PROLOGUE
"Am I pretty, Daddy?" she twirled, in her new blue gown. Smiling.
I had to return the smile as I looked at my daughter. God, she looked so much like her mother. Brown puppy eyes. The exaggerated forehead, and the brown hair which curled near the scalp. Seven years old, and I'm seeing Jaclyn in her already.
"Beautiful," I said, scooping her, blue dress and all, onto my lap. It was just me and her now - an awkward, middle-aged ex-knight, skin littered with battlescars, and a beautiful, naive seven year old, deprived of a mother. She smelled of mastela fruit, I kissed her hair. I hugged her tight, like I thought I'd lose her if I don't.
"I love you, dad," she said.
Curtains can only hold so much light before they overflow and spill brightness into the room. I wake up, morning evident on my breath. I stretch. Empty pillow on my right. She's gone, I know. Jaclyn's gone and forever dead. Get used to a half-filled mattress, making breakfast for you and the kid.
I enter our kitchen. Small, but then again, it's just an old man and a youngster living here. Prontera thought we didn't need more, and, frankly, we didn't. The city's treasury provided for everything now, me being an ex-knight and all, badge of courage, 36 years of service certificate, veteran status. There was a bouquet on the table, flowers from the Fountain in the middle of the city picked by Miki yesterday, probably under the "Don't Pick the Flowers" sign.
I grab apples, cheese. Cut them in quarters with the only knife in the house. The cheese yellow on the fleshy meat of the apples. Eight slices on the plate. Milk in a cup, for Miki. I walk over to Miki's room, knock on the open door. She never liked the doors closed. I told her it was safe, no monster would eat her. She still complained that monsters would eat her brains, until a few weeks ago when a neighbor's kid told her she had no brains to eat.
"Miki," I said, "Miki. Breakfast, sweetheart."
I watched her, back facing me on her bed. She was getting to tall for it. A new bed should go into my budget. Her little toes were almost at the end of the mattress, I smiled. I was acting retarded, so fatherlike. Stereotypical, you might say, proud of my daughter's height. Blah.
I sat behind her on the bed, lay my big hand on her shoulder. "Mikiiiiiiii, get up. Come on."
I rolled her to face up, and my tongue dried. I felt blood drain from my face, as I saw a dagger on her forehead.
Between the wooden hilt and her forehead, a parchment lay. On it, soft stains of her blood was, along with the words: "Love, A."
Everything my eyes saw turned the color red, the color of her blood. My little girl, assasinated in my house, during the night. Coward.
"Love, A." A. Asshole.
Whoever did this wanted to hurt me more than physically. And, by God, did he succeed. He should've killed me, though. Because from me, no tears would be shed for Miki. Only blood.
This much I know is true.