His Little Heir

Hypothetically Speaking (We're Screwed)

     The west wing's entranceway  harbored the echoes of her sandals, and soon, the door shared the same whisper. He watched as Daya gave the gaurds her thanks; a smile plastered  across her glossed lips, but as soon as the bricks of the mortared wall disbanded, she let her face fall and pushed her weight onto the entranceway with a huff.

     Daya brought her hand to her mouth. Her wild eyes scanned the foyer, emptyhandedly searching for Don, but even without seeing him, she treaded lightly. Every step became smothered in confrontation's fear as she mapped a path to the stairs, a path she would never travel.

     Don left the kitchen door's cover with his heart in his lungs. Her body stiffened at the sound of his impending footsteps, of doom, and standing rigid against the staircase, Daya took a hitched breath. Her knuckles went white from gripping the quartz banister; sweat descended her brow as the stone weight of panic bogged her down, all of this, because she knew- a generation's wrath was coming her way.

      Daya wracked her brain for something to fill the conflicting void, but speechless her numb lips fell. The footsteps hammered against her skull with the shrinking distance between her and their owner. Hot, heavied breath trickled down her neck as the gap closed, and the hall became silent.

     "I trusted you." Don took the step above her with maddening speed, "Has all I've done for you meant nothing!? I built you a life from nothing, I gave you EVERYTHING, but the second I take just a little something back, you turn on me. You f******* turn on me, Daya."

     And silence broken.

     "I did what I had to." She peered at the floor, never gazing into the mirror of her sins.

      "No you didn't. You did what you WANTED to do."

     Daya chewed the inside of her cheeks as she listened. Never in all her life could she have imagined this day, these people, and those words; that same existance had been set on a predictable crash course, and she, tied down to the seat, could never defy it. But standing there on that stage, the chance to destroy the lie ridden rails presented itself.

       And she took it like a moondrunk beast.

      Don saw her breathing heavy as she turned to face him. The light that usually dominated her eyes had vanished, and instead, soul crushing weariness danced across them.

     "They called me a murderer." She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and shifted her gaze to the floor.

     "Oh! GOD FORBID they call YOU a murder, not Princess Daya Adele Savech of Quishea', NOOO, she's just too precious!" He casted his hand up in dismissal, "So you throw the rest of us under the bus then, huh; a little mud on your name was just too much for you?!"

      "It's not like that!"

      Don balled his hands into fists, released them, and tilted his head to the side. He tapped his foot waiting for an explanation. Daya's mind did somersaults around his, carefully selecting its dialogue to fill the air.

       "Then what the hell is it like, Daya!?"

       "I panicked, okay!? I know it wasn't the best time, but it had to be done!" She opened her hands and pleaded with him, "Please, Dad, I said what I said, but we can live with it together!"

     "Live with it!? LIVE WITH IT!? YOU CALL FOR A REVOLUTION AND THEN JUST EXPECT US TO LIVE WITH IT?!"

     Daya flinched at the volume of his voice. If she could touch his reddened face in this moment, her flesh would corrode and burn in its fiery wake. She shut her eyes and said a prayer, not for herself, but for Quishea'.