Absurd puppet shows. Open chicken sandwiches. Suffocating hugs and painful good-bye kisses. Fond memories we once shared. Foolish memories that act as a reminder of what we lost. Deluded memories that are now just a souvenir of an experience that once was.

On our planet exists a large, overbearing yet stirring crowd. One that you get lost in but always find a way back home from; one where every stranger turns into a long lost friend in times of crisis and worry. A crowd within which resides a man. A friend. A son. And most of all, a father. One that seems to be gradually stripped of that title each day until all that is left of him is an echo of what used to be. Of puppet shows that have reached a perennial interval. Of open chicken sandwiches that no longer stir excitement or hunger. Of a fresh breath of air as the once suffocating hugs cease to exist. And of cherished kisses that now seem worth the pain he once wished to be rid of. 

He knew that the good-byes were inevitable. They were always coming and there was nothing he could do to stop it. So, he would push away the thought until it stared at him right in the face. Until the inevitableness of the inevitable good-bye became too real and the time to take action arised. This is when he ran. He ran as fast as he could; as far away as he could until he could no longer see his tiring responsibilities, his terrifying duties and the ugly truth of his reality. He ran to a world of safety. A world of comfort. Where he could grasp onto the last piece of his daughter forever. Where he would not be questioned for escaping his duties instead of facing them head on. Where he would not constantly harm those that he loves even though he might not intend to. He never did. But actions speak louder than intentions. And though he might not have intended to run away, he did. And though he might have intended to abandon his only child… he did. The child he once showered with kisses and bought numerous gifts for, without hesitation. The one he lost. The one he replaced with a finer, preferable and more desirable model. His disappointment. His failure. His fault. 

The dark gray clouds loom over his heavy body as he makes his way towards his new life. Though the slight tap of the raindrops soon transformed into a loud pitter-patter, he did not cease his journey. He will not. He could not. His one chance at a new and improved life. Away from his overbearing daughter who only just wished for a loving father and away from things the world requires most from him. Reason and reliability. The two things the world needed the most from him, yet the two things he could not provide. 

However this is not a story of a struggling father or an irresponsible man. This is a story about the daughter he could not love enough. A daughter who lost her best friend and was forced to continue life as if a piece of her heart had not been ripped from her chest. But it had. A bleeding hole left in its deafening absence. Shattered into a million pieces, a young girl left to gather and put them back together all alone. Because when she turned to the world for help - they encouraged her to forgive and forget. Let go of the past. Yet she couldn't. Couldn't forgive. Couldn't forget. Couldn't let go of something that was now a part of who she was and what defined her. Her ability to recover and be successful in life, irrespective of the struggles she had to face at a young age. Even if it's alone. Without her favorite companion. Without her ally and her confidante. Without her best friend. 

But she had no time to mourn or regret; only to move forward - to shape her new life without the restraining words of those who only ever cause harm. Only ever cause suffering. An eternity of isolation and struggle waiting before her with open arms - inviting her to her new life which she will forever be bound to. Because though people she loved came and left, she held on to the last remnants of those who could not keep promises that they made, and those that made promises they never wished to keep. She was alone yet she would never admit defeat- never admit that she was unhappy with what became of her. What the world made her into. The smart, bright, joyful girl burnt to ashes, awaiting her return as the phoenix she was meant to be - the phoenix that her own stubbornness and arrogance took away from her. Her stubbornness that forced her to self deprecate until she could no longer go on - no longer pretend - no longer lie. Lie. The one thing that she had done her whole life. Lie to her friends, her family and most of all, lie to herself. But she could not any longer. It was time to let go and give in. Jump off the bridge, step of the stool, slice through the wrist. A fitting death for a fitting failure. One that failed to provide any pride or joy or love. Any form of physical or mental affection that therefore cut her time on this overbearing planet even shorter. The planet within which the crowd that was meant to save her, failed her. And she failed it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Because as of right now, this failure of a daughter is merely a child - awaiting a life of happiness and success; of chocolate and cats and Saturdays spent with her favourite person -  a man, a friend, a son, and most of all, a father. Her father.

The girl at the age of 10 was flooded with anger. Anger at her mum and her carer and even her friends. But she wasn’t angry with her father. Never had been and never could have been - because in this world of people who never understood this ten year old, he did. He extinguished the rage that burned within her with love so consuming that soothed her, until the time for goodbyes emerged and the soothed fire burned once again. The anger that was then redirected to those that took her away from the only person that understood her; that loved her. Little did she know, it was him that was pulling away, not others pulling them apart. This obliviousness was what led to the girl’s destined downfall. Her oh so depressing fate that was never meant to be reversed. Never meant to be salvaged, breathed into and pumped back to life. There was no saving her, or her life anymore. All that was left was a weakening fire - slowly burning out as the oxygen depletes and the life within her slowly departs from her body - leaving behind a memory not worth remembering. Not worth saving.

And as this relationship with an unreliable father crumbled, an even worse relationship with a draining mother was built. A mother that mostly turned to her daughter as an outlet of her own rage - one that she passed onto the now 15 year old girl. 15 years of life wasted away waiting for a mother to tolerate and a father to show up. Slowly, painfully, the girl mastered the skill of expecting only disappointment - because expect disappointment and you will never be disappointed. But she was. Every single day because when her father turned his back upon her, she awaited comfort and love and support from the parent that stayed. Yet that did not come. Disappointment. All that welcomed her was tears of self pity and cries of blame. Because in its entirety, everything that made her mother cry was caused by her and when she could not comfort - she was accused. Accused of being the cruel and villainous and black-hearted person that her mother never wished for. Disappointment yet again. And again. And again. 

A jump off the bridge, a step of the stool, a slice through the wrist. Thoughts had occurred each and every day - thoughts that would remain only that - thoughts. As this too would disappoint her mother. The mother that stressed about the self-inflicted scars on the body of her daughter only for the sake of being judged as an unfit mother. Stressed for the fact that her daughter’s attitude and struggles would only reflect on her character as a failure of a mother. So she would blame and shame and guilt the girl into compliance - into thinking that there was love there when all that was left was resentment. The mother would tell stories of her childhood - a childhood that supposedly justified her nature and her lack of control on her own wrath. The wrath that she ignored and stamped onto her daughter. The perfect scapegoat. But this isn’t the story of a sorry mother either. It’s still the story of the daughter she failed to achieve the love and respect of. The daughter she raised, not out of love - but spite.