whitney | d4 | cb | fin

dear papa,

i'm not too proud to beg. you taught me best that a closed mouth doesn't get fed, and i'm fucking hungry.

mama thinks that we two are heathens, willing to use others to get ahead instead of relying on instinct, intelligence, or anything good and ripred-given. but i don't think willing or wanting makes me cruel - it just makes me a career.

that's what we have in common, papa. mama gave me an eye for beauty and you gave me the strength to fight for it. i don't have to be the fastest or most muscular to be great. i just have to be willing to take. what mama doesn't get is that we, too, have needs. she needs to disappear once a week and i need what i deserve.

what i deserve is a father. the kind i had when i was little, the kind that made me feel like a princess. but i don't have that anymore - you're here but you're not, a mere ghost like mama.

though, i suppose i shouldn't be treated like a princess anymore. princesses have their work cut out for them. i, on the other hand, have to pave my own path, cut my own jewels for my crown. i may have the security that this village provides, but it means nothing without the family i thought i had.

so forgive me if i am snooty or if i love to gossip or if i spend more time styling my honey-colored locks than a windbrook should. the windbrooks, severe yet sultry, constantly luring people into their elaborate traps. we are just alike, papa, except that i am a wolf and you are in sheep's clothing.

if you need me, give me a howl.

love,
w.w.