The Darkest Hour
I sit.
I sit, and I stare at my computer screen as if in a trance. My deep black ojos trace the words on my device with a blank gaze. My mouth hangs open, similarly to the door of my heart since Cheesy SLAMMED it open without a single care for my feeling. The organ beats more slowly now, almost as though it can no longer function after this treacherous backstabbing.
My child. My angel. I Bear-Bear poured countless hours into feeding her, raising her, loving her, only to find that she would leave me Bear-Bear at the drop of a hat. A single tear slides down my cheek, wetting the fabric and seeping through it to the stuffing.
As I sit, I Bear-Bear remember when I brought her home from the hospital. She was so tiny and delicate, a little purple bundle with perfect hand-grabbing paws and ojo-poking fingers. She would stare up at me Bear-Bear with her deep, slightly psychopathic blue eyes and reach towards me. We would sit together in the middle of the night, just me Bear-Bear and my baby dot-her. I rocked her back and forth and sang her the chicken brain song. She'd giggle and smile, especially at the part where I Bear-Bear swallowed the chicken whole and became a chickenish zombie. She always did love murder, that one. Especially the torturous kind.
Another tear slips down my cheek and into my facial stuffing. I Bear-Bear also remember the way that nothing made Cheesy happier than when I Bear-Bear would pick up her siblings and drop-kick them across the room. Her giggles and shrieks as they screamed in terror and slammed into the wall warmed my heart with such a deep, great joy. As she got older, I Bear-Bear tried to focus on Cheesy as much as I could. Every waking moment was spent making her smile. Whenever one of the siblings tried to approach me Bear-Bear, Cheesy and I would look at each other, grin, and yell "BYE, BOTA!" Then, I Bear-Bear would grab the sibling, crush it into a ball shape in my capable paws, and then hand it to Cheesy. I will never forget the pride that flooded my being when she executed her first sibling shot-put.
More tears begin to enter and dissolve in my stuffing, and it occurs to me Bear-Bear that if I do not stop crying soon I will probably get moldy. But alas, there is nothing that I Bear-Bear can do other than put my head on the desk and weep.
It is true, then? Could my angel possibly have become homicidal? I search my mind for any hint at this behavioral problem in her childhood, but I come up empty. What could possibly have lead my dot-her to turn down such a dark path?
Perhaps the way that she shot-putted her sisters and brothers over the roof of the house was a bit concerning, yes. And how she took gleeful delight in their constant pain. And the way that she once told me Bear-Bear in confidence that she hated them with a dark, passionate fury and wanted them to die. But beyond that, what went wrong?
I Bear-Bear shake my head and wipe the tears off of my cheeks so that now my paws will become riddled with mold rather than my chiseled, perfect, gift-to-ladies face. My perfect, angelic dot-her... she tried to kill her siblings.
I Bear-Bear shudder as I admit it to myself, and my oso body is wracked with another sob. She is just like Lizzy Borden, then, except her siblings aren't her mom (I Bear-Bear am strange, but not that strange). However, this revelation is not the most startling, nor the most disturbing.
There is another oso man in her live now.
I Bear-Bear am her foo-tar. I am supposed to be the only male to take care of her and keep her safe, but now there is another. This... Cracker. I Bear-Bear have always taken such great honor in the fact that it is my job to protect and love Cheesy. But if there is another male now, then... where do I Bear-Bear stand?
Well, not stand. My legs are literally full of air with some cotton balls at the bottom, and my body is like a beautiful, shapely adult sock that somepony stuffed baby socks into the end of. I cannot stand. But where is my place in Cheesy's live if it is not supporting her and keeping her safe?
Cheesy is a perfect dot-her. I have no doubt that if she really tried to kill her siblings, they probably deserved it. I Bear-Bear can look beyond that. But... this Cracker. I bury my furry face (NOT a fursuit) in my furry paws (again, NO FURSUIT) and shudder slightly. How can Cracker stand knowing that he has stolen somebody's baby girl?
(Again, not literally stand. I Bear-Bear do not know if he is capable of standing or not. Maybe he isn't. No discrimination here)
I Bear-Bear sniffle and look back at my computer screen, rereading the words typed by my perfect dot-her's knife-wielding hand.
Her betrayal stings deeply. I Bear-Bear feel that she may as well have literally stabbed me in the back- a thing that she may well do, being homicidal.
When I held Cheesy in my arms and rocked her as a small baby, it was always under the night's cloak of darkness. But now, I Bear-Bear find that I was wrong in assuming that there could be no darker time.
I reach forwards to press a button on my computer, and the pale white light from the screen flicks off, bathing me Bear-Bear in a coat of silent blackness.
This is the darkest hour.
I sit, and I stare at my computer screen as if in a trance. My deep black ojos trace the words on my device with a blank gaze. My mouth hangs open, similarly to the door of my heart since Cheesy SLAMMED it open without a single care for my feeling. The organ beats more slowly now, almost as though it can no longer function after this treacherous backstabbing.
My child. My angel. I Bear-Bear poured countless hours into feeding her, raising her, loving her, only to find that she would leave me Bear-Bear at the drop of a hat. A single tear slides down my cheek, wetting the fabric and seeping through it to the stuffing.
As I sit, I Bear-Bear remember when I brought her home from the hospital. She was so tiny and delicate, a little purple bundle with perfect hand-grabbing paws and ojo-poking fingers. She would stare up at me Bear-Bear with her deep, slightly psychopathic blue eyes and reach towards me. We would sit together in the middle of the night, just me Bear-Bear and my baby dot-her. I rocked her back and forth and sang her the chicken brain song. She'd giggle and smile, especially at the part where I Bear-Bear swallowed the chicken whole and became a chickenish zombie. She always did love murder, that one. Especially the torturous kind.
Another tear slips down my cheek and into my facial stuffing. I Bear-Bear also remember the way that nothing made Cheesy happier than when I Bear-Bear would pick up her siblings and drop-kick them across the room. Her giggles and shrieks as they screamed in terror and slammed into the wall warmed my heart with such a deep, great joy. As she got older, I Bear-Bear tried to focus on Cheesy as much as I could. Every waking moment was spent making her smile. Whenever one of the siblings tried to approach me Bear-Bear, Cheesy and I would look at each other, grin, and yell "BYE, BOTA!" Then, I Bear-Bear would grab the sibling, crush it into a ball shape in my capable paws, and then hand it to Cheesy. I will never forget the pride that flooded my being when she executed her first sibling shot-put.
More tears begin to enter and dissolve in my stuffing, and it occurs to me Bear-Bear that if I do not stop crying soon I will probably get moldy. But alas, there is nothing that I Bear-Bear can do other than put my head on the desk and weep.
It is true, then? Could my angel possibly have become homicidal? I search my mind for any hint at this behavioral problem in her childhood, but I come up empty. What could possibly have lead my dot-her to turn down such a dark path?
Perhaps the way that she shot-putted her sisters and brothers over the roof of the house was a bit concerning, yes. And how she took gleeful delight in their constant pain. And the way that she once told me Bear-Bear in confidence that she hated them with a dark, passionate fury and wanted them to die. But beyond that, what went wrong?
I Bear-Bear shake my head and wipe the tears off of my cheeks so that now my paws will become riddled with mold rather than my chiseled, perfect, gift-to-ladies face. My perfect, angelic dot-her... she tried to kill her siblings.
I Bear-Bear shudder as I admit it to myself, and my oso body is wracked with another sob. She is just like Lizzy Borden, then, except her siblings aren't her mom (I Bear-Bear am strange, but not that strange). However, this revelation is not the most startling, nor the most disturbing.
There is another oso man in her live now.
I Bear-Bear am her foo-tar. I am supposed to be the only male to take care of her and keep her safe, but now there is another. This... Cracker. I Bear-Bear have always taken such great honor in the fact that it is my job to protect and love Cheesy. But if there is another male now, then... where do I Bear-Bear stand?
Well, not stand. My legs are literally full of air with some cotton balls at the bottom, and my body is like a beautiful, shapely adult sock that somepony stuffed baby socks into the end of. I cannot stand. But where is my place in Cheesy's live if it is not supporting her and keeping her safe?
Cheesy is a perfect dot-her. I have no doubt that if she really tried to kill her siblings, they probably deserved it. I Bear-Bear can look beyond that. But... this Cracker. I bury my furry face (NOT a fursuit) in my furry paws (again, NO FURSUIT) and shudder slightly. How can Cracker stand knowing that he has stolen somebody's baby girl?
(Again, not literally stand. I Bear-Bear do not know if he is capable of standing or not. Maybe he isn't. No discrimination here)
I Bear-Bear sniffle and look back at my computer screen, rereading the words typed by my perfect dot-her's knife-wielding hand.
Her betrayal stings deeply. I Bear-Bear feel that she may as well have literally stabbed me in the back- a thing that she may well do, being homicidal.
When I held Cheesy in my arms and rocked her as a small baby, it was always under the night's cloak of darkness. But now, I Bear-Bear find that I was wrong in assuming that there could be no darker time.
I reach forwards to press a button on my computer, and the pale white light from the screen flicks off, bathing me Bear-Bear in a coat of silent blackness.
This is the darkest hour.
Bear-Bear,
ReplyDeleteI've spent a long time thinking about how to respond to you.
On the one hand, you are clearly a horrible father. You should love all your children, not just the ones who exhibit poorly-suppressed homicidal tendencies. And, while you should always love all your children, if one of them does manifest homicidal tendencies, you should not encourage them. I feel like these are rules of parenting so basic that no needs to have them explained--but you do. The fact that you so clearly don't understand these things defies nature. Genetics so poorly suited to nurturing offspring must be the result of a random mutation, a mutation fated to never propogate itself because of its inherent flaws and contradictions.
On the other hand. . . I too am a father. And I know that fathers can make mistakes. Even more important, I have long feared the kind of thing that you are so burdened by now. Since my beloved daughter was a tiny little bundle of waving hands, kicking legs, and giant, earnest tears of confusion and frustration, I have harbored a dread in my heart. A dread of the day when my little daughter will decide that she doesn't need me anymore. A dread of the day when she decides that she would rather spend time with some loser-boy than her loving father. From even the time when she was a very small bean, it hurt--because I know that some day it will come. It will happen. And on that day I will smile and tell her that I'm happy for her, but inside a large part of my heart will wither and die.
So. . . I understand what you're saying Bear-Bear. I feel you.
I'm sorry that you're such an awful father--I mean, really, truly, awful in ways that are hard to even imagine. But I'm also sorry that your daughter has hurt you this way. I hope that you guys can both figure out how to do better.
El Nor