FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Another restless night you spend staring out from your bedroom window, out into the dark shadows of your once safe neighborhood for her. Your hand strains as you tightly clench the window drapes, trying to see any form in the dark that stands out among the others. Some nights you swear you could see something out there, just for the briefest of moments. Rest has been a fleeting experience in your paranoia filled mind ever since she left them at your front door nearly a month ago. Though explaining it's nothing more than tricks of the light brings temporary relief to your cracking sanity, it reopens the wound the next day as you fear that perhaps it was her and that you had fooled yourself into believing otherwise. You close the drapes to hide what little light emitted from your room from the outside world to look back at your closet door for the umpteenth time that day. Your thoughts race on retrieving your last line of defense. As simple as a hunting rifle may be, it's better than what little you had that one night. You craved that sense of safety from that firearm resting in your arms, but you doubted your sleep deprived mind and twitching fingers from avoiding a possible accident. You tore yourself away from the thought of digging for that firearm, your reluctance eventually soothed as you look back out the window to see the slow passing of a police car down the street.

With a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth in a shaky exhale, you tug the drapes back over the window and rub at your eyes. It seems that even with your freedom, so much as the thought of her returning has you barely getting an hour of sleep in. On raining nights you dare not try to sleep, though you doubt your adrenaline-fueled body would allow you to as you lock yourself away in your room with your one weapon laying ready beside you. The few things that break you from your defending spot through the night were either an eventual collapse from exhaustion or a crying echoing through the house, much like the one you softly hear now at so late an hour. You quietly leave the sanctuary of your room to go towards their small room, where the four bun infants sleep in their makeshift bed of covers. In the dim light, you could see three sleeping forms and one moving its arms around as its cries slowly become louder.

You kneel down to the small bun and lift it- No, her, from the ground to hold and carry close. Her cries lessen slightly as you hold her and carry her out from the dark storage room turned bedroom towards your own bedroom. As you enter the slightly brighter room, you could begin to see her details. Her tiny, tear-stricken eyes look up to you, allowing you to see the color of blue. Her fur a slight color of dark auburn, perhaps from your father's side, though on her ears and top of her head it transitions to gray. You hold the child up to yourself, partly to help comfort her back to sleep and to avoid looking at her any further. A cold, intrusive feeling like a digging, icy worm crawling through your flesh came from your chest as you come to recall who your little daughter got her gray hair and blue eyes from. You try to distance yourself away from spiraling back into that train of thought.

Daughter. You still couldn't believe it, though the lack of belief came in hopes that this was all a long, drawn out nightmare that you would soon wake from. But the feeling of warm and cold tears staining your nightshirt and gentle heartbeat coming from her small, delicate form as you cradled her close declared to you that this was your reality now. You have a daughter. Four, as you soon discovered after calling the police that day. Your parents were the next to know, but your decision to keep them in your home seemed to shock them more than their initial appearance, especially so from your father. Your mother wasn't sure of what to do, though he was adamant in leaving them with anyone else. The authorities, an orphanage, and in his bewildered and angered state he even suggested the side of the road. He was quick to catch himself and apologize, but his intentions were clear. You felt shameful that you in part agreed with him. You, you father, and your mother wanting to wash your hands of that horrible experience, to which the four children were a constant, permanent reminder of your time spent with her. As you lie awake in bed most nights, you wonder if you should have done such and if you had made a horrific mistake in deciding to keep them.

In the brief lapse of further fearful recollection, you realize that your daughter's crying has softened to a gentle breathing, and a quick look confirmed that she fell asleep while your mind wandered. She was almost an opposite image of your tired, frightened, frayed form as she quietly slept in the comfort of her father's hold. A different feeling combated the unpleasant sensation in your chest as you thought of that: you as her father holding her close and safe from harm. This was why you had made the decision to keep your daughters. To keep them safe from whatever atrocities that may come towards them. As you brought her back to her sisters and laid her back down, you looked at the four small, sleeping bun daughters of yours. You may have every reason to never put yourself through raising and protecting them, but the thought of throwing them out brings you back to that decision you nearly made that one night while you were still trapped with her. You breathe in deeply through your nose and shakily exhale. You halfway close the door to their bedroom and return back to bed, hoping to find respite in sleep. Though, that is also to hope you would not dream of Anna returning, and what things she would do to you or worse, your children.

---

Your eyes cracked open to the gentle, early morning glow peeking through the gaps of the blinds covering your window, bathing your bedroom in a soothing blue. Your eyelids struggle to keep themselves open and you can feel a slight burn from just waking up. Knowing that sleeping in won't do you any good, you try to reach your hand up to your eyes to rub the remnants of sleep from them. Try. But your arm refused to move. Not even your hand or fingers could budge as you try to move them up from under your covers. You attempt to move the other arm, only to find it similarly pinned. Not even your legs or body could make a single budge, as if your entire body was weighed down by boulders. You try to force your eyelids open wider, but they could just barely move. The cozy blue glow of your bedroom turns into an unforgiving, malicious cold as chills course through your body. Then you hear a noise. Soft, near unnoticeable, but in the dead silence of the early morning it rings through the air like a gunshot. The sound of a footstep on carpet. Someone was in the room with you. Your heartbeat picks up tempo as your body freezes and your mind swims in fear-induced adrenaline. You needed to run, you needed to move, but there wasn't a thing you could do. It was too late anyway.

She's here.

The footsteps on carpet turn into thundering stomps as the beast looms over your bed, entering your field of vision from the side. Your breathing picks up, but it feels wrong. You wanted to scream and cry out, but your mouth refused to move just like the rest of your body. You were a prisoner in your own body, forced to watch the creature at the end of your bed. Not a single detail of her was forgotten in your brief time of freedom. Her cold, dead blue eyes staring at you, mimicking the once-comforting color of your light-filled bedroom. Her fur as gray as ash covering over the muscular lagomorph, still clad in the clothes you first saw her in that terrible night. And her lips. What any man would see as one of the many allures of a woman is twisted into a gut-wrenching, sickening smile as she looks over your still form, giving a clear message to any who know nothing of her intentions as to what exactly she sees before her. Her property. Her promise was held to the end. The glove crafted from some poor soul adorns her hand as she reaches out towards you, the black claws glistening and dripping with fresh blood. She grabs your leg through the covers, the claws digging through the flesh and muscle like clay, sending your nerves afire as your mind writhes in its bounds, hoping to find some release in kicking your still leg or screaming out in pain. Her grip digging into your leg, she leans over the bed while still adorning her terrible smile. As her clawed weapon remains anchored in your flesh, the other snakes underneath the covers along your other leg, trailing up the skin towards your groin. The fingers dance around the smooth skin of your inner thigh before finally reaching your clothed package. She fondles your genitals through the fabric, loosely gripping your privates like a delicate toy, sending the terrible familiarity of burning acid in your throat as it tries to retch in your encumbered state. Her eyes focused down at your waist through the covers, before she slowly returns her attention to you. Her cold eyes leer into yours, threatening to freeze your blood solid. Then, she speaks.

"I've finally found you, my love."

Your body jolts up in bed, finally free of its paralysis, and you madly scream out into the now empty, quiet bedroom. You're drenched in sweat and your breath ragged. Even awake, you still feel that stabbing sensation in your leg and her horrible touch on your manhood. Your eyes burn from your lack of sleep and the fresh tears threatening to stream down your face. You look around the bedroom, now completely empty without a single sign of her to be seen. You draw your leg out from your covers and run your hand along the spot she stabbed, seeing no wounds other than smooth scars left behind long ago.

"David?!" cries a familiar, feminine voice through the walls.

As the adrenaline coursed out of your body, you looked around your bedroom in a daze while trying to catch your breath. You were in your old bedroom at your parent's home. You had brought your daughters there yesterday and decided to spend the night than drive back at so late an hour. Your bedroom door opens to reveal your concerned, capybara mother, her jade eyes wide in fear and long, brown hair disheveled after rushing to you from her own bedroom. Similarly disheveled was her fur with the visible hairs on her back stood on end and her normally calm, collected face showing unease at the possibility of harm coming to you.

"Dear? Are you OK?" she asks in an uncharacteristically alert tone.

You still struggle to catch your breath from your earlier experience, as well as worry about crying in front of your mother from the sheer panic you felt just moments ago. You want to tell her you're fine, but not even the blind would assume such just from your breathing alone.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

You shake your head no. You don't want to even think about it let alone speak of it. You see your mother quietly approach your bedside, then slowly bring you into a hug, her stature short enough as to see you almost eye to eye as you sit up i . You flinch at first from the touch, but allow her to hold you close as she tries whatever she can to help comfort you. She holds you close in her warm, soothing arms and silently waits for when you've had enough. After your escape, she had comforted you like this several times, allowing you to stay with her as long as it would take for you to calm down, be it through panic attacks or tearful sobs from painful recollections of what had happened. Sometimes all you need is a few minutes. Sometimes an hour. Through it all, she stays with you diligently until you're confident enough to continue on. In the few months you've been at home trying to resume your life, you've come to miss this feeling. You return the hug and thank her after taking a few minutes to catch your breath. She disengages from you and tries to give you a warm smile, though her eyes tell a different message. A mix of fear and concern, most likely at your well-being.

You see her small ear flick and she looks out of the bedroom door. "I think they're awake, dear," she says, running one hand over her fur and another down her hair. "You should go and get washed; I'll keep an eye on them, sweetie."

Without another word, your mother quietly excuses herself out of your bedroom to tend to your daughters. You still have yet to name any of them, which you mentioned to your mother last night. With the worst of your nightmare come to pass, you begin to recall more about the previous night, particularly one ominous thing said by your father before retiring to bed: "We need to talk about them tomorrow morning." You had come yesterday to speak of them. Or rather, the current arrangements you and your new daughters now live on. Though your father wanted the small rabbit babies to be removed from your life, through many hours of discussion and persuasion he had come to an arrangement to pay for your funds, essentially eliminating the need for a job. However, as wonderful as such may be, you would never want for it to come at the expense of your parents. You wanted to talk to him regarding his past connections before retiring in hopes of finding a job, rather than live off of them like a leech. It was late at night when you had brought this up to him and your mother, to which he kept his answer simple, wanting to hold it the next day. Not wanting to delay continuing your horrifying start of the day any further, you leave your old bed to fetch fresh clothes and wash off the new layer of sweat from your body. The walk to your old home's bathroom was brief and quiet, with the only sound being the muffled, quiet cooing of your mother as she tends to your children. Her initial disposition regarding them was the same as your father, though she wasn't as vocal regarding his pushing for you to leave them in the care of another. As time passed and you came infrequently back and forth to your old home, she began to slowly warm up to the little rabbits, and her unease from being near them or holding them melted away the longer she spent with your daughters.

You remove your underwear and start up the shower, continuing your thoughts as the warm water sheds off the cold. Your father's first viewing of them remains the same to this day: disdain. Despite them being your daughters just as much as they are his grandchildren, he sees them as nothing more than her children, not of your own. In the time you had spent in Hell, you had thought the same, nearly deciding to severely harm or kill their unborn forms to allow you to escape their mother. You haven't told a soul of that choice you nearly made in your long year of freedom. You doubt you ever would. Perhaps it was that decision that made you decide to keep your four children now, despite how insurmountable the chances of success may seem to both yourself and your parents. You couldn't bear the thought of killing them while trapped in that house and perhaps you still feel the same now that their lives are in your hands than in their mother's. You almost feel relieved knowing they are no longer in her care, but it's a small relief that's buried under an avalanche of stress and fear. You're not looking forward to your talk either. How long your father is willing to drag this agonizing wait out is anyone's guess, until he eventually continues his rage fueled rants of your torturer towards the closest associated thing: the four children. You still don't know if what you're doing is the right thing. If you're making the right choice in raising them or if it's out of some obligation you've forced upon yourself in the fearful thought of making their lives terrible. Perhaps they would be better off if you left them in the care of another. How well could you guarantee the four living good lives, being a single father who still suffers mild bouts of terror when seeing familiar qualities in them?

It wasn't until the warm water began to turn cold against your skin that you realized that the suds had long since been washed off your body. You push your thoughts aside for now and turn off the shower. With a quick dry off and clean clothes put onto your body, you leave the bathroom to find your mother. Entering the living room where you left the four small children to sleep in their carrycots, you see your mother holding one of the daughters in her arms as the other three remain asleep while she sits on the couch. The one daughter in her grasp has pure white fur, long, loose ears reaching down her head, and brown eyes much like your own. Your mother looks up at you and opens her mouth as if to say something, but stops halfway. She briefly looks to your other sleeping daughters before looking back at you.

"You OK with holding her?" she asks you, her hair still unkempt from recently waking up.

You nod and sit beside her, to which she slowly hands your daughter to you to hold. Her eyes now returning to the slight droopy look you've grown used to, she lightly smiles as she looks at your active, yet quiet daughter looking between you and her grandmother. With a slight huff as she lifts herself from the couch, she leaves to wash herself, leaving you alone with your quiet, curious child. This loneliness was short lived, as the second owner of the house emerged from the hallway in a similarly unkempt, freshly awoken state, though with far less brown hair than his wife to add to the messy look. Your human father looks at you with half closed eyes, almost mimicking the same look your mother gives daily. However, you see his eyebrows tighten ever so slightly as his eyes drift to the daughter in your hands and the others still asleep close by. Without a word of good morning or statement as to when he would fulfill his promise, he leaves as quickly as he had entered, leaving you alone once more. Even in the act of silence, his messages are clear. You try to distance yourself from those thoughts until he was ready to speak, wanting to rid yourself of the tight feeling in your chest. The daughter in your hand grabs at your thumb and other fingers, staying just as silent as your father before. For some reason or another, she requires less maintenance than her sisters. The other children cry and babble as you would expect babies to, but you've seen your white furred daughter tending to stay quiet more often than not. Though you would expect it to bring even the smallest hint of relief to your wracked mind, it only brings more questions and doubts. A more subtle fear has since crept into your mind to blend with the other, far more severe terrors, as concerns of any problems that might come up with her or any one of her sisters once they grow past infancy dance about in your head.

There you go again: thinking about how your four daughters will grow and develop, even though you still hold doubts on raising them and are still not yet sure whether or not you should take up your father's proposal. But each time you think of them as older, still little children, you picture them by your side. You look over the still sleeping forms of your three daughters, then back at the last one sitting in your lap, head swiveling as she looks around the room. You still wanted to keep and raise them despite who their mother is, but the thought of you making their lives miserable from not only your lack of experience and a life partner, but your still suffering mental state, fills you to the brim with anxiety and further self-doubt. Why should you force yourself through an undeniably painful road of parenthood that could not only bring suffering to you yourself, but to your daughters as well, when they could have happy lives in the care of those far more capable and willing than you are? With all of these questions burning in your mind, why is it that you still want to push through these hardships and raise them? You still feel ill at the thought of leaving them with another, even while every part of your mind continues to list every terrible thing that could, and maybe would, happen. Is it experiencing the "joys of parenthood"? Seeing your daughters grow and develop as people under your care? Seeing that despite everything you went through, there is still love and care to be found and given to your daughters? That after every second of hardship and adversity you face from raising them and fighting off every chance you have to run, that you still stuck by their side in end? You quietly stare down at the carpeted floor, your daughter busying herself with the fabric of your shirt. You breathe in deeply and slowly exhale, then look back down to your daughter and tighten your lip to give her a small smile, much like one your mother would give to you. You slowly come to a stand from the couch with her still in your arms and leave for the kitchen, though to your surprise you saw both your mother and father sitting at the table. Your mother was already dressed and ready for the day, but your father remained as you saw him earlier.

"Good," he grunts out, eyebrows twitching ever so slightly downward as his eyes look at your daughter. "Sit down, Dave." His voice was tired, though the near empty cup of coffee by his side shows that it isn't due to fatigue. You take a seat at the third and only remaining chair available, taking care to leave enough room as to give your daughter space to move. Silently, your father looks at you from across the table. In all the years you've been with him, you still struggle to discern what exactly he feels, especially now as he looks at you with an emotionally drained expression. Anything between sudden outbursts of rage to solemn, slow talks could happen, though you readily guess the former concerning the four little things that have been introduced into your life. The still steaming remnants of liquid coffee leave vapors traveling out from the plain white mug, but his hands refuse to move as to finish the last amounts of his morning drink. Your mother looks uneasily tense. As if she wants to say something, but she doesn't know what to say to begin this conversation. Her nose twitches and nostrils flare ever so slightly as her eyes shift from you, your father, and the quiet baby bunny studying her surroundings. The only sound in the tense atmosphere of the kitchen was the distant tick and tock of the clock on the wall, keeping you aware of each passing second at the silent table. Your chest feels heavy. Before you could decide to finally begin this conversation, your father sighs through his nose and speaks.

"It's been a long month, David." His deep voice digs into your burdened chest with those few short words. He breathes out through his nose again in a sigh as he breaks contact with your eyes and looks down at your daughter.

You gently shift your daughter closer to yourself with one arm as you continue to return your father's gaze in his eyes. "Yeah," you state plainly, still unsure as to where the conversation may go.

"You said you wanted time to think about your decision regarding them," he continues, hands resting atop one another on the table as he speaks. He stays silent, presumably waiting for your answer regarding your daughters.

Gently grabbing the small, delicate hand of the daughter in your lap, you look down at her inquisitive little face. Her eyes look up to you as if she awaits your response, much like your father and mother regarding the fate of her and her sisters, before eventually resuming her studying of the dimly lit kitchen. Even with a month's time, you still weren't certain. You had hoped that one way or another, you would have no doubts over which option to take. Words struggle to form as you desperately try to think of what to tell your parents. You weren't even certain it was you speaking when you finally said, "I will keep them."

Your father breathes deeply through his nose, moving one hand up to the bridge of his nose to pinch at the skin before resting his hand over his mouth.

"You're making a mistake, Dave," he speaks, his voice slightly muffled from behind his aged hand.

Your free hand clenches tightly as he wordlessly shifts his gaze to the middle of the table. "I don't want them to live terrible lives," you respond, a hint of agitation marking your tone as you continue to look at your father in the eyes.

He breathes in deeply and breathes out once more through his nose. "You shouldn't be putting yourself through this. You didn't deserve to have these sort of problems forced onto you so soon after...," he starts, trailing off near the end of his sentence. He tightens his hand on the table into a tight fist until his knuckles turn white and his face grimaces as he recalls what happened to you.

"They aren't problems. They are my daughters," you return at him, a fire blazing in your heart as an unexpected feeling of compassion towards your children makes itself known in your voice.

Your father scowls and moves his hand as he tries to respond, but he pauses and closes his eyes. His frown melts away to return to his tired expression, then rests his hand back onto the table. "You had no choice in their birth, Dave. They shouldn't even be your children."

No choice. You almost choked on your own spit as he says that. You did have a choice. One you nearly made. One if you had made, that it would have haunted you for the rest of your life. Almost mimicking your father now as you try and calm yourself, you answer, "But they are. It doesn't matter if they should or shouldn't be. They are."

The mask your father is holding up cracks once again, but as before he pulls himself back. It almost feels unreal seeing your father avoiding an outburst, opting to continue calmly speaking to you. It's almost as if he had given up entirely on having you sympathize with his rage towards the terrible circumstances of your situation. Another speechless minute passes as he breathes in and out. Your mother fearfully looks between you and your father, knowing someone will break soon. "And how do you know they won't become like their mother? What if they-" he begins, anger cracking through the calm tone he forces onto himself, until you cut him off.

"What if they what?!" you yell out, causing your mother and daughter to flinch back. "I won't let anything happen to them that would make them ANYTHING like her!" you spit out. "They WON'T grow to be like her and I will NEVER allow anything to turn them into that psychopath!"

Your yelling subsides, the silence only broken by the upset crying of your white furred daughter. Your expression of anger shifts to anxiety as your daughter's shrill cry picks up, breaking her calm expression into that of infantile fear. Your mother gently reaches for your child in your grasp, to which you allow. She holds the small infant close and tries to calm her down, whispering gentle words and claims that everything is fine. Your father tries to speak, but is interrupted once more, this time by your mother as she holds your daughter close.

"Evan," she gently says, her motherly charm slowly soothing your crying daughter. "They're just children. You don't know how they'll turn out to be."

Your father pinches at the skin at the bridge of his nose once more and now hangs his head down. "David... Please," he begins, all anger lost in his voice. "What if I could find a home that would take them in? Not an orphanage, but two adults who would take them in?"

"No," you calmly, but sternly answer after a moments pause. "They're my daughters and I'm their father."

Your father breathes out slowly. Your daughter has finally stopped crying, now only lightly whimpering as she rests her head against her grandmother's chest. "... OK," he mumbles, using one hand to brush a small amount of hair behind his ear. His lip tightens and his eyes glisten slightly in the dimly lit kitchen illuminated by the morning sun peeking through the windows. "OK." He exhales one final time. "You're an adult. It's your decision," he quietly says.

You feel your own eyes starting to sting as you listen to your father, the rage that burned inside of you now gone. "And Dad...," you start, deciding to ask now than bring it up another time. "I don't want you and Mom to deal with my payments."

Your mother's attention now turned to you as you say this, breaking away from quietly whispering to your daughter. "How are you going to pay for it then?" This you had not put much thought towards, all of your previous focus being on your father accepting that you would take in your daughters.

"I'll... contact Baker," your father speaks up, your mother's attention now shifting to him. "Maybe he'll find a job for him, maybe something that allows him to work at home."

You feel dumbfounded. "Thank you, sir," you quietly respond, the weight of the oppressing atmosphere finally lifting off of your mind.

"You'll have to work at it for a while to be able to work entirely from home," your father sniffs, running a hand over his eyes before continuing. "But it should help you there, son."

You weren't sure of what to say other than another thank you. You rest back into your chair, finally feeling a sense of elation and optimism regarding the uncertain future ahead of you. Your mother looks considerably more relaxed now and your father puts his focus back into his now cold coffee, finishing the remnants before leaving you and your mother at the table to place it in the sink.

"So...," your mother starts, "Have you decided on names for them yet, Dave?"

In the short time you've since mentioned your lack of ideas on names for your daughters, you still have yet to think of any for the four. You look to your young, white-furred daughter in your mother's arms, now finally calm and relaxing against her comforting body. As you look at her once again quiet form, you try to think of a name to forever call her by. Of the many that crossed your mind, only one stood out to you. "So far, just for her," you say, motioning your hand towards your snow white daughter. "I want to name her Sally."

---

The shrill, repeating beeps of the alarm clock broke you from your brief slumber, forcing you to tiredly groan as you eye the red numbers piercing through the dark. Six A.M.; just barely four hours of sleep after you forced yourself to rest. Though, even now, you still feel distressed by that one noise you heard last night. You had just finished putting your young daughters to bed and wrapped up the last few assignments that were needed to be done when you heard a soft thump. Though your blood had turned cold, you tried to reason to yourself that it was either the house settling or one of your daughters. But, the noise came again, somewhere close to your wall. Somewhere outside. Five years and paranoia still wracks your body. It was already a mountainous task to convince yourself that the noises you hear inside the house during the night and even the day was nothing but your energetic children. You still vividly remember the fear you once felt as you started to hear them opening and closing doors throughout the house and how you constantly pondered what if, for that one moment, it wasn't them. But this noise, you knew it came from outside. Once again, you peer out into the dark neighborhood. The curtain slightly pulled aside for you to glimpse through, you scanned the roads for any sign of life for hours. Occasionally, you left your bedroom window to peer out from another view, but yet you still saw nothing. It was only until you saw how late it had gotten that you called off your feverish search, knowing that you had to wake up early to prep.

You fumble behind the alarm clock to flick its alarm off, some part of you still wishing you could go back to bed to make up for the hours lost. Regardless, you push onward to collect some clean clothes and go into the bathroom to shower. You briefly look into the mirror after turning the lights on, squinting as the harsh fluorescent burns your eyes. The reflection staring back at you was a mess. His eyes were tinted pink from last night's panic, the color of the skin underneath them dark from repeating many such nights in the past few years, and past the exhaustion, his expression exudes a feeling of permanent unease. You put the clothes aside, turn on the faucet, and use the cold water to try to wash away the tired shell of a man that stared back at you. While it helped soothe your burning eyes, the cold water didn't help ease away the pain you feel in your jaw and the numbness in your ribs. You take a deep breath in and out, then undress to shower. After quickly washing and drying off, you dress in your fresh clothes and leave to your daughters' bedroom. Slowly and quietly, you open the door. Dim, traces of light from the bathroom across the hall peek in to show the four, small beds at each corner of the room with each of your four daughters quietly sleeping under their colorful covers. You take another deep breath in and out, relax your shoulders, then bring a hand to your eyes to rub away any remnants of sleep. You needed to sound happy to your little girls, even if it meant faking it. You go to your closest daughter, the slight light revealing the fur around her peaceful, slumbering face to be brown. You get down on one knee and gently nudge her shoulder with your hand.

"Hey, Lisa," you gently whisper, spotting her ears twitch as you speak. "It's time to get up."

Her eyes scrunch up and her head shifts over to face you. She groans and opens her eyes ever so slightly.

"We have to get ready for school, remember?"

She lets out another slight groan and slowly sits up in bed, showing her raggedy bed hair that you'll no doubt have to fix with each child. Confident that she's able to get out of bed, you stand up and go to your next sleeping child. Her fur was gray, though it didn't always help you with knowing who she is, all because of her identical sister sleeping on the opposite side. You haven't yet found a single physical difference between the two; not one mark or hair out of place. Though thankfully, your mother was the one who suggested and bought colored clothing to help differentiate the two, deciding to pick her favorites and give Amanda blue clothing and Megan green. From the blue fabric of her pajamas, you can guess that it's Amanda. You guess only because you would never know if Amanda decided to switch clothing with Megan for one reason or another.

Repeating what you've done with Lisa, you gently shift her awake with your hand. Surprisingly, she reacts more quickly than Lisa, as she opens her eyes and sits up in bed with speed. Any signs of tiredness seem to disappear in a moment as she asks, "Is it time to go to school?"

"Yes, sweetheart," you respond, making her smile cheerfully as she gets out of bed. She goes across to Megan's bed and begins to do what you've done, though far less gently as she shoves against her sister and loudly whispers into her ear, "Hey! Hey! It's time for school!" You can see Megan grimace as her sister continues to push and shove until she grumbles out, "I'm awake! I'm awake!" She pushes Amanda away and gives her the most threatening glare a five-year-old girl could muster, though it does little to dampen her eagerness. With only one last daughter to wake up, you prepare to kneel down but stop in surprise as the white bun slowly rises up from her bed.

"Good morning, Sally," you greet.

She looks at you with sleepy eyes and lets out a big yawn, then slowly climbs out of her bed in silence.

Unnerved, you bring a hand down to smooth out her long, messy white hair and ask, "Hey, are you alright?" She doesn't return an answer.

"She didn't sleep good last night, Daddy," Amanda chimes in, prompting another glare from Megan.

"Maybe because you kept talking to me last night when I was trying to sleep," she grumbles.

You try to shake off the feeling you felt earlier to focus on the task at hand as your two daughters argue among themselves. You approach their drawers, take out some fresh clothes, and lay them out on each of their beds. Confident they can dress themselves, you then leave for the kitchen to prep breakfast. As you crack some eggs to cook and prep some bread in the toaster, you hear the loud thumping of footsteps coming close. Within moments, your heart jumps into your throat and your muscles tighten as the quick steps grew louder and louder, until Amanda bounded into the room.

"What are you making, Dad?" she cheerfully asks, innocently ignorant of your sudden anxiety. You take a moment to collect yourself, heart still thumping painfully in your chest.

"Are you OK?" another voice rings out.

You turn, seeing Lisa standing in the doorway rubbing her eyes with one hand with her favorite stuffed dog toy trailing along on the ground in the other.

"Yeah, yeah. Just... Just fine," you answer your brown furred daughter. Turning back to the counter, you see Amanda still at your side waiting for your answer as she studies how you have everything set up on the stove. "I'm cooking eggs."

“Can I help?"

You hesitate for a moment, though decide against whatever fears you have and answer, “Sure. Uh... Just help me crack some eggs on the pan."

“OK!" she replies, leaving your side for a moment to drag a stool over. Now able to actually see the pan, Amanda eagerly awaits your instruction.

“Right... Just... Tap it gently on the side here and pull it apart," you say, handing the first egg to your excited daughter. She takes the egg carefully and taps it slowly on the iron side, making no discernible progress on the egg. “Here," you say, grabbing the top of her hand and the egg, “Let me show you." You slowly raise her hand and bring it with the egg down at a quicker speed down on the side of the pan, all the while Amanda is studying what you do with interest. “Now just... Stick your fingers into the cracks and pull the shells apart." You let go of Amanda's hand and she slowly tries to do what you said, though you stop her before she tries to open it on the side of the pan and not above it, “No, there, sweetie."

Now above the mark, Amanda digs her fingers into the shells and very slowly takes it apart, until finally the egg comes out and onto the warming pan beside the other two you have prepped. “I did it!" she cheers, looking up to beam at you in pride at her accomplishment.

Returning a slight smile, you ruffle the gray fur on top of her head and respond, “Yeah, thanks. Now go wash your hands and sit with your sister." Turning your attention back to the pan and checking for any eggshells, you can hear Amanda step down from her stool and drag it away towards the sink, soon filling the silence of the early morning with running water. All that you have left to do is wait for the eggs to cook, as soon you can hear the sizzling of the eggs against the cast iron. You rest a hand against your forehead and groan slightly, as you feel the pain of the migraine from last night returning to you. With paranoia still haunting you time and time again in the dead of night and even in the middle of a bright day, painful headaches were soon to follow which was made all the worse by your four daughters. You can hear the soft footsteps of two more feet soon enter the room, with a side glance confirming that Sally and Megan came in to join their sisters at the dinner table. They were all quiet as they waited for their breakfast, thankfully keeping the light, painful thumping in your head at a minimum.

You love them all dearly, but some days it becomes too much for you to handle as they all clamor for your attention. You know they mean no ill will and that they're still very young, but sometimes the stress gets the better of you. You still remember the first time you snapped at your young daughters. You were still taking care of them at your parents' home and had just came home from work, with each of the four little rabbit girls swarming around you wanting to spend time with their father. Eventually, after hearing Lisa and Megan call out “Dad!" for the umpteenth time, you snapped out at them to just leave you alone as the pain in your head came to a peak. They both look horrified after you yelled, tears welling up in their eyes as they started to bawl at your aggression. You were regretful within moments as you felt pain within your chest from seeing their distress, uttering out apologies and quiet coos for nearly an hour while you held them close, trying your best to reassure them that they hadn't done anything wrong.

The absolute last thing you ever wanted was to make your little girls upset because of your own terrible decisions or actions, finding that even just looking anxious or mad makes them afraid. So since then, you've tried your best at keeping up happy appearances, even when at times it became tiring just keeping up a simple smile as the stress of work and watching for her builds up. As much as you greatly appreciate the opportunity to work at home as to better keep an eye on your daughters and home, it was still work. Deadlines to meet, many late hours to spend, and your daughters still needed to be cared for all the while. Time and time again you think about how easier it would all be if you had a partner to watch them all and to act as a mother, but each time the thought is struck down by the many dead ends you find yourself in while thinking about finding romance.

The very first was your daughters, as no doubt many women would rather not be with a man who was burdened with as many children as you were. Even then, you don't feel well at the thought of finding a woman just for the sole purpose of being a mother to your little girls, but finding one that would be with you and couldn't care for them makes you feel worse. Your options were greatly hindered, but even then you had another issue at hand: you still couldn't get over your fear. Your mother once tried to push for you to try dating while the girls were still young infants, though to describe your first and only attempt as having gone poorly would be an understatement. You nearly raised a scene just from her touch alone, throwing yourself back and away from her just from her placing her hand on your shoulder, even after numbing yourself with more than several drinks at the bar. You never even caught her name as you excused yourself for your car, where you hid away to try and ease off the anxiety and alcohol in your system before returning home.

You're stuck in a horrible situation with no way out, perhaps damned to be a single father forever. You can't stop your migraine because of your job and kids, and you can't find someone to help you with raising them because of the very fact you have them and your baggage from their mother, and even then you doubt-

“Uh, Dad?"

“What?" you snap, breaking out of your thoughts to look at your daughter Megan speaking. Her ears twitch and her eyes widen at your response, making you take a moment to breathe and calmly ask, “What is it, sweetie?"

Her nervous expression disappearing after you talk more gently, she looks at the stove in confusion and asks “Are eggs supposed to smell like that?"

You look back to your eggs, seeing that in the time you were distracted by your own thoughts that the sides of the eggs were brown and were steadily creeping in on the rest of the egg. You quickly scrape the overcooked eggs off of the pan and onto your plate, seeing that it was a bit too late for them. After groaning at disappointment, you mutter, “I'll just have these three," and crack a few more eggs to serve to your daughters. Three more eggs onto the pan, which you make sure to pay attention to as you try to shift your thoughts onto what you have to worry about today and tomorrow. At the moment, the first thing you have to do after feeding them is prep their school lunches, then drive them out to school. You know the buses pick up the neighborhood kids just a few minutes of a walk away, but you aren't going to let them go off and wait someplace out of your sight. Not on your life. After dropping them off you... Actually, you don't have anything you really need to do for work. The moment you drop the girls off, you have the rest of the day to do whatever. A strange feeling starts to course through you. Relief? Excitement? You're not entirely sure.

Returning your attention to the pan, you take off the finished eggs and put each two onto a plate and one on another. Cracking three more eggs onto the pan, you give the plate with two to your closest daughter Megan. “I'll get the rest to you all soon...." you say as you turn back to cook the eggs. Returning to your thoughts, you're not sure what you even want to do. It's been so long since you've been able to just relax. Your mind draws a blank on things you wanted to do or catch up on. You... just don't know what you want to do. With the next three eggs finished, you put one more on the plate and two on the next, giving the two plates to Lisa and Sally. Two more cracked eggs and you'll be done. You of course still need to worry about their doctor appointments, eventually the dentists, and whether or not you'll do something with them for Halloween. Your mother seems more than happy to dress the girls up and get them excited to go trick-or-treating, though your father still resents them and prefers to keep his distance, but at the very least doesn't antagonize them. If you do, you'll need to be extra careful with chaperoning them around the neighborhood and preferably get them home before dark.

Breaking yourself from your thoughts, the last two eggs are done. Putting them on the final plate, you give them to Amanda and take your plate of warm, overcooked eggs to eat at the table, then retrieving a glass of water for yourself. You sit down at the table, seeing each of your daughters eating their breakfast and drinking their milk or orange juice, except Sally who just quietly looks at her untouched food with tired disinterest. "You OK, Sal?" you ask before putting another forkful of charred eggs in your mouth, nearly gagging as you try to force down the poor tasting meal with a swig of water. If she heard you, she chooses not to respond as she continues to look at her plate in silence. The only thing you note that's been touched at all was her small, bright blue plastic cup of milk now being half empty. “You... Don't need to eat it if you don't want to."

Sally looks up at you, then to her other sisters. Megan and Lisa were already finishing their food, though Megan seems to have stopped more than halfway through her meal while Lisa's effectively cleaned her plate; meanwhile Amanda looked to be finished as she excitedly talks to her other two sisters about school, albeit with some of the scrambled eggs messily spread around the plate, her portion of the table, as well as the fur on her own cheeks. Sally looks back at you with her sleepy, brown eyes and gently speaks, “OK." You force yourself to smile, hoping it would at least brighten her up, and return to trying to force the burnt meal down. After a few more hurried forkfuls and swigs of water, you leave the table to put the rest of the food in the trash and put the plate aside in the sink.

“Alright, girls... If you're finished eating, go get your backpacks and shoes on," you instruct, receiving an overly gleeful grin from Amanda as she bolts up from her chair and sprints down to her room. You yell out, “No running in the house, Amanda!" making the other daughters reel back slightly in surprise and fear from your voice.

“Sorry, Daddy!" she yells back from down the hall, the message thankfully received as the anxiety-causing thumps and stomps of her running have stopped.

The other three daughters soon follow after their eager sister and leave the table to get prepared, leaving you alone in the kitchen. You grab the four plates, scrape whatever food was left uneaten or untouched into the trash, and put it beside your own plate in the sink to be cleaned later. All you had left to do now was prepare their lunches. Set on the counter last night with the tags still not yet removed were the four colorful lunchboxes your daughters picked out alongside their backpacks earlier this month; one green, one blue, one pink, and one red. You made sure to go the extra mile to avoid confusing whose was whose by writing their names down on the handles in permanent marker. You pull open the drawer beside the fridge and take out the box of plastic bags, then open up the fridge to prepare some of their meals. Like their lunchboxes and backpacks, you also had them figure out what they would want to eat: PB&J, goldfish crackers, grapes, and caprisun. Relieved they were all in agreement over something simple, you start prepping the sandwiches and bags of snack food, filling each lunchbox one by one.

However, you pause as you reach Sally's red lunchbox. You think about the breakfast she didn't eat and how hungry she would most likely be by the time the teacher lets them have lunch. Concerned for her, you decide to fill the bag with several more grapes and make another PB&J before putting them into her lunchbox. Your mind wanders to what your mother used to do when she made your lunches, like adding in little notes wishing you a good day or how she loves you. Before you could decide as to whether or not to do it, you're scared out of your train of thought by Megan, announcing her presence from the kitchen doorway with a question. “Dad, why does she get to have two butter and jellies?"

Taking a brief moment to reorient yourself, you answer, “Because... She didn't eat her breakfast, honey."

“Can I have two?"

As you're about to answer her, you're cut off in surprise by the loud, but distant shouting of Amanda far away from the kitchen and in her room. “I want two!" she yells out. “I want two, too!" you hear Lisa yell soon after, just as far away as her sister was.

You're taken aback. You and Megan were speaking in very normal indoor voices, yet somehow the two were able to hear you and yell out what they wanted all the way from their own room. Their hearing seems to be just as good as- ... Your chest tightens as you force yourself to avoid that thought, focusing back on your patiently waiting daughter. “Yeah, I'll give you all two," you answer, hearing a distant cheer from Amanda after responding. Megan smiles and walks off to the living room, leaving you alone once again. As you prep three more sandwiches, a new fear presents itself in your mind as you consider their hearing: Just how much have they heard before from your quiet mumbling and muttering whenever you spent another night watching out for her- Your chest tightens painfully again. You focus back on just finishing the sandwiches and getting the four ready to go. Avoiding any further trailing thoughts, you quickly finish the three PB&Js and put them in your daughters' lunchboxes. You remember again the notes your mother used to give you. You sigh out and look for a notepad and pencil, then begin writing out messages for the four. You briefly explain why you put a bit more in Sally's lunchbox and write that you wish she has a good day, writing other loving messages to the other three daughters, and ending it all with “Love, Dad."

Zipping the four lunchboxes up, you carry the four out and bring them to the living room where you see the four sitting on the couch with their backpacks and untied shoes. Your mother told you that you should teach the four how to tie their shoes soon, using money or candy as an incentive for doing it on their own among other things, but you'll have to make time for that some other day. After tying each shoe one by one, you put the girls' lunchboxes into each of their backpacks and give a quick check through them all. Each of the supplies requested by the school seems to be in place and now all that's left to be done is getting the four there.

“Alright, let's go," you say, causing the four to stand, or jump off from their seat like Amanda, and leave the front door for the car as you turn off the lights and lock the door behind them. The skin-biting chill of the morning air stung your throat and body as you took a breath in and slowly approached the car, eventually manually unlocking it for your daughters patiently waiting close by. The vehicle was bought a few years ago by your parents, though it pained you to see them having to spend more on you, even though it was ultimately for the better. Once just for getting you to your job, though now for carrying the four girls. It was either that or the bus stop, though the thought of leaving your four daughters alone where anybody could come up and... No. Bus stops weren't an option and they never will be. One by one you help lift your daughters into the car and make sure each of their belts were buckled. You notice Lisa was still holding onto her stuffed dog toy as you buckle her in, but decide against saying anything. You'll tell her to leave it with you later.

Pushing the key in the ignition, you're greeted with the familiar hum of the vehicle as you start the car. You turn on the heater, though you make sure to leave the hot air only blasting yourself. If your mother was any example, then your daughters should be just fine in this cold weather in their normal clothes, and making them any hotter with their fur coats would just make them uncomfortable. You pull out of the driveway and begin the brief journey out towards their new school, the ambiance of the tires on gravel and the engine of the car only drowned out by Amanda still striking up conversation with her sisters. You focus ahead on the road, though your eyes still burn and are only agitated further from the cold air. The desire to get lost in thought and distract yourself from your eyes and the feeling of tightness in your ribs comes to mind, though the only thing that comes to mind is the question as to what you'll have to do after dropping them off. Your mind draws a blank.

Through your efforts, you don't have anything immediately due for work and with your daughters in school, you'll be free to do anything; at least until 3 PM. You feel... relieved. You cannot remember the last time you had a moment to yourself just to breathe. If it wasn't work, it was your daughters, and vice versa. Of course, you love your daughters to death and would give and have given everything to be there for them. But, the prospect of finally having some silence to yourself is invigorating. You can almost feel the oncoming signs of your near daily headache start to wear away as well. You snap back to reality as you realize you're nearing the school, as noted by Amanda as she eagerly presses her hands against the window.

“We're here!" she cheers out as you pull into the parking lot. After eventually finding a spot, you look back to see Amanda reaching down to unbuckle herself, meanwhile your other three daughters look disinterested, afraid, or a mix of the two with Sally, Lisa, and Megan.

“OK, girls," you say as you step out of the car, “Let's get you all to class." One by one they come out of the car, though as Lisa comes out with her favorite toy in hand you recall what you wanted to tell her before. “Hey, sorry, sweetie. You're going to have to leave it here with me."

An immediate expression of fear overtook Lisa as she hugged the stuffed dog toy closer to herself. “No, I want Mr. Puppy to come with me!" she pleads, eyes already beginning to water.

“I'm sorry, Lisa, but... Mr. Puppy can't go to school with you. I'll have to watch i- Him... Until I come pick you all up."

Hugging the toy ever tighter, her eyes still remain moist and her nose begins to twitch as she begins to sputter, signaling her being ready to cry.

“Hey, hey, look- Sweetie," you comfort, bending down to be eye to eye with your daughter. “You'll have your sisters here with you. And nothing will happen to Mr. Puppy. I'll... Keep a good eye on him while you're gone, OK?"

With a loud sniff, Lisa loosens her tight hold on the toy and uses a free hand to wipe at her eyes as she responds, “OK..."

“OK...." you sigh with relief, thankful you avoided having your daughter bawl and cry as you bring her and the others to their class. “Let's put him back in the car and-"

“C-Can I bring him with me to see the school?" she asks, still reluctant to give up her toy just yet.

“Sure. But I have to take him with me when I go."

“OK..."

Standing back up straight with another sigh, you close the doors and lock the car. Lisa reaches up to hold onto your finger, still showing fear at the building ahead. Your other fingers twitch slightly as you feel her soft fur against your finger, though you focus on the front door of the school than whatever horrible thought dare comes to mind. Regardless, it still makes your skin crawl and fingers begin to desperately twitch. Regardless, you force yourself to hold onto her tiny, furred hand as you approach the school building. After just a few steps, you see Megan approach your other side to hold onto your hand much like Lisa. You flinch involuntarily and again force yourself to accept her tiny hand in yours. Meanwhile, Amanda races on ahead to the front door and Sally follows you from behind.

Amanda pushes the door open and looks around the inside of the school, eyes wide with childlike wonder. “C'mon, Dad!" she yells excitedly. Slowly and with some gentle coaxing to Megan and Lisa to follow, you and your other three daughters catch up to Amanda.

“Alright. This way, girls," you say, leading the four down towards their kindergarten classroom. Lisa and Megan still stubbornly held onto your hand, both still visibly timid of the school. Sally... You weren't sure what to assume from her ever neutral expression as she continues to silently follow you and take in her surroundings. Why is it you look at her and always see-

“This is it!" Amanda cheers out, breaking your train of thought. Room 5. Hopefully, the email was right. You open the door and usher the kids inside before following yourself. It was a colorfully decorated room. Walls were lined with posters, shelves filled with children's books and toys, and on the back wall windows viewing the playground outside. In the center were a few small tables, though only two other children were seated. You realize that you may be earlier than expected. Amanda immediately leaves your side to talk to the two other children, breaking the silence of the room to introduce herself and talk. Looking beside you, you see a chalkboard and the teacher's desk, though a notable absence of said teacher. On the chalkboard you can see written in large and easy to read letters, “Ms. Ruby".

Before you could wonder as to where she is, you hear the door open behind you.

“Hey, sorry, kids. Forgot the- Oh, pardon me, sir."

You move out of the way while turning around to look at your daughter's teacher. Though, you find yourself having to look quite a bit lower down. What met your sight was a small kangaroo woman with her hair in a bun, a gray wool jacket, and a similarly colored skirt. But as you both meet each other's eyes, a vague sense of familiarity comes to you. She looks beside you to your three daughters and glances her eyes to the center of the room where Amanda was.

"These are your daughters, sir? Are you a David Fa-" she asks, pausing as she looks up at your face in slight confusion. "Hey, have we, uh... Ever met before?" As you try to recall, Ruby's face lights up and she snaps her fingers. "No way. Were you at state university?"

State university. That almost seemed like a lifetime ago, even though it was just seven years or so since you dropped out. You wanted to stay, though your parents struggled to pay the bills in time and loans looked to be the worst option one could take. Memories come flooding back to you as you answer with a confused, "Yes?"

The kangaroo's smile widens. "Now I know why your name seemed so familiar to me, mate! Remember? We partnered up in the gym training or whatever class?"

The itch of the near forgotten memory dancing on the edges of your mind was finally relieved. You remember that you took a class on learning how to use gym equipment and exercise for extra hours, which is where you were partnered with Ruby by the teacher. Though you barely remember what the kangaroo looked like nearly half a decade ago, she certainly looks to be in very good shape.

“Was wondering where you went after the midterms," she grins while rubbing the back of her neck. “Jeez... Four kids, mate. Crazy."

You avoid responding to Ruby's remark on your daughters, though you doubt you could anyway due to the lump you feel wedged in your throat. Crazy would be a twisted understatement.

"Well, hey, we should talk sometime, y'know? Catch up on you and you havin' kids and all."

“Yeah. That'd... That'd be nice," you respond, unsure if talking to her about your past was something you would want to do.

She smiles at your response and looks back to your three daughters. “And so what are your names?"

“Megan," your gray haired daughter first answers, still timidly holding onto your hand. Lisa, also still nervously holding onto your hand while clutching her Mr. Puppy close, answered next in a quiet voice, “I'm Lisa." After a few seconds of silence, you were surprised to see that Sally was still behind you. Before you could say her name, Megan speaks for you. “And that's Sally and that's Amanda," she says while pointing with her free hand.

“Nice to meet you all. You can call me Ms. Ruby, OK? Why don't you say goodbye to your dad and go take a seat next to Amanda at the table?" Ruby asks.

Before your daughters could say goodbye, you remember the little doll in Lisa's hands. “Alright, sweetie. I'm gonna have to take Mr. Puppy with me," you ask in a gentle tone, getting down onto one knee to be face to face with your scared daughter. You grab the stuffed toy, though she's reluctant to give it up just yet. “Don't worry, I'll take care of him while you're here." Thankfully, it seems to have calmed her down, as her timid expression slowly wears off.

“Mr. Puppy needs to eat dog food and... And... He needs water and playing, Dad," she says, still clinging onto her precious toy. You remember when she tried to give it water, having caught her when she was four years old in the bathroom and tried to bring its head into the toilet bowl to drink.

“I'll... Make sure to do that," you answer with a comforting smile, finally convincing her to let it go in your hands. Before you could stand back up, she came closer to you, rested her head against your chest, and brought her little arms as far around you as she could in a hug. Your muscles tighten and stomach churns as you feel her small furry arms and fingers touch your body, though you suppress the urge to squirm or throw yourself away from her. Just like you've had to do many times before.

“Bye-bye, Dad," she says, her fear on your and her Mr. Puppy leaving still present in her voice. Though it feels as if there's lead in your arms, you bring yourself to return the hug. After a few seconds, you bring your arms away and she backs off, though now you see Megan quickly taking her place. She hugs you much like her sister did while quietly saying, “Bye, Dad." You hate yourself for how much you find yourself struggling to return the affection, but you manage to force yourself to hug her back anyway. After her hug, you see Amanda run from her seat towards you and launching herself at you to give you a hug as well. You grunt from her tackle and the continued feeling of your daughters' touch, though she remains blissfully unaware as she chirps out, “Bye, Daddy!"

Her hug was the quickest, as she releases you just after saying goodbye to run back to her seat and bring her two sisters to theirs. All that was left was your final daughter Sally. Still ever so silent, she continues to quietly stand in her spot and is the one daughter that hadn't come to you for a hug. The brief thought of being thankful that you wouldn't have to worry about being touched any further comes to mind, though you find yourself disgusted by it. Once again, you force yourself to hug your daughter, this time initiating it and bringing Sally close to hug her. She remains still for a moment, though you soon find her little arms returning the hug and resting her head against you. “I hope you have a good day at school," you say to her as you let her go. She looks at you as she backs off, a slight smile breaking her normally neutral expression.

"You too, Daddy," she says, turning around to join her sisters at their seats.

With it all over, you come back to a stand. A violent shiver works its way down your spine, only adding to the feeling of how much you despise the way you feel handling your daughters.

"That was sweet," Ruby says. "Well, hey, it was good seeing an old friend again. If you didn't see on the email, class ends at 3 PM, so you can come by around that time to pick up your daughters. Will see you then, alright?"

“Yeah. Will, uh... See you then," you respond, giving a small wave to your four daughters before leaving the room. You find yourself shivering once again, still feeling the spots their arms and hands on your body like they were like flaring bruises. You want to force yourself past it and continue to love and cherish them, but every time you walk away feeling anxious and physically ill. Even as you leave the building and get into your car you still feel their touch on your skin. Spots where their fingers were on your ribs, swathes of skin where the fur of their arms was, and even the spot on your chest where they laid their head. You take several moments to yourself to breathe while rubbing your hands over the spots to try and remove those intangible feelings. You mentally focus on the girls as you try to calm yourself, thinking of Amanda's excitement, all of them telling you goodbye, and hoping you'll come back to see the four enjoying themselves. After a few minutes the spots around your body begin to wear off until eventually disappearing altogether. You take a long breath in and out. Your head still hurts from the start of the morning but at least you no longer feel queasy. You put Lisa's Mr. Puppy in the back seat, already imagining her joy when you return it to her.

In the thought of returning it to her you remember that for the first time in ages you finally have time for yourself. Time to unwind, breathe, do whatever you want. But even now you still struggle to think of anything that could help with that. All aside from one thing: the bar. Alcohol became a bitter, distant friend through the years, helping you temporarily clear the lingering fears and memories. Though you found yourself once using it liberally before your daughters came into your life, you've distanced yourself as best you could for their sake. Of the many things you would want to never happen to your daughters, one is that they never see their one and only parent bringing himself to drink just to relieve himself of the horrible anxiety and stress he feels when raising them. Also, the fear of them ever finding alcohol in your home and drinking it or doing god knows what with it. Either way, you refuse to drink at home, even if now you have the chance to again. Maybe with a quick visit, you could inure yourself against the invading memories and anxiety once again. If only for a short while.

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