Chapter Text
He didn’t have black hair. The implications of this simple observation eluded them for a solid few minutes until their brain caught up with their eyes.
He didn’t have black hair. The statement echoed hollowly through their mind as if to taunt them, effectively erasing any other thought that might have blossomed otherwise. He didn’t have black hair. How didn’t they know? Why hadn’t they known? "Well," they mused, "the why is actually pretty clear." After all, he had left before they could form any real memories of him, their toddler mind not yet equipped with a long-lasting memory section. After that, they really didn’t care to learn about a man that had left without a second thought, even when their sister saw him every other week. But still, it hurt. Pretty badly so.
They had thought heir father had black hair all their life. Granted, they were still a teenager, so their life hadn’t been that incredibly long until now. But still. Normally one just knew the hair colour of one’s parents. But no, of course they were the exception. He didn’t have black hair. He did however have the same dark, unruly shade of blonde that they grew as well. The shade of blonde they had been covering in black hair dye for years by now. Not that they intentionally tried to match themselves to the illusion of that man, (now that they knew it had all been just in their head, they could finally openly acknowledge it as such) but it had been oddly comforting, in a strange kind of way. To have a part of him. They supposed the fact they looked like an exact copy of both their parents separately should have made them happy. Or at least content. They did long for this kind of permanent, non-erasable connection to someone- anyone at this point, deep down somewhere.
But it was their parents. They didn’t like their parents at best. With their mother, more often than not it was burning rage and pain and panic and "oh god, please no, I can’t anymore, please make it stop, it hurts" and ragged breaths and years and years of therapy.
With their father it almost always had been disappointment upon disappointment, after he had left. And the feeling of being left behind and not needed and being forgotten. Not that he did that on purpose, that much they knew by now. After blaming him and fuming at the mere mention of his name for years on end, they realized at least that much. That knowledge somehow made it worse. Being cast aside, not being important, being overlooked had become one of their greatest, most silencing fear and also their silent expectation. A scenario they lived through daily, hourly, with every single breath they took.
"I will call you in the next few days", he had said before disappearing for a few months instead. They had expected nothing else, after all these years of these kind of promises that he never once kept, not ever. Still, as always, they had hoped. The emptiness left behind was something familiar and aching and numbing. They liked to pretend they didn’t care anymore. And really, they didn’t. There were no tears or heart wrenching sobs.
But the little, thoughtless trinkets he had given them over the years in order to appease his guilt for not being a father figure to his first-born child by spending ridiculous amounts of money still filled a few drawers and boxes back home. They tried not acknowledging them or to even look at them. But they existed. Quietly. Exactly like the thoughts in the back of their head that quietly nursed their hope that maybe, he would change. He had promised after all. So maybe, this time, he would try. They never made him pinkie swear his promises.
The photograph of their father in his teenage years with his soft blonde hair flying crazily in the invisible gust of air mocked their silent hope.
Pinkie swears were not meant to be broken after all.
The feeling of it being over followed them everywhere. What exactly had ended they didn’t really know. But it didn’t really matter. They didn’t really matter. Their father had 2,75 children. Two girls, one boy and them. One of their sisters visited every few weeks. She was the second born and big sibling to the other two. They weren’t even that. They sometimes had holidays. And for all their bragging to everyone that would listen and for all the framed photos on their wall, nothing could replace being an actual sibling to your own siblings. They supposed this was the same feeling their father had while looking at them. The feeling of being too late and not knowing how to make up for lost time. So, they did what they both did best. Not being involved. They had learned from one of the best, after all.
All of their siblings had blonde hair. They couldn’t believe that this recessive gene had survived in all of them. All of their sibling looked like exact copies of both their parents but looked nothing like each other. Their father was the only permanent link they shared, after all.
For such a fickle man to be called a link was bordering on self-deception, but it was the truth. The truth that attested to the quality of their shared relationship. Wonky at best, "who are you" at worst.
They gave up on family pretty easily after they noticed themselves buying another stuffed animal to appease their guilt of not being a good sibling. Their siblings never made them pinkie promise anything ever again.
Their hair was jet black in every photo one could find of them
Pinkie promises had never meant to be broken, after all.