This whole mess and the reason I'm taking the pills in the first place started after a poem I had written after The King's death when I was 10. The Queen asked me if I wanted to die. I, of course, said no 'cause yes wasn't the answer she was ready to hear. Maybe if I had told the truth things would be different now.

I'm still trying to understand why a 10 year old was given the choice to meet her Father for the first time and why that 10 year old agreed given their meeting ground wasn't your typical surroundings. It was certainly no walk in the park for ice cream...

Flourescent lights illuminated the cold hospital room. I remember the sterile smell and all the tubes penetrating his body. I remember the way his whiskers tickled my nose when I kissed him good night. I remember witnessing his hallucinations and his skin deteriorate. For a week I watched him fade and then totally vaporate into nothing.

Everything comes into perspective when you're on your death bed. Should it matter that that's the only time he thought of me enough to send for me? Maybe, but it doesn't ease the pain of it all. I wish I had been old enough to understand. I wish he had fought a little harder and not been such a coward. I guess that's where I get it from. Something else to thank him for besides my pretty brown eyes.

His birthday is coming up, March something. Will I visit the grave, flowers in hand? No. I haven't been for years and will probably never return. He never acknowledged my existence, took responsibility for his actions until it was too late, why should I acknowledge the memory of a man I hardly knew with roses?