My father. That's what Blaise called him.
That word seems so cold and distant.
Not like my father at all.
He was kind, gentle, and always had time for me.
I used the word was. A lump came into my throat.
With one single thought my wall came crashing down.
The wall I'd built in my head to prevent myself for ever getting hurt again.
The memories came flooding out, washing me away. My dad picking me up when I got hurt. Me telling him the stories of my day and the reason I built that wall in the first place; that memory.
It was at night, before the world was ripped apart.
This was before the streets were bare and the buildings falling apart.
This was when everything was fine and I didn't have to look over my back all the time.
He was on the phone, talking to someone unknown. Then he looked straight at me, in a strange way, and ran off into the night.
And I never saw him again.
This was no ordinary night, either.
This was the night when the world was ripped apart, never to be fixed again.
All my dad left me was that diary and now I could die because of it.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I grabbed the book out of Blaise's hand and ran out of her base.
Then I found a tree climbed it, with the book held tightly to my chest.
I curled up into a ball and started to cry.
I let go.
I couldn't hold in all the worries.
And the loneliness.
When my eyes were dry, I untangled myself from the ball and looked at the ground below.
Blaise was looking up at me with a sympathetic smile on her face.
"Come on," she says gently.
The sun slowly rose, reflecting of her scars, and I wondered how I ever found them frightening.
I slowly climbed down, the book still gripped to my chest.
I stumbled a bit.
She laughed a bit. She picked me up. Then she carried me back into my makeshift bed and waited until I'd fallen asleep.
As I drifted off, I felt the book being taken out of my arms.