Theme + Number: 3) Freedom, 13) Young, 92) Mercy and 95) Apathetic
Summary: He kept me there like a little trophy.
Father used to tell me when I was a little girl that we had an image to uphold. He would dress my up in pretty little dresses: pink mostly, blue when he refused to handle my temper tantrums. He had them curl my hair and turn me into his little porcelain doll: beautiful, fragile, fake.
He would show me off in front of his friends, let them marvel at the grace of a small child stumbling along in her pathetic little white shoes. They would smile and laugh and congratulate him on having such a marvel of a daughter.
It was a bitter kind of compliment, an ache in the soul. It was a lack of freedom: a tying down.
When Mom died I thought I would be free from this little show I had to put on. What father wanted their child to dress up like a little princess while they mourned for the loss of a parent? But he was less than apathetic, dressing me up in a frilly black dress and holding my hand, keeping me tethered to his side almost as though he were afraid I too would slip away from him never to return.