My First

Chapter One:

I don't consider myself to be a sensitive person. Some would say I have a tendency to bury feelings, deep. I would say that I couldn't entirely disagree. I don't cry in sad movies, I don't aw in the life changing moments—I kind of just exist in whatever excitement, sadness, overall emotion may surround me.

Now I'm not saying I'm completely shut down—nor cold hearted.

I just feel as though I have a better handle on the cards life deals when I keep it to myself.

But, listening to a grown man cry has got to be, hands down, one of the worst feelings.

His tears were pouring out of him and through the phone pressed against my ear.

Complete agony with every breath he was trying to obtain.

"You miss me don't you?" he sobbed.

I closed my eyes, breathing in the warm air surrounding me. "I do,"

"You do?" he repeated, choking on his disbelief.

Truthfully, I wasn't sure.

"You're my dad," I assured. "Of course I miss you."

Slurring his words, he spoke. "You're my only daughter—you know that? Mine. My baby girl, okay? Not George's—mine and always will be mine before you're ever his."

Let me assure you that I do indeed love my father. Of course I do. He is half the reason I exist on this planet, in this moment. But with that being said, I love a version of him that is no more. The version of him I had when I was a small child, unaware of all the wrong people could do.

Especially those you once viewed as your hero.

"I know dad," I cleared my throat. "I hate to cut this short, but I've got friends at the house. Can I call you tomorrow?"

I could hear him shuffling around, my mind picturing him stumbling over something as the sound of beer bottles clattered against his apartment floor.

"Yes," he breathed. "Call me tomorrow I'll wait by the phone all day I promise."

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sighed. "Okay, get some rest. Goodnight."

As soon as the line went dead, the sadness I felt for him turned to slight rage. The same way every conversation with him did. How was it, that I was the child and he was the adult yet somehow it was I always coddling him?

I glanced over my shoulder and towards the front window of my house. I was able to see my friends still in the dining room, laughing and yelling at one another over the game of Monopoly I walked away from ten minutes prior.

The sight of them should've made me feel better, but all I could think about was him. His cries echoing in my ears, sure to haunt me as I slept later on tonight. I tried not to let him get to me, I really did, but sometimes he was just too much.

Even 3,000 miles away.

Slowly, I walked back into the house through the garage door, shutting it as quietly as I could behind me. The secret to composure was moments alone, moments of training to be the best version of myself for everyone else.

I made my way down the hall, towards the bathroom door and shut it behind me. I stood in the dark for several seconds, partially afraid to turn on the light.

Because the girl staring back at me, as I finally did so, was the exact replica of my father. Growing up there was no way he could ever deny I was his child. The same olive skin that covered every muscle, vessel and bone in my body matched his almost seamlessly.