Daddy
sequel to Little Sister
My bones are tired, Daddy. I don't get enough sleep. I don't eat as good as I could, Daddy. What's that say about me?
At the funeral I see my father again. We haven't had a conversation on the phone in years, and we haven't seen each other face to face in thrice as long. I've been generally content with that. My father was never a very . . . inspiring father figure.
He always made me feel like shit, really. I suppose it's not his fault, when at the same time I know it is. He expected some kind of perfect daughter, but I was never good at sports, and I was only a slightly better than average student. I was not a gorgeous girl, and I never had much luck with the male population. All in all, I was a complete letdown.
Hanabi was his favorite daughter. She was good at basketball; she was pretty, although she lacked a bit in the brains department, her excellence in everything else made up for it. I had to call him and tell him about the funeral. It was a dry conversation, where he asked me tightly how it happened. I don't think he knew very much about his precious daughter's life.
I decided not to shield him at all. I told him how she came asking me for cash to buy some more drugs, and how because of her I got into a car crash. I told him how she trashed my apartment while I was in the hospital, then left before I got home. I'm not sure he believed me. The thought going through his head was probably this: Hinata was always jealous of Hanabi, and she's taking advantage of her death to slander her reputation with lies. Yes. I am so jealous of a junkie with just about nothing to her name.
I told him how she OD'd and apparently someone raped her a little bit before. Then I hung up on him before he could calmly inform me that I'm lying. Fine, if he didn't want to believe me, it was no dirt off my back.
"Hello, Hinata," my father greets me, monotonous as ever. I nod at Temari that's it okay, that I can deal with my father now. I'm not a little prepubescent girl anymore. I'm not striving for his respect anymore. He can't touch me anymore.
"Hello, Daddy," I reply sweetly, looking up at his strong, serious face.
We can't find anything else to say.
You know sometimes I sleep past noon. I drink lots of black coffee, and I smoke like a chimney, yes. I left the refrigerator door half open, Daddy. What's that say about me?
Life was hard with my father. As a twelve-year old, I saw other girls graduating into junior high with bouquets in their small hands, their fathers smiling widely from the audience as we crowded the stage. I saw girls with little bows in their hair, pretty dresses on their developing bodies, and expensive shoes on their petite feet. I didn't look down at myself because I knew that if I did I would start crying.
I was wearing an old dress of my mother's that I had found in the attic. I had thought it lovely then, gazing at it in awe in the half darkness of the attic, with the musty scent of age in my nostrils, but it paled in comparison with the dresses of the other girls. It looked so obviously second hand and old fashioned. I had no bows, no flowers, and my usual sneakers on my feet. True, not all the girls were dressed up and a few had sneakers on their feet like me, but it still hurt.
I couldn't look at my father because then I would see him frowning in my direction, asking himself why I wasn't as cute as the other girls, why I didn't outshine them all.
As a fifteen-year old, I stood next to the others, my shoulders slumped and my eyes avoiding the audience. The only uplifting thought that came to mind was that this was my last day in this dreadful place. Junior high.
I looked out the window, wishing I was out there instead of in here because then I wouldn't have Mayumi behind me poking my back and telling me to stand up straight. I want to turn around and glare at her savagely, but I don't have the nerve. I try to straighten my back instead, but after all this time bending my head forward, my spine aches. I want to sit down.
"Y'know, my dad said he'll take me to New York for vacation! 'Cuz I'm gradating junior high, 'n all." I bet the girl is fawning at the all the oohs and ahhs she's getting. I just sit there and simmer. My father barely realized I was graduating junior high. He hadn't even come. I find myself grateful for small miracles. Now I won't feel his eyes on me the whole time, the silent regret he feels for me weighing me down.
In high school I decide to take a completely different take on things.
Fuck you, Daddy.
Yeah, that's about it.
You know, sometimes I wanna rip out your throat, Daddy, for all those things you said that were mean. I'm gonna make you just as vulnerable as I was, Daddy. What's that say about me?
"Why didn't you tell me that she was a junkie? You told me that she used to come to you all the time for cash." I bet he's wondering why she never came to him. God, what a fucking ridiculous thing to think at a time like this. She wanted to keep the one thing she could never lose, I suppose. Daddy's love.
"I don't know. I never felt like it, I suppose." I can tell by the way he tightens his jaw that he doesn't find my answer acceptable, but he won't do anything about it in the middle of a cemetery.
"You never thought that I, Hanabi's father—" Mine, too, actually. I doubt he remembers. "—should know that she was killing herself?"
"It wasn't my secret to tell, Daddy. It was Hanabi's bullshit. Anyway, I don't think you would have believed me, in any case." Which I think is completely true. He would have called me a lying bitch. Of course I would have told him on the phone to avoid any type of injuries.
I don't know if I've made it clear, but my father used to hit me. He never got drunk, but whenever he got angry enough he would just lash out. Never in front of Hanabi, or anyone else. It was our deep, dark secret. I never told Hanabi. In fact, I've never told anyone.
I say he used to because I split home as soon as I could. Hanabi assumed it was because Daddy played favorites. God, don't I wish that were all he had done. I could have stood it. I mean, there are plenty of people with neglectful parents. I'm not saying its right but it's nothing rare; it's nothing I couldn't get over. But my father had no right in laying a hand on me.
No child deserves to be hit over the head with a plate, and then find out that her Daddy told the nurse she hit her head on the stairs. What was I going to say? No, I didn't my father threw a plate at me? They wouldn't have believed me. My father would have denied it.
Don't pity me, that's not why I'm mentioning this. What happened happened. I'm not going to hit my own children, I don't have violent tendencies, etc., etc. I got past it. I'm pretty normal, all in all. Your pity isn't going to change what happened.
We stare at each other in silence. Finally, Temari calls me over, telling me she has to be at work soon, and that if I want a ride home, it's now or never. I nod in her direction, and turn away from my father.
"No. We have more to speak about, Hinata." God, my Daddy still acts like he can control me. How cute.
"Not thanks, Daddy. There's nothing more to say. Really."
You know, sometimes, I wanna bash in your teeth, Daddy. I'm gonna use your tongue as a stamp. I'm gonna rip your heart out, the way that you did mine, Daddy. Go ahead and psychoanalyze it.
"Man, from what you've told me about your father I always imagined him . . .well, taller." Temari takes a long, deep gulp of her sake, and then puts it own lightly on the table. I'm tapping the table rhythmically with my finger. Temari can joke about it, but I can't. I just can't get him out of my head.
Is he really going to force me to talk with him some more? If he does, I absolutely refuse to be cringe or be scared of him. He can't touch me.
"He still manages to be the biggest prick possible, though," I respond, as airily as I can manage. I think Temari finally realizes how much I need to get the guy out of my head, so she cleverly changes the subject . . . to herself.
"Y'know, Shikamaru broke up with me yesterday." I glance up sharply in surprise. Wow, I never would have guessed. They seemed utterly perfect for each other. They were both smart, strong, and amazingly moody. Maybe it was that last thing that broke them up.
"What happened?" I ask, like the good friend I am.
She takes a smaller sip of her drink before continuing, "Well, he told me that it would probably be best if we didn't see each other anymore. Shika doesn't joke around with things like that, so I knew he was serious." She shrugs her shoulders lightly, as if she could care less. I know her better than that. She really liked that 'lazy bastard.' Enough to not sleep around, at least. I bet she's more than a little sad.
"Maybe he left me for you, eh?" She says this half-jokingly, but I'm not so sure. She's mentioned it a few times how Shika seemed to have grown to respect me a lot from the few times we had met. Temari was more than a little jealous, but she never voiced it.
I suppose it doesn't matter now. After all, Temari'll get a new a boyfriend soon enough, and forget all about Nara Shikamaru. Either that, or she'll get so wasted she won't be able to remember him.
"About your sister . . . I feel bad about saying this—but only because she's your little sister, mind—but I'm not one to keep my mouth shut. In more ways that one, but I refuse to let this conversation slide into my sexual activities." She tends to slide those kinds of things into our conversation, but I never see it in a condescending way. I mean, some people might, but I know she's not trying to constantly show off how sexually dynamic she is. "Well, anyway, I feel like your sister got what she rightfully deserved, and I bet if you told someone what happened to you and etcetera, etcetera, they would feel the same way. Y'know, karma and shit."
I look down at my near-full glass. "You want my drink, too, Temari?" She nods vigorously and reaches over to pull it to her side of the table.
"Don't feel bad 'cause you turned her away. The way she was, it would have happened to her soon or later. Any decent person would have sent her on her merry way, long ago."
"Any decent person would have tried to stop her, Temari, instead of giving her more money for drugs. God," I moan as I clutch my head in my hands. I feel like dying. I didn't really have time to think about it, since I was busy contacting people and planning the funeral and paying for the funeral costs, but now . . . she's dead.
I could have saved her, I just know it. But I didn't. I didn't even try.
"Hina, it wasn't your fault. You didn't put the needle in her arm; she did that all by 'erself. She shoulda seen all the nice stuff you did for her, all the sacrifices you made fer her, and changed 'er goddamn life. Instead, she nearly kills you, and then kills 'erself." When I look up, I see her staring at me intently through my haze of tears.
"But . . ."
"Fuck it, Hina! Don't let her make you out to be the bad guy! She failed herself. Junkies like 'er have no one to blame but themselves. Not their parents, not their siblings, not aliens, not any goddamn devil. I know plenty of people—me, for one; you for another—who had crappy lives, but they're alright. We're alright. Fuck 'em, Hinata. Fuck 'em." She takes a huge gulp of her drink, and slams it down heavily, the slides overflowing with beer. "Fuck 'em."
I wonder how my father really feels about this. Does he think that his oldest daughter killed his favorite daughter? Is that what believes? Or does he blame himself, like me, for not having seen it in his priced spawn? For not having been there for her when she needed him most?
He probably blames me. That's easier for him. Easier on him. I should have told him; I should have stopped her; I shouldn't have been born to begin with; I'm a waste of life. My life for hers. Is that how he sees it?
These thoughts are only getting me down. Blaming myself—or him, because I think, deep down, I blame him just because I don't want to carry all that guilt on my own—won't bring her back.
"Temari, I need to get my mind off of this . . . " I'm about to suggest a night on the town, but one glance at Temari says that her night is over. She's sprawled out on the table, a thin line of drool spilling from her parted lips. I stand and shake her a little to wake her up.
"Yaaaa huh?"
"Do you need a ride home, Temari?"
"Naaah, S'aiight. Kyo'll gimme a ride, or somethin'." Then she's gone again, her head falling with a small thunk back on the table top. I shrug, wish her a good night that she doesn't hear, and I'm off.
'Cause I'm your creation, I'm your love, Daddy. Grew up to be all those sick things you said that I would do. Well, last night I saw you sneak out your window with your white hood, Daddy. What's that say about you?
I'm sitting on my couch, staring blankly on at the black screen of my television set. This program sure is enlightening, I think to myself. The blankness of the screen is a careful satire to life as of a guilt-ridden woman. Black symbolizes the emptiness that life entails.
My bath didn't make me feel better.
"Arrrghhh!" I cry out, throwing my slipper at the television screen. "Why can't you be yellow, damn it! YELLOW IS A HAPPY COLOR, ASSHOLE!" I sigh heavily, feeling suddenly ridiculous. I'm yelling at my television set because it's not cheering me up. Hanabi was the junkie, but I'm the crazy one, it seems.
There's a soft knock on the door, and I groan. Stupid neighbors. Can't even leave me alone when I'm in mourning? I wasn't even that loud. I stumble over to the door, and I pull it open, about to place an apologetic look on my face.
"Hello, Hinata."
Fuck. I guess he was serious when he said there's more we need to talk about.
"Hi," I respond blankly, staring up at him in what I hope looks like disinterest. "What do you want?" I don't ask him how he knows where I live; he's got his ways of finding out the information he needs. It probably wasn't hard. After all, I'm not hiding from the cops or anything. I've been here for years.
"So impolite. You're not even going to invite me inside?" Ah, slight sarcasm. You see, this is where I get it from.
"So you can insult my lifestyle and tastes? No, thank you, Daddy." I keep myself in front of him so he can't step inside without pushing me aside first. I'm not sure he won't, either, but I take a chance.
"It's a long, tiresome trip from Konoha. You are not even going to honor me with a drink and some small talk?" His voice is still smooth and convincing, as usual. I consider telling him that if he wants a drink and some chit chat, he can go to a strip club, or something, and get his kicks there. I'm afraid that might send him over the edge, so I draw back from the doorway.
"Fine. But only for one drink. Get out what you want to say before then, Daddy." I walk off into the kitchen to get him the dirtiest cup I have, and if I can get away with it, spit in his drink. I get back at him in subtle ways that he never finds out about. It's my personal little battle against my father, on which I am always on the losing side.
When I return, he's seated himself on my couch, and seems to be gazing at my television screen. What. The. Hell? That's my spot, asshole! But I silently pass him his drink—which I didn't spit it; it would be too obvious—and sit down a good distance away from him on the couch.
"Hinata," he begins slowly, taking a sip of his Coke, "I . . . I want to know . . . more about Hanabi."
What more does he need to know? Would he be interested to know how she stunk after getting high and drunk and laid all in one night?
"And you. I heard that you . . . got into an . . . accident, not too long ago. How . . . how are you?" His voice sounds strained. He's just naturally a loving and caring parent at heart, it seems. Well, he's trying, which is more than he's ever done before.
"I'm fine. And while you still want to know a little more about little Hanabi, it's her fault I got into the accident to begin with." I can just vaguely make out the surprise in his expression. Oh, I guess his precious little sources didn't tell him that bit, did they? "Yeah. She decided to take back her request for me to drive her home . . . as I was driving." I suppose I say this a bit smugly, because, after all, what am I if not human?
He doesn't move for a few seconds, then his hand moves to the inside of this jacket. "How much were the hospital bills and how much time were you away from your work?" What? He's wants to . . . pay me? Well, I suppose this money could help a bit—a good bit, especially if I round up—and heaven knows he owes me, but this isn't how I want my money. I want him to give me cash because he wants to legitimately help me, not because he thinks he owes me it—or that Hanabi owes me it.
"Don't. God, don't embarrass me with pity money." I stand up again, probably so he has less of a chance to shove his check at me.
"It's not pity money," he responds tightly, the hand that was reaching for the checkbook temporarily stilled. "Hanabi should have pitched in, but I suppose she died before she could—"
"She was never going to pay me a dime." I want to mention how much cash I've given her—because I never was fool enough to think she would ever pay me back—over the years, but I decide not to bring it up. It's not really important now, is it?
"Well, I can, and I will." He's being stubborn. Damn him. I can be stubborn, too.
"I'll just rip it up. I don't need it, and I don't want it. I've lived independently for a while now, and I'm not going to start relying on anyone else now." We glare at each other for a bit, and he takes out his checkbook carefully. Now he's doing it just to spite me, I know it.
"You'll take it." My god, he's so cocky and arrogant. Not everyone is scrambling over themselves to have his money.
"How much you wanna bet I won't?"
It goes on like that for a while. I can see the angry glint to his eyes when he tries to hand me the piece of paper for the fiftieth time, but I'm too obstinate to care by this time. So maybe that's why I didn't expect it. I've been too long without him and his temper, I guess.
"Take the fucking money, you bitch!" This tips me off, and back away toward the kitchen. Even then, I didn't want to accept the money. Knife, Hinata. Knives will work.
"No! If you're gonna be like this, I want you to get the hell out!" I think he calms down a bit with that, and seems to realize he made a mistake.
"Forgive me . . . I . . . this isn't pity money, Hinata. I'm your father; I'm allowed to help you." I'm still not sure his anger has completely slipped from him, so I keep the kitchen in sight. He isn't done, though.
"So now you wanna play the role of daddy? A little late, Hiashi. I stopped playing house around elementary school." A flick of fury can be seen on his face, but its gone as quickly as it came. He almost looks apologetic. And my father never looks apologetic.
"I . . . I can not say that was the best of parents—" Understatement of the fucking year. "—and . . . I know that I can't expect forgiveness, but . . ." Bullshit. He so obviously expects forgiveness. I bet he thinks he can buy it with his money. He can't erase the hurt he caused with some paper, and a hug.
You can't possibly know how many times I've imagined just this scene. Over and over in my head, and then I would beret myself for even dreaming about it. I would repeat my mantra of I'll never forgive him, even if he falls onto his knees and begs like a dog. What did I do to earn his contempt? Huh? How could he blame me for being myself?
He only comes crawling back when he realizes I'm his favorite daughter by default, because his other one has died.
That's disgusting and horrible and I hate him for it. I hate him for everything. I hate him for making me into the sarcastic, odd, broken woman I am, and I hate him for making Hanabi into a dead junkie, even when I know we each lived our lives by our decisions. I'm a cynical bitch because that's the choice I made; that's how I decided to look at my life. Hanabi is dead because she made that choice.
I suppose, Temari is right in that way. She put the needle to her own vein, didn't she?
But then again, I didn't exactly try to slap it away, right?
" Perhaps if I had called more, seen the two of you more, I could have stopped this. Hanabi is dead, and I feel now as if I never knew her. I can't help but see myself as the murderer of my own child . . ." Ah, so maybe we're not so different, after all. Still, this sounds rehearsed, and he can't look me in the eyes.
Then he surprises me, and my face softens despite itself. "And you . . . you've grown into a woman by yourself, and I don't know you." He looks up at me for the first time throughout his whole little speech, and his eyes are fiery with intensity. "I don't want you to die hating me."
Even now, asking for forgiveness, it's all about him.
I step over to him carefully, and I sit next to him on the couch once more.
"Daddy?" I say this, and for the first time a long time, I mean it.
I'm sloppy, what's that say about you? I'm messy, what's that say about you? My bones are tired, Daddy.
Even so, he still took the first step, didn't he?
Thank you, those who reviewed Little Sister. By the way, Hinata didn't stay back. I researched it a bit, and Japanese children go to elementary school for six years (ages 6-12), and then junior high (12-15), then high school (15-18).
AH! NEWS NEWS! This got me into a GIRL POWER mood, so I'm going to be doing a whole bunch of these songfic things with kunoichi (Sakura, Ino, Temari, TenTen, and Hanabi). I'm gonna use some Tori Amos songs, and they are HARD as hell to interpret, so if it's a little 'whaaaa?' just ignore the lyrics xP I'm also going to do another damn Hinata one. Why? Because I feel like it. CRACK PAIRING!