick his ass.

Viola. Hope you liked it.

Review if you'd like, I appreciate the comments!