"Hey, how are you-"
"Dad, I already told you, leave me alone." The words spill out of my mouth, sounding less friendly than any word I've ever sent his way before. I know he means well, standing there with his kind, dumb face smiling over an obvious grimace. Instantly, I wonder if I'll ever be so mean that he'll hate me so much that he'll never come to check on me again. It's not like I want him to hate me, but I do want him to leave me alone.
"Just wanted to make sure you were o-"
"Do I look okay?" I can't tell what emotions are riding my vocal chords. I'm sure Dad can't either. I feel a lot of things inside of me; Angry, bitter, some more anger, maybe a hint of sadness. Lonely isn't one, and it seems as though Dad is hellbent on keeping it that way.
"No." I blink at him, only one or twenty times. Dad being Dad, I wasn't expecting any honesty, let alone bluntness. His eyes aren't hard, like he's mad, but more… I don't know, honestly. It's something of a mixture of trying to be tough and trying to be over-protective. As much as I wish the conversation would end, I can tell that it's not going to.
"..." There's something I want to say to him. Only, it's hidden from me. That sounds absurd, probably because it is, but every time I try and think of what it is, it dips back down out of my awareness of it, hiding from me. The silence between us, thick enough to try and slice through it with a butter knife, hangs in the air. I stare at him, he stares at me, biting half of his bottom lip like he's considering just walking out of the room. I wish he would.
"Yang, I- Don't interupt me, please." He must have seen my mouth opening; I'd been about to tell him how many different ways, in great detail, he could shove his advice or whatever he was about to lay on me. My staring continues, though his breaks so he doesn't have to stare at me staring at him. I don't blame him, much. "I don't know a lot of things." I have to blink to hide the fact that I roll my eyes at him. "But I do know that you are not you right now."
"Hard to be me, right now... I have two arms."
"Yang, I asked you not to interrupt me. I have a point, here."
"Okay."
"It's been weeks since the Battle, okay? I told Ruby, when she woke up, not to expect much of you. You needed time to adjust, time to get used to it." I can't stop myself from squinting at him, part of me in disbelief that he would have told her anything like that. "But, that was weeks ago. Weeks. You rarely get up, rarely get out of bed for anything but to go to the bathroom and grab food…" I brace myself for what he's about to say; He's got that look on his face that tells me he expects me to get pissed. "You don't seem to want to adjust, you seem like you're waiting for your arm to grow back or something. It's not going to happen. What you're doing in here isn't adjusting to what's different, you're just... Hiding yourself from it. That won't get you anywhere."
He was right.
I am pissed.
I was thirsty for a moment, thirsty to kick his ass for saying anything like that, but then someone pours a couple thousand bottles of water down my throat. Even in my anger, I wouldn't have been able to do anything. I'm right handed, and my right hand is missing. I could throw a messy, unbalanced left at him, but it wouldn't do much. He'd probably catch it and knock me on my ass right away; I have no balance, and I can't get to the bathroom without nearly cracking my head on the wall.
"I can barely get me into the hall, Dad." My blood should be boiling as I spit the sentence at him, but instead it's nearly ice cold. I have to hang my head as he comes over, plopping himself down on his bed. For a moment, I'm a bit self-conscious. He's dressed the same as always, the same great hair as always, the same great outfit. My Dad is ready to fight anything. I'm not ready to try and swat at a fly.
"I know, sweetie." Two things about the sentence bother me. First and foremost, he's not surprised, meaning he's been watching me fail and fall and try to get up and fail and falter and only ever manage to get up because I pushed my shoulders into the wall. And secondly, I'm not nearly as angry as I should be at him, calling me sweetie. Ruby is sweetie, and honey, and cutie, and everything else. I am Yang.
Except, I'm not. I don't want to think on it, too much, don't want to dwell on who I should be and end up at who I am. But Dad's just as uncomfortable talking about this as I am, and neither of us is too pulsed to talk about anything at the moment. His hand finds my knee under the blankets, rubbing it softly. His look is full of sympathy, but I can't help but shake the feeling it's for someone else. The memory of me.
The memory who's 5 feet and 8 inches tall, with long, clean, shampooed, and although it might not be the straightest or the least tangled, pretty, blonde hair. The memory who is 5'8" but seems like she's a thousand feet tall because her back is straight, her chin is up, and her eyes are ready for any fight. The memory whose lilac eyes contrast her pale skin to look like a total badass. The memory of me; A crop top with a tan vest, midriff shown off, and the bottom half of three different outfits all rolled into one. The memory wears a pair of sweet-ass boots that Uncle Qrow gave her. The memory of me smiles. The memory of me has two arms.
I'm not her. I have dirty blonde hair, that hasn't been washed in weeks because I can't make it into the bathroom and I won't let dad help me. My skin is still pale, but it's got dirt or dust or whichever on every inch of it. I'm not 5'8", I'm smaller than Ruby at this point and my back hasn't been straight since my sister showed herself to be more a grown-up than I am. I haven't looked to my right in a long time, I don't want to. I know what's there, and it isn't my arm. My eyes won't let my mouth smile, even if sometimes I try and force it in order to feel better; I'd heard that was some kind of mental trick you could try, from one of my friends. Well, my memory's friends.
Dad still hasn't spoken. Maybe he realizes what I'm doing inside my own head, and maybe he doesn't. If I tell myself I don't care what he thinks, if I say it to myself enough times, will I ever believe me? It takes a hard swallow and some lying to myself, but yes, I decide, if I think it enough I'll eventually believe it.
I don't know how much time passes between the last sentence flying into the air and when dad inhales, sharply, but I do know that I was starting to get sick of it. "Sweetie," he says, his voice soft and careful, like Ruby, or Weiss, or Blake, who would all still probably have their arms in my situation, and do, "I'm not asking this because I want you to get mad at me, or anything like that. I'm asking because I want you to think about it."
It's going to be about the arm, of course. He wants me to think about my missing arm. It'll help her get through this, he thinks. I wish he were right. "Okay." I still say, even though I'd rather throw him through a window than listen to his next sentence. I know that before he even says it, because it's just too obvious what he's going to ask.
"Do you ever feel it?" I know what he means, I know exactly what he's asking me, but I still want to ignore it, and it's a pretty vague question. Maybe I can scare him off if I'm enough of a bastard about it.
"What, having my arm slashed off?" The sentence barely makes it out of my throat, and I almost choke on the question mark as it is. Dad saw the tactic coming, obviously, because even though he grimaces, he doesn't leave me be. He presses on.
"No, I, eh… Like a phantom limb, or something? Do you ever go to scratch your cheek and feel like you're raising your hand and scratching at it?" The sudden urge to headbutt him almost takes over, but I close my eyes, count to twenty, and just manage to only reach up and punch his arm. It didn't hurt him, not physically, but I just shrug that off.
"No, Dad… Please, leave me alone."
I should feel like I've won once he's left.
The room is quiet, like it should be when it has only one person in it. It's nice, it's calming. I can't sleep, but I am subdued. The curtains of the window at the end of my bed, back to the world of my memory are wide open. I manage to get out of bed, and slide the curtains back down on either side, bathing my room is sweet darkness. Climbing back into bed is a bit difficult, but I do manage it. The darkness feels nicer, but, still, I don't feel like sleeping.