Thirteen Years in the Making
Thirteen is a rather popular number, from what I've read. Some people regard it as unlucky, some people take it as their lucky number. Some use it to mark the transition from child to adulthood.
I'm not sure if any of that really applies to us though.
When I was born, I was not surrounded by smiling, cooing faces and wrapped in the arms of the woman who birthed me. I opened my eyes to an unsmiling man standing on the other side of the room, his demeanor cold and calculating. No matter how much I cried, he would not come to comfort me. He simply stared out of the window, lost to his own thoughts whilst I struggled to form mine.
By the first anniversary of my birth, I was already winning awards for my beauty. Numerous competitions declared me as the undefeated champion and I found happiness there. For a girl who wasn't showered with such praise at home (or hardly any words at all), the attention felt good. Their admiring gazes and stunned expressions made me just a little bit giddy inside.
However, whenever I looked at that man, all the giddiness fades and sorrow takes its place. Anger lurks beneath the surface too, along with a hint of bitterness. Does he love me, or does he not love me? For a man supposedly famous for his expression in the arts, he was a rather difficult individual to gauge.
Over the next few years, the number of my siblings increase exponentially. Not everyone shares my sentiment though and some don't really care. They win awards for him, make him famous, then are left to their own devices. It matters not to them whether or not he adores them as much as their crowds do.
For a girl as self-conscious and insecure as I am though, that methodology just doesn't sit well with me. I want to know if my father loves me, or why he hates me.
So when I was seven, I asked him directly. My voice ran clear in the air. His spine straightened from his slouched posture and he slowly turned to face me. Our gazes locked onto each other. The wine glass slipped from his fingers. He himself turned ghostly white. As much as I loved the adoration from my admirers, the fear in his eyes strangely thrilled me. The man hurriedly escaped from the room as if the hounds of hell themselves were chasing him.
He was not my father, I realise that now. I was nothing more than a prized stallion to him, and I suppose he was my master. Just like his wine glass that day, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Unlike glass however, I recovered swiftly. My heart hardened into stone.
The decades pass by in a blur. Many more of my siblings were born, yet some were lost in their conception stages. Some were lost to thieves and accidents and even time itself, decaying due to their lack of immunity to the harsh environment. Thirteen years ago to this day, that man passed on too, leaving behind an unprecedented legacy. We were all astounded, myself most of all.
For a man who was undoubtedly self-centered, we would never believe that he would have left us a beautiful home like this. Everyone has their own place and space. Everyone is satisfied with how things turned about, from being crammed together in cramp studios to being on display, ready to be admired.
The youngest, however, keeps on complaining. She wants to see her father, she wants to see the world, she wants to keep on playing when it's time to rest. As one of the oldest, I take it as my duty to keep her entertained. She reminds me a lot of myself during my early days.
Does thirteen mark the transition between childhood and adulthood? Not for this one it doesn't. Perhaps the number does have some credibility as an omen however, for the first visitors in thirteen long years have just set foot into our domain.
AN: I think I've hit a block and school's not helping lmao. Hope you're all doing well x