Black Sheep
By AfterTheFall
Summary: So he watched, from the sidelines as he'd always done, never speaking but secretly proud of all she'd achieved, of how strong she was. He stood back and watched her go about her life, as though he never existed.
Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping…
- 'Into The West', Annie Lennox (Return of the King)
He found himself on her street again, trying to recall how he'd travelled so far, why he had felt so compelled to stumble across the entire city in the sub zero temperatures, receiving countless looks of disgust at his appearance.
Why he'd done it religiously for the better part of 8 years.
He hid in the shadows the street provided, the only indication of his presence being the small red coil of his tattered cigarette, lighting up as he gulped down the smoke. He always hid, even in his drunken stupor, he knew he couldn't be seen.
So he watched, from the sidelines as he'd always done, never speaking but secretly proud of all she'd achieved, of how strong she was. He stood back and watched her go about her life, as though he never existed.
He knew he had no right to be angry, but he couldn't help the resentment building inside him, hating himself for not being there, but hating her for rising above everything that life had thrown at her when he was too weak to deal with anything without the aid of a bottle and his fists.
She didn't even touch alcohol.
He'd always wondered where her strength came from. He knew it certainly was not from her mother, a woman who made his alcoholism look more like a Sunday hobby than an addiction. He wondered how she could grow up in the projects of Kensington, watching her mother drink all their money away and eventually pass out in a puddle of her own vomit, and not fall apart. He knew she'd made many visits to the Emergency Room in her youth, he'd seen her trying to hold everything together as the Triage Nurse questioned her, sometimes with looks of pity of the young girl, but usually in the same old tired tone, all thinking the same thing: NHI. No Humans Involved. He knew how it worked in Philly, why save kids from the projects, they'll all end up no-hopers just like their deadbeat parents.
Perhaps she just locked everything inside, kept it under lock and key deep within her soul.
Her soul surely must be just about full of repressed emotions by now, he figured, there was no way she could hold onto so much hurt and sadness and it not engulf her. Yet, her she stood, inside her respectable terrace, far from the Kensington Projects, showing more love and affection to two cats with missing legs and eyes than she ever got her entire childhood.
Maybe she felt she could connect with the cats – they're all defective in someway. She didn't show it often, but sometimes, throw the small cracks in the tough façade she puts to the world, if you know what to look for, you can see the self-loathing, the absence of self confidence in herself as a person.
He could see it, and he blamed himself.
She'd spent her entire life looking after other people that when it came back to herself, she didn't know where she stood, how to deal with her own needs. He wondered if she ever felt loved, even back right at the beginning, when she'd been so innocent.
But she'd been forced to grow up so quickly, any ounce of innocent she held onto was cruelly ripped away when she'd been attacked. She changed so much that night, forced to mature beyond her years. Although, he knows, she never told anyone what really happened, details she did not disclose to the police.
His hand clenches in anger, the bud of his cigarette burning into his flesh before he realises his unconscious actions. He quickly releases, dropping the tired remains on the gutter, leaving his palm red and sore.
And he thinks. He is he really mad at? The monster that attacked her? Her mother for sending a ten-year-old to the shop? Himself? For everything he failed to do? Perhaps Lilly herself, for being to proud to ask for help, too brave to back down, too strong for surviving as a child what he couldn't as an adult?
He figures, what's the point? Why try and figure out problems that have plagued him for decades, when it's easier to hate the world and find solace at the bottom of a bottle. She survived. He didn't.
And he left, stumbling down the path in the dark, his thoughts slowly dulled by the sweet amber liquor he'd spent most of the day consuming, but his emotions seemed to be more intense than ever.
People say they drink to forget, but he drinks to remember, to remember to hate someone other than himself, to remember to feel something more than an empty nothing.
He slowly walks on, retrieving a small flask from his tattered overcoat, holding it in his hand for a second, as though considering his choices, before shaking his head and gulping down a mouthful of scotch.
Perhaps, he thinks, he'll make it to the door tomorrow, perhaps he'll try and talk to his daughter.
Maybe everything will change, and she will forget her father abandoned her at such a young age, maybe she'll forget he took the easy way out and she'll forgive him.
He takes another swig of his alcohol.
A lot of things seem so much more attainable when you have the joy of alcohol swimming through your system.
But, he knows, he won't even make it to the front door, let alone face a lifetime of mistakes. He's no father now, nor has he ever been.
As his slumped form staggers into the darkness, occasionally silhouetted by the dull street lights, Lilly peers out her living room window, Olivia in her arms, purring in contentment.