ii.

.:.: daddy's little girl :.:.

Completely random, I think the darkest thing I've ever written, so beware.

Pairing: n/a

Warning: dark themes

(if you don't like dark themes, just skip to the next chapter, or don't read)

this is your last chance.

Everyone loves their dad. It's a given of life. Except for maybe, if your dad's a convict who's murdered seventeen people. Then, it might be okay not to love your dad. Or maybe, if your dad totally deserted you and left your mom for a bottle-blonde witch who lives in south hampton.

Sometimes you wish you could have been daddy's little girl.

You don't remember much about your birthday (who does)? But there are pictures. Awful, yet amazing pictures. In one, you're in your dad's arms (of course) and you're screaming your head off. Your little face is beet red, and your surprisingly long mane of chestnut hair is matted down. But, he's looking down at you like you're his angel. And you are. He has a funny little story about the day you were born, that he used to tell you all the time.

"Your mom wasn't sure what to name you." He would say with a laugh. "She was still deciding between naming you Mollie and Cassie."

When you were younger, and he started to tell this story, you would nod off. Boring, you thought. You already knew the ending. So you wouldn't listen to the rest. When you were older, you were even worse. You would rudely excuse yourself to the bathroom, the one with the TV, and watch Gossip Girl until he worked his way out of his sentimental mood. He always did, sooner or later.

You were just so... so... awful. He loved you, you know.

Once, when you were nine, he took you to the zoo. Mainly because you had read in the paper (how absurd, you never liked to read when you were older) about a new tiger exhibit, with those awesome white tiger cubs, and you would not shut up about it until you've got to go. He had work, you knew that in the back of your mind, a big project. But, you were a self-absorbed seven-year-old, and so you came first.

You get to the zoo late the next day, it's a long drive. He paid the admission, and you danced your way forward to get a stamp on the back of your hand. You always tried to keep the stamp on your hand for as long as possible, because after all, if you had the green ink on your hand, you were almost too cool for school. At least in fourth grade, you were.

As you stand near the glass, your nose pressed, you see the zookeeper crank open a door. One by one, small cubs follow their mother (a vicious thing, who snarls at you) into the open. All of them are adorable. But, you're graduated fourth grade now, you can count. There's only four of them, not five that the article had promised. You furrow your brows, leaning even closer. Then, the zookeeper comes back, cradling a small cub. She's completely white, you realize, and you look forward to see her when the girl sets her down. When the cub sits, you realize it has a kinked tail. You immediately dislike her. She's not perfect, like the others.

"You know, Massie, that one reminds me of you." Your dad murmurs. You stare at him, horrified. Was he making fun of you? Was he saying that you're not perfect? "Look, she's unique."

Your face grows sullen, and you refuse to talk to him for the rest of the trip.

You were an evil child. No, wait, scratch that, you are evil.

Two months later, you've switched schools. You have the pretty committee. You're on your way to ruling the roost at OCD. Every day counts.

So when your dad shakes you gently at six a.m. on a friday, and tells you he has a surprise: you're missing school, you argue. You don't want to go on some lame trip with your father. What would your friends think? But eventually, you relent. Secretly, you text your friends that you have the flu. That's always a good excuse.

You groan again when you find yourself, an hour later, at the gates of the zoo. What kind of fun trip is this?

Your father guides you over to the tiger exhibit, the one you thought was so cool three -no, it had to have been longer- months ago. And better yet, you're surrounded by preschoolers and old people (at least forty). By listening into their conversations, you realize there's a special presentation about the tigers.

It's a naming ceremony, you realize soon enough. The four regular tigers go by without making a mark on you, you're still too upset with your father.

"And the special one!" The zookeeper shouts. It's the all-white runt. You want to shout back, "She's not special, just weird! A loser!" It's a defense mechanism of your's. You've developed it quite remarkably.

"We've honored our now largest donation to date, by naming this one Massie!" Your head snaps up. You can barely look at your father, you're so embarrassed. What was he thinking? What would your friends think?

Who cared what they would think? You, apparently.

And then, when you were twelve, he did something you thought was unacceptable. He brought another family to live in your guesthouse. Horrible, right? You might actually have to be nice to another human being?

You were spoiled on your own accord. There's no one else to blame.

So, when you were sixteen, when your parents start fighting, you remembered the torture your father put you through with Kuh-laire Lyons (even though she's your friend now, sort-of) along with many other times he's said no, or embarrassed you, and you take your mother's side. You scream nasty things out the window at him, when he asks you if you're alright. Because you can't handle him. You don't have good judgement, you can't even look outside your own life to see what's really going on. How it's really your mother's fault. Because she's the one who's cheating, not him. But you believed her.

You're an idiot.

And now, you can remember every single thing you thought of when you said "torture." The time, when you were six, that he wouldn't let you get two scoops of mint-chocolate ice-cream instead of one. The time, when he made you (made you) eat shrimp when you were twelve. All of those really qualify as torture right? Wrong.

Pathetic, more like it.

It didn't surprise you when he met the witch a year later. He kept telling you to stop referring to her as the witch. But, the witch was much more catchy than Mollie (you see the significance, now you do). After all, you are your mother's daughter, and if your mother refers to Mollie as the witch, so do you.

You refuse to go to their new house. In custody court, they gave your father half-custody. But, your mother ignores it, and you have no problem with it. Soon enough he stops calling, realizing you're not going to pick up -ever-.

Mother's daughter. You turned out just like her, a total bitch. Don't you wish you could have been daddy's girl all along?

When the call comes, ten years later, you want to scream. You haven't seen your father -or your mother, really- in a good five years. You haven't sent him a father's day card in fifteen years. You can't remember the last time you told him you loved him.

Karma comes when you least expect it.

But why'd he have to die, you ask yourself. In less than an hour, you've come to a conclusion, it was to punish you.

Karma doesn't forget.

And now you're standing over his coffin -closed, of course-. You're clutching the piece of notebook paper (that has no words, nothing written on it) until it rips in two. And then, you finally look up. Not into the eyes of your mother (the real witch), the witch (Mollie), or anyone else in the audience. You just stare forward.

And then, on it's own accord, your hand reaches out and takes the microphone. And without a single breath (they can change your mind, you know), you lean forward until your lips are almost touching it.

"Sometimes, I wish was still daddy's little girl."

Like you ever were.

Two days later, you're kneeling at his grave. It's father's day.

It's not really a grave. Just a brass plaque at the zoo, the only place you could think of when they asked you where you wanted it.

You bring a bunch of white roses. But, there's really no place to put them. With a little bit of effort, you manage to wreathe the plaque with them. It's the least you could do, really. The sad thing is, it's pretty much the first time you've cared enough to put effort into something for him.

Looking slightly past the plaque, you lock eye's with her. Massie, your namesake. She's staring at you. Her kinked tail is wiggling slightly. She's grown into her white coat. She looks normal now.

And weirdly, this is when you break down. Because she's normal, and you're not. You're broken. You're not daddy's little girl, you never will be.

Because you've lost your chance. He's not coming back to you. You may never see him again, not in heaven, because you're surely not going there.

"Happy father's day." You choke, ignoring the stares of passer-by. "Happy father's day, daddy."

You hope that, somehow, he'll be able to hear you.

Um... sorry for that. Yeah.

-sp