(rewritten: 13-02-17)
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Sometimes she wonders about the life outside the city—would it have been beautiful as the dusty books once said, filled with pretty flowers and fresh clean air and friendly smiles? Or would it be the same dark skies and putrid smell of smoke and hostile faces? She wonders about vast fields and farmers with kind and gentle faces, and would their hands be different from Father's?
Father has the softest hands, but, then again, what is the use of softness when it's the coldest too?
A laugh bubbles at the back of her throat, but it comes out as ragged chokes, and her sides hurt at each deep breath she takes. She hisses, but smiles. It's a tight-lipped line that reaches her ears, and maybe it's not what is supposed to be done by children like her, but she doesn't really care right now.
Father is far away, and his threats of get the fuck here right now or I swear— is nothing but a wisp in the wind behind her. The pangs of hunger remind her of all the days he would feed her nothing but scraps, and she thinks that his threats are becoming useless; after all, she doesn't think she can stomach any more than a bite nowadays.
… but, she loves him.
It's funny, actually. She loves Father, but that doesn't mean he will look for a runaway brat he never chose to consider as his child.
She breaks down at the thought, her tears welling up in her eyes, and they taste like dirt and grime. Oh. That must be from when she stumbled earlier, her shaking legs giving out under her and her trembling fingers managing to reach nothing but air.
Father would have been enraged if he ever saw her as messy as those girls on the streets, she thinks idly as she lifts herself up with a grunt, her knee digging into the ground painfully. He doesn't like it when people assume, and he doesn't like it when she's near and filthy because people tend to assume.
He'll love it, then, when he finds out she's gone in the morning, and he'd love it even more when he finds that she's never going back.
Father will thank her, and the light at the end of the cave is close.
Will "there" be better? Or, will it be the same? The latter sounds so disappointing, but she hopes its better. Please, be better.
And—oh.
She finds herself falling, and the air is so, very cold, and she's crying and crying because is this really what Life has for her? Just a small piece of hope after years of having none, only to be taken by a simple root?
It's funny, and she almost wants to laugh at how pathetic her few years on earth are. And, she almost wants to scream at the absence of her voice, and—oh.
Who cares anyway? She gives up.
She fell, with not an ounce of Determination left in her soul.
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a/n: an overdue re-write but im actually quite proud of it. will try to upload chapters (new and replacements) every other week. and im really sorry for not being active this last ... how many months, hehehe. but still thank you for the support guys!
feedback and constructive criticism is very much appreciated