lotus hope, district eight ; fin

Dad's become a bit of a prune lately.

I got sent to the Principal's office for calling my teacher an asshat and I adamantly defended myself because she was! Who drops a textbook on someone's desk to wake them up? That's so fucking uncool. And Dad just told me to be quiet, had a cross look on his face that I'll never forget, made my stomach twist into knots and guilt run like sweat down my spine. I picked at the bed of my fingernails the rest of the meeting, slouching back in the chair and staring down at the maroon carpet, my lips formed into a pout. It sucked.

I never feel guilty about anything. Ever.

He thought it was funny when I was smaller, called me his little lion and I'd roar as loud as my lungs could reach, but it always came out more like a shrill screech. I used to pride myself on that title, wore it like a glossy badge on my chest. Mom always got annoyed when he did, sucked on her teeth, and told him not to encourage it, that I just had a bad attitude. It's a dumb double standard if you ask me! A toddler could punch someone right in the nose and adults would act as if they've never seen anything more adorable. But when I do it, I'm a brute and a troublemaker!

Sometimes I wish that I was still little - everything was so much easier then. Is there a way to grow bigger and stronger but keep the way people view you? I got away with so many things. Hogged the big swings at the park by the school for three months, sprinted my little legs to them before and after the bells rang out, felt like fire licked my muscles but I was tunnel-visioned. There was no deterring me when I had my eyes set on something. Though sometimes some of the older fucks would push me off, my knees and elbows roughed up from the fall, but I'd just throw rocks at their heads until they left.

I started tagging along with Dad to his work back then too. Not that I really helped with anything, I propped myself up on the counter and had back-and-forths with anyone who walked in the door. They'd all usually laugh, thinking it was precious that this small child had a larger vocabulary than just mindless babble, but I was completely serious in everything I said. Especially to the old lady that had like three chins and smelled like she had just run a mile that pinched and tugged at my cheeks. Took all the restraint in my body not to bite her hand and run her out of the store.

Dad kept a photo of him around my age with three girls hung up on the wall. I asked him about it once, but he dodged the question like a bullet, quickly turning the tide of the conversation. I never nagged him about it again, assumed it was a y'know, touchy subject. He didn't tell us anything, but you hear things and there's a million Hope's scuttling around Eight, so you're bound to get pieces of it. But I'm not gonna be the one who goes around and presses his buttons to find the rest of it, especially after recent events. I think he expects me to grow up and that. Everybody does. But I'm not one his plants, a cup of water every day and some sunlight won't make me change.

I think he was a bit disappointed I had no interest in flowers, or any kind of plants, really. Well, apart from my namesake. I'm too jagged for delicate art like that. Too coarse, a serrated blade that only leaves rough cuts. Dad isn't though, he's soft in the way he speaks, meticulous in the way he works. It's why I keep going even after I've grown out of it, there's something about watching someone truly invested in what they do. Not to be sentimental or anything.

But if he's going to start acting like Mom, a real sourpuss, then he should get used to manning the store alone! Or he'll have to start bringing Nile. A terrible downgrade if you ask me.