A little kid. With soft cheeks and a softer heart and tiny hands that just want to explore everything they touch. A little kid with eyes so brown and innocent, they were almost heartbreaking.
I was a little kid.
Just a child.
That was when I hated him for the first time. Of course it wasn't real hate. Of course a day later, an hour later, I was telling him I love you with my good night hug. The trust issues had barely begun to sink in.
But I still remember hating him.
In the morning I'd done something wrong, even though I could never remember what it has been, no matter how hard I tried to, because it must have been bad. Or maybe it wasn't. I was a three year old, after all. I couldn't have murdered anyone. From the way he screamed himself horse and sent spittle and abuse flying through his mouth toward me, you'd think I did.
But I didn't hate him yet. I was angry and terrified and so many more emotions that no three-year-old should never have to sort through and feel all on their own. And I couldn't, being three. Those emotions are too big for such a small body. They're still somewhere in me, still rotting away in the place I hid them back then, the place I lost track of.
But I didn't hate him. Not yet. Because he was my father. He was supposed to protect me and keep me safe, so although he had reminded me that I'm the most unlovable, worthless piece of crap of a child, I still needed to love him. None of that went through my innocent, adorable head, and it wouldn't for years. It was just how I felt.
But then I was walking down the hall, which looks so much bigger in my imagination because my body was so, so much smaller. The steak-colored hallway freshly polished, the buttercup walls. I heard him.
His grinding voice coming through the closed office door. There was my mother's voice, as well, just responding to everything he was saying. All the insults. My first reaction was to excuse it. Why should I think he's talking about me? Even then, I guilted myself with the berating, not everything is about you, don't be so self-obsessed.
But then somebody said my age and that I'm his daughter, and there was no denying it. He was talking about me.
And besides for the overwhelming sadness, I hated my dad for the first time.
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Deep End
RandomKamilla is Armani, a part of a secret community of people with their entirely own culture, city, traditions. But she is also sad. And angry. And rebellious. And too flirtatious and too much of a loner and too depressed. But above all, Kamilla is a d...
