I don't know why ur actin up for attention. You're okay as a writer, but there are much better ones in the fandom who have far less recognition
You see. It all started when father returned from the war. He had never been an affectionate man, as much as I can recall. But after the war, the small nods and brief glances from him that I had grown to look forward to had disappeared.
He was quick to anger and quicker to drink. Sometimes I’d awaken in the middle of the night to find him standing in the middle of the quiet farm, bathed in moonlight and despondent. His eyes would be fixated on the moon and stars, unblinking.
“Papa,” I’d call to him, “you’re scaring me…”
Of course, he didn’t respond. He never did. Somehow, his silence instilled more fear than his anger. The eerie quiet when I wished so badly to know what he was imagining.
The chores on the farm soon fell on my shoulders, as my mother came down with a chest cold that never seemed to go away. Some days were worse than others for her. I remember running to fetch the doctor in the middle of the night when she couldn’t keep from coughing. Walking through the old wooden thresh hold he greeted my father, who sat unblinking once again in his rocker with the usual bottle of liquor in his calloused hand. The light from the candles flickered, showing glimpses of his eyes which were wide with madness.
Seeing now the state he was in, the doctor simply tipped his cap and tended to my ailing mother. And soon after that, the talk around town began. Not so quiet whispers accompanied by piercing eyes when I made my way into town to fetch mothers tonic or liquor for papa.
My trips became less and less frequent. Not only because I couldn’t handle the gossip, but it seemed papa would do something drastic every time I left. One day I found him in the coop snapping the necks of the chickens inside, feathers flying everywhere as the few remaining tried to escape his grasp.
“Papa! No!” I screamed for him to stop.
He dropped to his knees with shaking hands. It was the first time he had spoken to me in what seemed like years. His voice was more hoarse than I remembered.
“I’m…sorry,” he spoke through tears.
Heavy with the shame of what he had done, he dragged himself off as I took care of the mess and contemplated how we would get our eggs now. I didn’t see papa again until that night. He came stumbling inside near dawn, crashing around our old farm house in his usual drunken stuper and calling for my grandmother, who had passed some time ago.
Why am I seeking attention? Who knows…but reading this message I think back to those chickens and their snapped necks. Who can say why, but perhaps I am jealous of them a bit. For at least, even in a brief moment before their deaths, they felt my fathers touch. Something I never had.
“Much better writers with far less recognition?” I chuckled and inched closer to you.
When the fandom approached me, asking me to hand-choose which followers went to which blogs I was shocked, but proudly took on the task. Just as I had taken on the burden of my families farm, I would also carry out this task to the best of my ability.
I moved my lips closer to your ear, letting them ghost over the skin as my fingers delicately tucked your hair to the side. My warm breath was seeping into your pores as you waited for me to respond.
“I know,” I whispered so softly, “now unfollow me, bitch.”