Daddy
My bones are tired, Daddy.
Wandering this hellish wasteland is torture. The Raiders come in relentless waves. I dispassionately kill them, uttering no words. All I ever see blood, guts, and gore. It sickened me in the beginning, but now it seems so . . . natural. A Raider's head rolls on the ground. I nudge it with my boot, watching the blood ooze out.
I used to kill for a purpose, but now it's just for the hell of it. I plop down on the roll-up mat and curl up into a ball. My bones are exhausted from killing all day. I can't wait for the day when this will all be over.
I don't get enough sleep.
I wake up again covered in sweat. I hardly sleep anymore since you left. Megaton's doctor diagnosed me with insomnia, even though I could have done it myself. He offered me sleeping pills, but I declined. I already have enough drugs coursing through my veins.
I sit on my bed, body pulled close, arms wrapped around my knobby knees. It's just so hard to calm down. The images of "that day" flash through my mind constantly. I don't know whether to cry of your loss or be glad that your image still clings in my memory. I just don't know.
I don't eat as good as I could, Daddy.
Cherry Bombs sit on the kitchen counter. In one sitting I eat three bowls of the delicious cereal. The stairs creek as I make my way up to the bathroom. Shaking, I lean over the toilet and let it all out. I purge at least twice a week. I know that it's bad for me, but I just can't help it. I'm not fat, but I'm not stick-thin. The weight isn't the problem…
What's that say about me?
Some of the townspeople whisper as I walk by. I'm not sure if it's because of the good I've done or because of how pale I look. They all expressed their condolences when I told them he died. But did they care? I'll never know. All I can hope for is that someone doesn't go around saying I'm on the verge of committing suicide. I know my limit, that's for sure.
Sometimes I sleep past noon, Daddy.
After all, I have nothing special to wake up for.
Dogmeat nudges me with his cold, wet nose. I check my Pipboy 3000; it's four in the afternoon. I pat Dogmeat's head. He knows that this sometimes happens. An old biscuit lies on the table by my bed. Gingerly, I hand it to him. He greedily takes it, swallowing it whole. I chuckle. At least I have him to brighten my day.
Drink lots of black coffee and I smoke like a chimney.
I tap off the cigarette ash. The past few months I've tried to kick the habit, but it just keeps coming back. I don't know what it is, maybe the tobacco, but cigarettes mellow me down. They make me think of more pleasant times.
But tobacco isn't the only thing I'm addicted to. Scotch and Buffout are easily added to list. Scotch has always been my preferred poison, but when Dad died . . . I guess it took over the emptiness. And Buffout . . . Oh gosh. From the first time I had it I was hooked. Drugs are never a good thing to get addicted to, but I just don't care.
Yes, I left the refrigerator door half open, Daddy.
The refrigerator door hangs open, rotting Brahmin meat and Mirelurk wafts. A towering pile of dirty dishes sit in the sink, food still caked on them. The living room is a mess, piles of dirty armor and pre-war outfits and bonnets cover the couch, the table covered with empty bottles of scotch. The stairs are covered with various knickknacks I found in the Capital Wasteland. The upper level is composed of piles of guns I've collected over my travels. A wore-down Nuka Cola machine sits in a cluttered corner. The only clean place is my room.
What's that say about me?
I gaze at the picture Jonas took a long time ago, back when you gave me my BB gun. Your hand placed lovingly on my small shoulder. You give the camera a fatherly smile, as if you're trying to comfort me in the now.
What would you say about all I have done? Would you beat me until I could no longer feel my legs? No, you'd never result to abuse, ever. Would you disown me? No, you love me too much.
I know what you'd do. You'd usher me into your loving embrace and pat the small of my back, telling me everything would be alright and nothing was my fault. You'd hold me in your arms for a while, and then make hot chocolate, my favorite drink as a child. You'd tell me about the crazy antics of you and Jonas. And then I'd ask you to talk about Mom. As you talk of her, tears trickle from your eyes, like they had from mine. As you did with me, I'd hug you.
When I was little you told me something I was to never forget. No matter how far apart, our love will still be strong. Even when you die and leave this world, I will never be truly alone. You will always be present with me . . . but now as my guardian angel.
The rippling water of the Potomac shines bright from the full moon. The Jefferson Memorial is lit up like the Fourth of July, whatever that is. Near the shore of the Jefferson Memorial lies a tombstone with the inscription:
James Freeman
2226 - 2277
Scientist, Doctor, Husband of Catherine Martin, Father of Amelia Freeman.
"I am Alpha and Omega. The beginning . . . and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of fountain of the water of life, freely."
"We did it, Dad," I say, laying the bouquet of lilies next to the grave. "Project Purity finally happened."
Author's Note:
Hello and thank you for reading 'Daddy'. This was inspired from the song 'Daddy' by Jewel. I had the pleasure to see her in concert four months ago and she is astounding. If you like folk/country music, I highly suggest checking out her music. I really love writing about The Lone Wanderer and her relationship with her father. It's like he was only the real man in her life. Enough with my babbling. Reviews are appreciated like always. Have a great day!