I know watching like this is wrong. I know. If I had any sort of decency or self respect, I'd move away from the door this instant. But I feel like my feet are literally glued to the fucking floor. My toes are actually digging into the nap of the carpet and I feel like I have cement blocks on each ankle keeping me from being able to take steps in any direction. I'm struggling against a lost cause. In truth, I've been struggling for some time. Three hundred sixty three days, seven hours, and checking my watch right now, thirty minutes, and forty-two seconds.. In my mind, it seems like an eternity. But in reality, that's just a little less than a year. Which in the big scheme of life isn't very long. Guess it just feels like a lifetime.
"Okay, I need to stop this once and for all! I can't keep living this way. It's just not right!" I repeat for the umpteenth time that I've been standing here.
I have been trying to tell myself those things over and over again in these more frequent situations as of late. But what good does it ever do? I find myself right back in this same situation. Perhaps a different day, a different time, a different location, but still: here. Immobile mentally. A disability that is currently manifesting itself physically in a way that paralyzes my legs and feet.
Peering through the cracked door, I observe meticulously painted, square shaped, silver toenails. They shimmer atop five, dainty, light bronze toes. They are digging into the very jet black carpet that I installed myself a year ago at her request. I observe those toes clench the plush carpet and release. Before I know it, a smooth tapered foot sole is revealed as it lifts to pivot away from me. My eyes travel up this delicate side of a foot to a thin bronze colored ankle that is smaller than my wrist. A smooth calf that is the like the color of poured honey reveals itself to me flexing as movement above it starts to drag my attention higher. Skimming up, I see a slight indent of the back of the knee that leads up to a slender, but shapely thigh.
I swallow hard. I know if I let my eyes rise higher what I'll see is more than I'm prepared to handle. I swallow hard again at what feels like a huge goiter in my throat and feel my pulse racing. Blood is rushing in my ears so loudly that I feel like my ear drums are going to burst at any second. I can feel my heart pounding inside my chest as if it wants to break free of it. My palms are starting to moisten. I feel slightly light headed and somewhat queasy.
Now, any normal person would realize that is the brain's way of telling the body that there is trouble, danger, or something amiss. Basically, signs of some sort of situation that one should not be in at all. In a situation where you feel all of those things you should know immediately that there is some kind of problem. After which, sanity coupled with common sense should tell you to do something to help yourself put an end to the abnormality. Sanity and common sense seem to allude me in times like these.
It used to pain me terribly to look at her as she grew because she looks exactly like my deceased wife. The wife I loved more than my own life, but died shortly after the birth of our daughter. I knew she would look just like her mother the very instant that I laid eyes on her in the hospital. The wild, curly, dark brown almost black hair, the exotic bronze skin tone, and her pouty soft pink lips. The only physical characteristic that she got from me are my eyes. We both have intense green eyes. Her mother had soft brown eyes.
God help me, she even has my wife's body type...but better. She's slender, but curvy in all the places and ways that a man wants his woman to be curvy. A perfect hourglass shape that could probably bring many men to their knees in her mercy if she was the manipulative type. Even her own father, but she doesn't seem to know of her great beauty nor power. And thank God for that much.
I close my eyes thinking about what I've just conveyed. "His woman." That's the thing. She's not a woman. She's sixteen years old and that's a far cry from any woman! She's a minor. A child. My child. And I'm standing here peering into my child's bedroom door at what must be around 7:45am by now. Spying on a Friday morning like an obsessed lunatic. When what I'm supposed to be doing is showering and getting dressed so that I can drive her to school on time. Then rush back here to make plans for her birthday party with the planner. Given, it is my own fault for waiting until the last possible minute to plan this thing in the first fucking place. As if waiting to the last minute to plan is going to actually prevent her from turning seventeen. Yes, I know. For someone that is supposedly so intelligent, I'm an idiot.
I sigh softly. Roll my eyes at myself and take a deep breath. I press my eyes shut tight trying to focus and force myself to move away from the damn door.
"David, you know you need to get control of this now."
My train of thought is suddenly interrupted as I feel a sudden rush of cool air blow over my bare chest as the door swings open quickly. I pop my eyes open to find her standing directly in front of me.
I take in her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bloodshot, and puffy. Her thick curly hair looks as if she's been just caught in a windstorm. Her pouty pink lips are moist and slightly quivering. She's wrapped in a large white cotton towel and I'm startled at the sight of her, but concerned at the same time. Even in this state, she's stunning and I try to gain my composure. I clear my throat.
I manage to stammer out, "Honey..Oh..Sweetheart! I was just.. um.. I..."
Her eyebrows furrow fiercely and she cuts me off.
"Daddy, I cannot! Can not go today! I cannot! I'm sorry! I've had it with my fucking hair. I've tried everything to beat it into submission and it won't lay down! I'm getting it cut all off and I'm not going to school today so do not even start!"
I blink a few times trying desperately not to crack any sort of smirk. But, it's hilarious to me when she gets like this as my wife was the same way.
"Daddy! Don't just stand there. Do something! Say something!"
Now, this might not seem funny to most parents, but if you could actually hear my daughter's voice and see the look on her face you'd laugh yourself silly. She has a flare for the dramatic over the smallest things at times, but can be perfectly level headed and competent in others. She has a youthful voice that always sounds slightly stressed without being off putting. It's actually an extremely attractive quality that she possesses. How she masters that is beyond me.
I clear my throat again and say, "Marah, First of all, Good Morning to you, too! Second of all, I've told you about your cursing. It's not acceptable. So watch yourself. And third, you aren't cutting."
She starts blinking rapidly and draws her lips into a tight bow, then raises her left eyebrow. She got that from her mother as well. It's the, "Do not piss me off because you won't like it later" look.
But I ignore it and proceed, "Your hair!"
"You have tons of headband, riboons, hair grips, and clips. I know because I've spent tons of money on that junk at your every whim. So get yourself together and pull your hair back in one of those, get dressed, and get yourself downstairs for breakfast within the next fifteen minutes or there will be consequences! I have way too much to do today in order to get this party together that you've changed the theme on fifty times. So Marah, please work with me today. And you are going to school so don't you start."
Her eyes widen as she screams, "I said that I'm not fucking going and you cannot make me go!"
She proceeds to try to close the door quickly but I put my hand up and push it open wider before she can get it shut in my face.
"Marah! What the heck is wrong with you today? Your language and attitude absolutely are out of line and won't be tolerated! What is going on in this room?"
I march right into her room and notice the clothes, shoes, and some jewelry scattered all over the floor. I'm surprised because she's an extremely tidy person in general. Her room is always neat and clean. That she got from me, not her mother.
I look at her and see that she's crying now. Her arms are crossed under her breasts tightly and she's shivering. She looks incredibly perplexed about something and I'm worried. My heart instantly melts seeing her so upset and I have to help her.
"Baby, I don't understand! What happened in your room? Sweetheart, you can't possibly be this upset over your hair. Please tell, Daddy. Whatever it is Daddy will fix it. I promise you."
She looks at me and tears tumble one after another out of her tortured green eyes which breaks my heart. She tries to respond but can't seem to get it out. She whimpers instead and starts sobbing uncontrollably. I go to her immediately and pull her into my chest. Her tiny five foot two frame is totally dwarfed as all six feet two inches of me tower over her.
She nuzzles her face into me and mumbles, "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm so sorry! Please, I just can't go today. I...just...can't! Please don't make me!"
The desperation in her voice drives a stake though my heart and I just want nothing more than to protect her and fix whatever is hurting her so much.
