Part 22:

I hate knowing that she wouldn't recognize me, even if I told her I was her dad.
And yah, I know I'm not REALLY her dad, but I would never tell her THAT, either. I'm (shit, WAS) the closest thing she has ever known to a father.
She was only 1 when I married her mother, and only 5 years old when The Collection Agencies quarantined me from them…

I'm sorry.
Again.

I'm in the corner of the room once more, slouching behind the crusted pile of recollection-filled bodies that will never again have the chance to leak out those memories or dreams. So many thoughts lost, so many ideas just….gone. It's weird to think that one of these mush piles could have possibly held the secret to a cure in their future. A future that was just….taken. A future that probably isn't even there for any of us anymore. A future for only the Vultures.
I decided to use some precious battery life to sift through the few photos that I have in my wallet, the last possible evidence that I have to let me know that I am, indeed, part of a larger world outside of this pitch black shitbox. The bodies in here can never access their memories again. But I, on the other hand, have nothing left BUT memories. Even if they ARE fleeting with each replay. Each time I re-watch one of the memories in my head, it's like an old disheveled VCR is playing the cassette, and scratching its teeth against the tape just a tad more. The tracking is getting worse. Soon, if I'm in here for much longer, all I will see is white lines in my head. At that point, I will most likely be batshit crazy. Too whacked out to even kill myself. I can't let that happen.

The first picture….
Pillow. My Pil. I don't care what the laws of paternity are. You ARE my Pil. Shit, it's been over 5 years (6 years, 3 months and 46 days now that I think about it), I wonder if you even still call yourself that. Out of sheer stubbornness, I will always call you that. Serves you right.
See, she hated her given name. That was one of the first sentences she strung together when she learned to talk. So her Mom and I gave her a chance to re-name herself, at least temporarily until she grew out of it.

"Okay", I said, "just remember that this is a VERY important choice. What do you want your new name to be?"
Without hesitation, she sternly replied "Pillow."
"Pillow?" Her mother asked.
"Why Pillow?" I continued, as her Mom and I no doubt shared the same reaction to it, secretly laughing inside for the simple fact that "Pillow" is hardly a name a parent would bless their child with.
She answered, "Because you can't sleep on a cloud or you'll fall, but you can sleep on a pillow, and a pillow is just as fancy. And I'M fancy."

Her Mother and I both chuckled for hours, and immediately began addressing her as Pillow, which she loved, and as long as she was in my life, she never got tired of it. I even tried the overkill approach, and I would say the word "Pillow" a thousand times a day, using every variation and nick-name I could muster, and she loved every one of them. Like I said, she never got tired of it. She was officially…a Pillow.
Pillow loved animals. LOVED them. Was never squeamish by the slimy ones, never threatened by the ones with rows of teeth. She unconditionally was interested in every kind of animal. She brought home so many random animals I actually had no idea WHAT species some of them even were! Case in point, the bizarre little fluff-ball that Pillow is holding in the only photo of her that I have left. The same photo that has frozen her visage in my memory for the last 6 years. Pil and the…whatever it is. In the photo, Pillow's cradling the short-haired, 3-eyed sphere in one hand, and making a teapot spout gesture with her other hand. The little critter even looked like it was smiling for the camera, too.
Pil had a ton of animals, which means she dealt with death from an early age, probably too early, but at least I hope it helped toughen her up during this time of absolute shit. But this particular creature was my favorite of hers. Not because of its looks, or its life…but in fact, because of it's death. Damn, what did she call it…?
….
Oh yah, Oodle.
About 6 weeks after Pil had adopted this little bug-eyed friend, she came into my room, a hesitant, puzzled, but calm look was painted on her face.
"I think Oodle is dead." She whispered to me.
"Well let's go see, what made you thnk that?" I asked.
"Cuz.", she said, "I pissed in his ear and he didn't move! And he ALWAYS moves when I piss in his ear!"
"YOU DID WHAT!!!!?" I squawked, almost angrily.
Pillow replied, "I pick him up and I say 'Psst, wake up, I wanna play! When I 'psst' in his ear, he always smiles and plays! But not today."
That was a key moment in my life. I briefly saw the world through her eyes. And that made me smile larger than I thought I was capable of…