Foray's Blog

(Disclaimer: May offend some individuals who are vulnerable to explicit subject matter.)

OH MY GOD, I thought while I was reading the local newspaper—and yes—I was one of the only people in the universe who actually read these papers in the daily news; I should probably keep myself up to date through social media, but there was a lot of fake news that could spread through that. The black-marked headline got my attention.

HEADLINE: DAISY WELTER, UP-AND-COMING POPSTAR SINGER, NAILED IT AT AN OUTDOOR CONCERT AT WESTSIDE, CALIFORNIA

It came to my attention that I should do something that I haven’t done in my entire life, and the only way for me to do it is if I had the guts to even handle the pressure; I needed to call her. 

However, the memories stung me, made me reactive to this particular endeavor. I reacted to this news with a heart attack, and I thought that I was unfaithful in the past—I didn’t look ahead, and I couldn’t believe I decided to file a divorce—but she was still my baby girl. I indirectly made history, where my beautiful blonde girl did something for herself, especially her little partnership with the guy. I hope they would marry someday—but boy oh boy was I wrong when I continued to skim the little, black lines—it was completely different territory when I reached down to the lower left-hand corner of the newspaper, where my eyes bulged, realizing that it was going to take a long, long time since I didn’t see her face-to-face—and I should have expressed better adjectives to express my disdain. 

She was there, behind stage. A photographer managed to get a picture of the gold with her rose; she didn’t get prickled by her thorns, although there was a guilty sense that I wished the thorns were stronger; my mind exploded, then I thought that there was a possibility that I was hallucinating, or maybe I was having this out-of-body experience, where I didn’t have consciousness. I was sitting on the couch in the living-room, where my white, sleeveless shirt was beginning to crease up—it has been a while since I put it in the laundry. 

***

Ten Years Ago

“What do you mean you don’t understand me?” That was the first line I heard before I decided to hit the ground running; I couldn’t handle the bullshit anymore; the destination I desperately desired was the cramped-up car, or at least that was how Tiffany prescribed it as. The beginning of a new adventure was about to happen, and I thought this was going to start when I hit the ignition and went on running. 

The dispute was around taxes, or maybe it was something else. I personally wasn’t equipped to really handle those types of endeavors, but I wasn’t the only individual who had this individualistic problem. The big difference between her and I was that I acknowledge that the problem existed, and the problem was that she couldn’t understand what my needs were. 

***

Back to Present

“What?!” This is exactly what I expected, I thought. 

“I know, I know it sounds crazy.” 

“So you are telling me that this singer, who got a million-dollar deal, is your biological daughter?” 

“Um . . . yes.” Her jaw dropped while she delicately carried my new-born baby that was sound asleep despite my wife’s exasperation of the matter.

“You are not joking?” 

“No, I am absolutely not joking. Y’know, you actually shouldn’t be surprised, because you know a little bit about my history.” 

“Yes, but I didn’t know she was going to succeed! You talked about her being a guitarist, but this! Oh my god!” I swear, I thought there was a real probability of her dropping the baby on the ground. 

“Well, you are exactly right that I didn’t mention that, because I couldn’t have predicted it.” People who were able to predict the future were individuals who didn’t have any friends, because they know the consequences about every single action that they would take. “Quentyn, I have this dream of meeting her again, and really see her all grown up.” I thought I was off to a good start, but she squinted at me; she was beginning to deter, an entity that I could no longer communicate. My premise was faulty; of course she wouldn’t empathize with me, because empathy was a virtue in our day and age. 

“Um, I don’t know.” She was looking down at the baby again. “To be honest with you, I get a little jealous when you mention your previous wife.” 

“That is something I would expect.” I sat down on our old, ruckus apartment, where the cheese odor coming out of it wasn’t bothering me one bit. The amount of work it takes to express your point was an undertaking that parents couldn’t master even after two years. I was just staring at the floor, then I confessed . . . No, I couldn’t say it. The idea of sharing this out was unbearable. 

“Did you love her more than me?” What kind of question is that? How am I going to respond to that? My thoughts were going in a million directions, and I didn’t really know how to respond . . . but the answer should really be obvious, but these issues were a lot more complicated than that. I tried to grasp some words, but there was not enough for me to muscle. These were very sensitive topics. 

“No. Well, yes.” She sighed, shook her head. I didn’t want to continue on with this conversation because I knew where that was going to lead. Instead, I scurried back to my room while my wife was nurturing our new baby. Her name was Kirby, and I know—it is a really sad thing that she thought that name was brilliant.

I went back to my room, but without her looking, I was rummaging through my closet to uncover my past. There was one box below the hanged clothes, and while my hand was going through legal documents, birth certificates, and old photos, there was one photo that struck me: Daisy and I smiling at the park, my arm around Daisy’s shoulders while we sit on the bench at Stalin Park. It was a lovely sight—I will never forget her golden hair.I loved you, Daisy. I loved you. I loved my wife, but I love you more. I wish I can kiss you . . . on the lips. I imagined both of us on the bed, experimenting things with each other.