(A/N: Okay so again, I have two takes on this, a more gloomy one and a more light hearted on (this one). I've got the idea, but I'm just not sure where to start with it. If you have time, I'd love it if you take a peek at the other one as well :3)
I wasn't a cold heartless bitch, really I wasn't. I just didn't get what exactly was happening.
I never really had any responsiblities back then, I mean, what 9 year old girl does? In fact, of all of the important things I could have been doing, I was scrunitizing myself in the mirror, trying to figure out if one eyebrow was higher than the other, when the gunshots fired.
Of course, being clever and oh so brainy, I dismissed it as fireworks the creepy household next door was lighting up. I was nearing a decision concerning my eyebrows when my aunt charged in, without knocking, may I add, looking as pale as a ghost. It really didn't sit nicely with her features.
Though the police came and went, reporters came and went, nothing really touched me. Sure, there were yellow DO NOT CROSS labels all around our house and a mysterious shade of red stain just outside our front gate, but to me, people just don't die like that. Especially fathers who'd been seen just a few hours ago.
It seems that in some unwritten universal book, one is suppose to be either drenched in tears or clad in black after a death of a beloved. I was on my pink clad bed, dressed in my rainbow jammies and sorting through my bucket of stuffed animals. People had came and went, in masses of snot and tears as if their own father had died yet I stayed oblivious to the commotion downstairs and was hellbent on getting the tangles out of my pony's hair.
Then, before I knew it, that was already 5 years ago. I've got a new face, new heart, a new place in the world and a hell of a lot more clothes.
But there was that small, nagging feeling that kept me awake at night. Who was he really? Why was he the target? Newspaper clippsing filled my insatiable hunger for the knowledge and the facts finally begin to settle.
Apparently, he was one of those people who are suppose to dwell in shadows and frankly, make the world a crappy place. Apparently he was a gang member. My very own soft, tea loving father who woke up with a big bear yawn with the very same tuff of hair that stuck up in the mornings.
One newsgroup even had the guts to skillfully convince the readers that even our dogs were god-awful and threatening.
So I sit here trying to discreetly pull on your heartstrings, bribing pity out of you. In all honesty, this should be written in gloom and doom. Humor isn't a great match for topics like targeted murders. In fact, when I say that “Well, actually, he's dead,” with a small giggle on my lips, I get concerned stares and nonchalant suggestions of seeing a therapist.
Though totally (most likely) sane, this is like an itch that can be soothed by any amounts of scratching. Maybe after a few pages filled with mad scribbling of each and every small detail I still remeber of him, I'd become itchless again.