"You don't like me, do you?"
"Wow. Nothing gets past you, Sherlock. Do you keep one of those magnifying glasses tucked away in that little vest of yours?"
•••
Lydia Beowulf works for the Hostage Response T...
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The young girl sat criss cross on the sidewalk pavement while her scraped hands covered her even more scraped knees. Her head rested in her hands as tears streamed down her face. The sound of blades skidding on the ice carried outside of the walls of the ice skating rink she leaned against.
After watching the Olympics that winter, she begged her parents for lessons. Even at the age of seven, she had a way of being stubborn. They signed her up for them less than a month later.
Her head shot up at the loud rumble of her dads truck pulling up to the curb. After noticing the girl sitting outside, rather than inside with the other girls, his lean frame climbed out and raced around. Pushing his glasses up with his finger as he squatted down in front of her.
"Lydia? Sweetie, what's wrong?" He cupped her small cheek in his hands as tears continued to fall. His eyebrows knitted as he searched her eyes.
"N-nothing." She whimpered, closing her eyes and choking back sobs.
"What did I tell you about lying?" He gently scolded as to not upset her further.
She sniffled, recalling her fathers words. "That lies are the shortcut that lead you down the wrong path."
"Exactly. So, take a deep breath," her father took in a deep breath through his nose to demonstrate and lead, and then exhaled out of his mouth. She aptly obliged and followed along. "Now, tell me what happened. It's all okay."
She took another shaky breath, letting her small green eyes flutter shut. "M-Marcie Davis and her friends pushed me down. T-They said I'd never be an ice skater and that I suck."
Her quiet yet high pitched voice made her father's heart crack. She lifted her palms face up to him, showing him the scraped from the ice. Also revealing the similar wounds on her knees. He let out a low sigh and grabbed her hands to look at them closely.
"Please don't be mad at me." She pleaded. His eyebrows knitted once more at the comment.
He sighed. "Sweetie, I'm not mad at you."
"Then why do you have that face on your face?"
"What face?" His eyebrow raised.
"This one," she narrowed her eyebrows and pouted her lips into a dramatic frown. A chuckle left his lips and a similar one left hers due to it's contagious nature. The sound rattling through them sounded the same.
"I'm not mad at you, I just—I just don't like that people are being mean to you."
"I don't know why they're so mean to me." She looked down at her knees and pulled them to her chest. a frown tugged at his lips.
