ENTRY THREE:
WHERE KIRA NAKATA IS A HORRENDOUS LIAR
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I am a liar, Ford. I truly am. I tell white lies as easily as I tell the time. I tell of a pristine life, dusted in white gold and plated in silver. I tell intricate stories for a few seconds of satisfaction— hollow stories for hollow laughs, fair exchange?
It doesn't really matter; I'll be dead, anyway.
Here's why I'm a liar — at least why I was one to you. I said (or more, wrote) that I would talk of my father no more, not a word of his transient affection or the father-sized void nestled in my heart. I said I put it behind me, buried it six feet under, but you and I both know that I'll always return to mourn the loss.
I cannot get over him, for half of my pathetic heart is him and the other half yearns for his embrace. My eyes, on their own accord, scan every crowd in hopes of finding him. (What I would do — what I would string together to say to him — I know not.)
I am hyper vigilant, hyper aware of everything. I wait and listen for a voice like rain on Spanish rooves; I wait for eyes the color of charcoal and hair glistening with morning dew grey.
I have seen him once.
I was about fifteen — drowning in makeup and gasping for self-confidence and self-worth — when I spotted a man, dressed to the nines, sitting cross legged with a woman, laughing like it was his form of breathing.
I did not think it was him, for my image of him was very much tainted with his actions. But then I heard him say he loved her, and I heard the rise and fall of his voice, and I saw his Adam's apple wobble, and I saw and I heard my father four years after he left.
He was an entirely different person — or at least he tried to be. He must've forgot the one thing he used to warn me about: a tiger never changes its stripes.
He can (and probably has) dyed his charcoal black stripes in hues of red, and yellow, and neon green. He can bleach them and burn them, but they are his.
He does not see his daughter's slow transition from wide-eyed to teary-eyed. He does not see her perched on the wall of the park, reading the empty spaces of a poorly written novel.
He does not see, for, perhaps, he never wanted to.
That's the thing about people, Ford. They live in phases — some they'll return to in two, or four, or ten years; some they'll never see again.
I was a phase to my father, a waning crescent he'll never return to. I was a 243 day trial, a silly girl with an expiration date planted firmly on her forehead she never noticed.
My father is not a phase to me. He is an absence, a lapse, a gaping hole that demands all my attention, always.
A gap that screams: LOOK HERE, WIDE-EYED GIRL. LOOK AT THE EMPTY SEATS; LOOK, WHY DON'T YOU, AT THE HAPPY FACES OF HAPPY FAMILIES. LOOK, WHY DON'T YOU, AT THE GAPS IN YOUR HANDS. THEY'RE WIDER THAN MOST, TEARY-EYED GIRL.
I do not know why my father left. I do not know what prompted him to pack his affection (the ounce that was left of it) up and leave, and I am not so sure I'd like to find out.
Kira
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dedicated to eglise whose beautiful story I am in love with
a/n: so, so, so what did we think??? of Kira???
I didn't actually think I'd be able to update today, but a wave of inspiration hit me, and so ta da!
Enjoy, you all! I love you lots.
