I can hear him coming up the stairs. The slow movement of his sock clad feet, the sweaty slap of his hand as he searches for support at the banister, the wheezing and ragging of his breath each time when he moves up a step- all are too familiar.
"Where are you? Are you there?" His voice sounds whining, petulant, child-like. I don't answer him. He finds his own way to my room. It takes him a few minutes, but he always finds his way.
I realize that I am rubbing the front of my jacket with my left hand. My uniform is green, military green. The color doesn't suit me-- but I have to be patient. Only higher ranked officers in the Alliance military are allowed to wear red. I love red. It's the fiery color of passion, the fiery color of life. Deep, dark red would suit me just fine.
He talks.
"I still think you're making the wrong choice."
I talk.
"At least I'm making a choice."
He's in my room, standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against the wall. He doesn't come upstairs often. If it were up to me, he would never come upstairs. I have to be patient. Like a spider in the dark, waiting for the right moment to strike. This isn't going to take long. Soon I'll be rid of him and this vague... nothingness.
"Why?"
I haven't finished dressing-- I still need to put on my gloves. I've read the instructions thoroughly, but I couldn't determine whether privates are able to wear white gloves. Maybe it's too distinctive. This is all new for me. But I won't go up in the masses. I've been a gray nobody for so long. I refuse to go up in the masses again.
"Why?"
Right glove. I tell myself the piece of clothing smells of roses. I love roses. My fingers slide in and I watch the garment stretch to fit my hand.
"Why, Mar--"
"Don't ever call me that! Never again!" I keep my voice from screaming at the last moment, but the hitch is unmistakable. He hears it too.
"Why are you so upset?" His eyes have grown wide. I've actually turned around to yell at him.
"Stop asking those questions, father."
His beady little eyes dart around the room. The only chair available is the one next to me; my coat hangs off of it. He wouldn't dare to come that close and take the chair.
"We've talked about this before."
"I don't understand, M-" he stops right there, remembering my earlier outburst, and he changes his words. "Your mother wouldn't be so pleased with this. What you're going to do."
"There is a war going on," I say, not bothering to keep the disdain out of my voice. "Just in case you didn't notice."
"Don't be silly." He looks nervous. I turn around again and focus my attention on my left glove.
"These days it's more important than ever to make a choice."
"Your mother wouldn't be proud of you."
"She would be proud that I've made a decision, all on my own." I see him wincing. I don't understand. Are people so easy to hurt by telling the truth? Am I telling the truth, or am I only assuming that my mother would be proud of me? I was so young when she left. I was only twelve. I certainly know of one truth.
"I don't want to sit down doing nothing, whining about how hard life is, wailing about how everything is unfair, about how everybody has turned against you!" Again, I see him wincing with every word I speak. It's like I'm hitting him with an invisible sword-- even his chubby, sweaty hands go up in defense, leaving greasy stains on the wall.
"I begged her to come home, Une," he finally says.
"Yes, you begged her. I know damn well how much you begged her." Left glove. A pristine white glove, close to perfection. My hands are covered in white.
My suitcase is packed. I have meticulously studied the Alliance regulations and directions-- I bought everything they required with my own money, I made sure every official paper was stamped and in order, I studied the flight schedule. Only a few hours to go. I have to be patient. It won't be long now before I walk out of this house and start my new life.
"I really wanted her to stay. I... I thought I'd die when she left me... us. You're the only one I've left, Une."
This is the man who didn't even react when I told him I wanted to go by another name. The man who didn't blink when I told him I paid myself for the legal papers that were necessary to make my name change official.
"When you walk through that door, you're leaving me too." He sounds irritated. Something of his old anger seems to flare up. "Do you want to sever every tie with your family?"
I adjust the glasses on my nose. One suitcase and one piece of hand luggage are allowed per person on a military shuttle flight. I don't need more. I've packed my compact-- a solid blue case with two compartments of rouge and a small brush. It's the only thing my mother left me. No, that's not true. It's the only thing I managed to get my hands on before he swept the house clean of everything that reminded him of her. Before life fully disappeared from this damned house.
"Unlike you, I have ideals I want to fight for. I want to achieve a status in this world, claim my existence!" I lower my voice. "There's nothing left for me here, and you know that, too."
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to look at him. I abhor the void look in his eyes. I stand with my back towards him. He stopped complaining about that long ago. He gives up so easily.
"You don't care about peace. You only think of yourself."
"That's what you taught me, father. To think only of myself."
He remains silent. I close the lid on my purse.
"What I care about peace is much more than you care for the war. You care for how fast you can change the channel when there's a newscast on." Peace is only a dictionary word. It's up to us people to fight for it-- with weapons, with our lives.
"Your ideals are going to get you killed. The military is no place for women. The..."
"Spare me your chauvinistic, stuck-up, bigoted, old-fashioned ideas!" I reach to my right, grabbing the suitcase at the handle.
"Why did you sign up in the first place? Of all the things in the world, you choose..."
"Yes, I choose. I choose for myself and for a life on my own. Not this suffocating, pathetic excuse for living! You've buried yourself, wallowing in your own misery, blaming everybody else! That's not something I envisioned to do."
I grab my hand luggage. It's not heavy. I turn around to stand face to face with my father. He wears the same shirt that I've seen him wearing all week.
"Do you want me to beg?"
He takes me by surprise. That's one thing he's never asked me before. What is it that keeps this man still alive? Hope? Hope that everything will be all right? Hope that I'll unpack my suitcase, and I'll stay home, for him? Hope that he doesn't... won't die alone?
"I want you to get out of the way."
He faces me and looks right at me. I see nothing in his eyes-- or am I refusing to see a thing? I can't remember the day I saw something in his eyes, not even the faintest hint of an emotion. Numb. I feel numb.
"I'm fully aware of the consequences of my decision. I want to contribute to these days, this important period in history. I have ideals and they're worth a lot to me."
"You and your ideals. You don't know what you're up against."
"Neither do you." He hasn't left the house in years, I guess. It's so easy to criticize. It's so easy to sit on the couch and comment when legions of soldiers march by on your TV. At least they choose to do something about it. Something my father never has learned, and I doubt he ever will. Mother didn't leave him for nothing.
He still blocks the doorway, and I'm holding the suitcase in front of me.
"You despise me." It hurts my ears to hear this whining, crying voice, as I have heard it for the last six years. I couldn't do something about it then, but now I can. By leaving this house, by leaving him, by leaving everything behind. He's my father. Would I mourn when he died? The thought startles me somehow and I almost drop the suitcase. I can imagine my life without my father. I haven't even considered him as a factor in my future life. There's no place for him. What do I feel? Do I have to justify my feelings for him? I hesitate. Do I despise him?
"No. I don't despise you." The suitcase nudges forward. I'm about to push forward, when he finally steps aside, still leaning against the wall.
"I don't despise you," I repeat. "I..."
I look at him. The smelly, greasy shirt he wears. The worn-through pants. The dead, void look clouding his eyes. He never cared. He never laughed. He never... cared.
"I'm not coming home." I pass him; the lingering scent of roses is overwhelmed with his stench of old, sweaty clothes. I stumble down the first three, four steps of the stairs when I halt.
My mother was strict in my upbringing. She taught me manners. It's more out of a certain politeness that I turn around and walk up to him, suitcase still in hand. I see the sudden surprise on his face-- and indeed, a faint hope that I won't go. It strengthens me more in my persuasion to leave this house. I'll shape my future, and I'll choose who I want to follow. I want to make these decisions myself, and even though I'll make mistakes, they'll be my mistakes.
I don't feel disgust when I give him a peck on his brow. I retreat before he can even make the slightest movement, though I doubt he would do something as embracing in return.
"I won't be coming home." I turn around for the second time, and this time I walk down the stairs, all the way down, ignoring the flower patterned wallpaper, stained from water leakage. I open the door to the porch and I take large, no, giant steps. There's a taxi waiting for me. This part of my life is over. I'm going to build my own world-- and my father doesn't fit in there. I refrain from looking at the house for the last time. My father doesn't fit in anything. He will stand there, leaning against the wall, until it sinks in that there's nobody left in the house. Maybe he'll ask himself whether he has himself to blame for it, or whether my own ideals are at fault.
Maybe.