Her father was not one to complain about the ailments in his legs unless the pain became unbearable. So when Maurice gave a loud cry while lifting a box full of books, Belle abandoned her place in front of the television and ran to meet his side.
"Papa?" she whispered, guiding him to the floor as he began leaned back against the wall and looked at her with a doomed expression.
"What is it Papa?" Belle begged, the uncertainty clenching like a fist in her chest.
"I'm getting old, Belle." the old man sighed, turning his face away to stare at the objects in the room. His eyes caught sight of his beloved chair, which sat in front of the tv. The chair had never failed him yet. Maurice gestured to it. "I want to sit down," he told her. "Help me stand."
Belle gripped her father's arm tightly and lead him across the room. The television blinked colorfully and laughed at them; images of a fat red cat and a skinny chihuahua dashed across the screen. The old man closed his eyes, as if to block off the technology that had seemed to eat into their humble lives on the farm. "How are the chickens?" Maurice asked.
"I... I haven't checked on them yet." admitted Belle, her tone suggesting guilt. "Be a good girl and feed them, will you?" He patted the girl's arm with dying affection. His daughter. He pitied her. He mourned for the little girl who used to chase after fireflies in the fields underneath the stars, longed for the child who would bring him flowers as if he were a king. Now all she seemed to do was absorb herself cartoons and video games; while the books gathered dust on the shelves, the Nintendo 64 sat in mint condition, frequently used.
Belle turned and left the room without a word. She felt robbed. She wanted to sit with her Papa, not do chores. It wasn't fair. The young woman left the house, taking mind to slam the door.
Outside, the farm buzzed and hummed and moaned for attention. A fly landed on her arm and began to suckle at her flesh. Belle gave the insect a hard slap, missing by miliseconds. Grumbling, she rubbed the welp on her arm and walked down the gravel path to the hen house.
"Papa?" she whispered, guiding him to the floor as he began leaned back against the wall and looked at her with a doomed expression.
"What is it Papa?" Belle begged, the uncertainty clenching like a fist in her chest.
"I'm getting old, Belle." the old man sighed, turning his face away to stare at the objects in the room. His eyes caught sight of his beloved chair, which sat in front of the tv. The chair had never failed him yet. Maurice gestured to it. "I want to sit down," he told her. "Help me stand."
Belle gripped her father's arm tightly and lead him across the room. The television blinked colorfully and laughed at them; images of a fat red cat and a skinny chihuahua dashed across the screen. The old man closed his eyes, as if to block off the technology that had seemed to eat into their humble lives on the farm. "How are the chickens?" Maurice asked.
"I... I haven't checked on them yet." admitted Belle, her tone suggesting guilt. "Be a good girl and feed them, will you?" He patted the girl's arm with dying affection. His daughter. He pitied her. He mourned for the little girl who used to chase after fireflies in the fields underneath the stars, longed for the child who would bring him flowers as if he were a king. Now all she seemed to do was absorb herself cartoons and video games; while the books gathered dust on the shelves, the Nintendo 64 sat in mint condition, frequently used.
Belle turned and left the room without a word. She felt robbed. She wanted to sit with her Papa, not do chores. It wasn't fair. The young woman left the house, taking mind to slam the door.
Outside, the farm buzzed and hummed and moaned for attention. A fly landed on her arm and began to suckle at her flesh. Belle gave the insect a hard slap, missing by miliseconds. Grumbling, she rubbed the welp on her arm and walked down the gravel path to the hen house.