Who says its always about the mother.

She stared at the murky depths of her mother's mug, and wondered why coffee was brown.
Why coudn't it be red, yellow or blue? Pretty colours, in her opinion. But no, it has to an ugly brown, the nondescript brown of sodden leaves and boring grown-up's clothes. Her father used to don a shabby brown coat all the time, she vaguely recalled. But then again, it has been a long time she had last seen her father. She wondered if he knew she had gotten top marks in Arts and Crafts or that her hair is long enough to be manipulated into two pretty braids now, complete with bright pink bows.

Maybe if he knew, he wouldn't leave her and her mom that night, she thought sadly.

She still remembers her father's big bear hugs, the tight warm squeeze that she waited eagerly for every evening when he returns from work. She used to savour every moment in his embrace, the strong solid arms and deep chuckle that issues out of his broad chest as he held her close to him, his familiar scent wafting around both of them, how she pines for the smell of it now, the intriguingly tantalizing mixture of coffee, smoke, rain and cologene. Her father's scent.
The house smells stark now, as she sniff the air, as though hoping that the scent would materialize from her thoughts.

Katty Kat. Her father's pet name for her, her full name is Catherine Elizabeth Fuller, she had always primly reminded him. But he would always yank on her curls gently and tease, "but you're my Katty Kat. And you always will be."

Well, is she still his Katty Kat now? She wonders. She wonders about many things regarding her dad. She wonders if he still buys Kit-Kats whenever he walk past the old newsstand around the corner, they used to do that all the time when they go on their weekly strolls, one of her favourite things to do. She walks alone now, tottering along the broken sidewalks, avoiding the sharp curbs like how her father used to remind her, but she never bought a Kit-Kat by herself. It doesn't feel right, to buy a Kit-Kat without her father. Her mother bought her some from the grocery store once, but they never tasted as good. She told her mom that, and it made her mother broke down and cry. She never dared mention it again.

It was raining heavily outside. She glanced through the kitchen window, the rain was slashing against the panes and making an awful din, but she didn't mind. She wasn't allowed to scream, shout or throw tantrums, so she always pretended that God was helping her to vent by unleashing the torrent of rain whenever she was angry. And she always felt better after it.
Well, almost always, she amended.

The days following her father's leave was filled with anger and tears. Her mother was always breaking down and swilling out of the many glass bottles in the cabinet that she was not allowed to touch. Her mood swung from heartwrenching sadness to roaring fury very quickly. She was frightened, and did not dare incur her mother's wrath by crying or screaming. She often wish for the angry rain, so at least she knew that God was watching and helping. It came a couple of times, and she felt comforted, as though the rain made His prescence almost palphable. But sometimes, her tears wouldn't listen and coursed down her cheeks. After that, she would scrub herself with the wash towel so hard that she was raw-pink all over, so her mother wouldn't suspect that she has been crying and beat her again. Her mother's slaps hurt really badly.

Why did her father leave? Oh! How many times she had asked herself that question. Was it because she did not do her dishes after dinner that night? Or was it because she did not get a star on her math test? If he would only return, she will gladly do the dishes every night and get a star, no TWO stars on every test. But he did not. And deep inside her, she has a funny feeling she will never see him again, but she always try to ignore it, because thinking of it makes her tears come.

Her mother shouted, snapping her out of her reverie. She hopped off the stool and went to her, but not before taking one last look out the window, at the pouring rain, hoping her friend upstairs could her her make this pain in her heart go away.

A story. It has been too long since I last attempted to do one. This will seem very unpolished and dowdy. I'm sorry, but the vocabulary has rusted and the creative juices ran dry. I will need some time and practice to kick start the engine again. Hope it isn't too much of an eyesore for you readers.