daisy sarasaland | D6 | 5th | WIP

[ryan]

iykyk

Daisy Sarasaland
Sixteen
Holland Roden (thanks tris!)
More TBA

[ryan]

Dear Diary,

My cousin can kiss my ass.

I laugh out loud as I look up at the candle burning in the windowsill. It was my fathers favorite thing that he had ever built with his two hands. This house was small, but it was enough to contain us. It was ours after all, a castle in a sense, but I never saw it that way.

If this was a castle, then I would be the girl in the tower, and I for sure did not need a hero to save me.

I could do all of that myself.

---

Sometimes I miss the days where dad would come out of the sewer system and stop at the local shop to bring home whatever he could with his keep for the day. It was never much, but he always made sure to at least get one peach. Luckily they werent the hottest commodity in this town. Everyone liked the taste of other fruit, like strawberries, or melon, but peaches were always my favorite.

Small, able to fit in the palm of your hand, and just the right amount of juicy.

My dad would come home and knock on the door of my room, tell me that he missed me, and then hand to me what I thought was worth the world and then some.

I was always told that my smile was worth its weight in gold to him.

---

Needless to say I miss him, and sometimes I dedicate pages of sloppy handwriting to him because something reminded me of him. I was eleven when he went missing, and at this point, everyone just assumed he was one of the casualties of war. I dont like the thought of him being violently murdered by someone, so I vowed to only say that he ran away. I dont think he would ever abandon me, but its better than accepting the fact that he probably did die.

I am hopeless and I know it, and I dont give a fuck clearly.

I laughed and underlined that with delicious glee.

---

I have cousins, a lot of them, each one in different parts of the district. Its just me and my mom since all of this went down. I try not to think too much of what happened, but needless to say, it still sucks. To be told multiple times that there was "no one like your father..." makes me irate, but I am good at hiding my temper, because I learned from the best.

My mother is notorious for not being messed with in the sewers. Some say she was way too pretty to be down there, but she would scoff and stick her hand into something foul. One time I was told she asked someone if they thought she was pretty now that she had a hand full of shit, and they still said yes.

They told me she made him eat it, and I have never laughed harder in my life.

Shes a strong woman you know? Someone that I look up too, even now as I am writing this in my hidden diary that she has never found before once... she is a strong woman. Sometimes I wish I could have her courage, and my dads kindness, but instead I have nothing but trauma and a bad attitude.

I strike through that last part.

The attitude part, not the trauma.

---

We both do our best to keep our heads out of trouble, but some say I do have a mean streak in me, just like my mother. I have made people cry before, especially my cousins. Some ask me why I seem like I always have a chip on my shoulder, but I dont get that question. I look over to them and try to see what they see, but then they tell me its a figurative expression.

I look at them and laugh, sometimes astounded that they think I know what that is.

I do. Its been explained to me a couple times, however who gave anyone the right to claim that I have baggage that I wont let go off? Even now, I laugh at the thought, trying my hardest to not stab through the page as I scratch through pages of haphazardly written things.

I tear this page out and throw it in the fire place.

---

Maybe one day I will find a way to leave this district. Thats what they are called now. I could ascend to some higher calling and take care of my mother like the queen she is. I know way to well that this is nothing but a fever dream, but I dont want to work in the sewers forever. Being a plumber isnt the work or life I aspired too, a job taken out of desperation so I could at least contribute something to the family.

Even now, I would never admit that I feel somewhat fulfilled. My father was a plumber after all, also a handyman, and even the one people relied on.

I was his princess back then.

Now Im not a princess anymore am I?

I circle that and draw a little heart right above that statement.

The book is closed and placed in its secret hiding spot, and I kiss the portrait of my father good night before I blow out the candle.

Love,
Daisy.

[ryan]

L△LIA

[L△LIA]

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