Hidden Depths

The stage door opened and a young woman was let in from the cold, once inside she pulled back the hood from her head to reveal golden brown locks that curled down to her shoulders. She smiled at the doorman and made her way though the corridors to hr dressing room, shutting the door behind her. The girl leant her back against the door as she looked round the room; the mirror had been freshly cleaned and was sparkling from the lamp�s light, the desk was tidy for once with the make-up cleared away and a fresh bunch of flowers placed on it. She went over, dumping the bag she carried in a chair, smiling she looked at the label in he blooms. 'Good luck on your first night, you'll do great xxx,' the message read. She recognised the handwriting, he always sent her flowers on the first night; but at the same time she felt saddened, having not heard from the one person that she wanted to receive new from for over five years. She regretted the argument they had but was too stubborn to apologise, they both were. But now she had made it big she wanted to get in touch again before they lost it totally. But more than anything she wanted recognition, she wanted to know he still loved her. How could she lose touch with her own father?
The door opened from the outside and a head appeared. 'Ema, you got 10 minutes,' it disappeared then came back after a couple of seconds, 'it's good to see you again, welcome back.'
Ema nodded and the head disappeared again. She pushed all other thoughts to the back of her mind and started to change for the show, she dusted her eyelids and cheeks with colour before adding the last touch of crimson lipstick. The girl checked herself in the mirror and put on a fake smile before leaving her dressing room.

To the sound if many hands applauding Ema walked off the stage, a huge grin on her ace. Surrounded by a crowd she walked to her dressing room, chatting along the way; at her door she embraced her followers and went inside, shutting the door behind her. The girl closed her eyes for a second and smiled, before opening them again to see her dressing room, same as she left it, and the smile slowly left her face. Ema knew what to do, she took out a pen and pad of paper from the bag that she'd left on the chair earlier and started to write.
Dad,
It's been a long time I know, but now know there are some things that have to be sorted out. We never should have argued before I left, but I will never forgive what you had done to me. All thee years I thought you would have been proud of me, for me to have achieved so much and yet there's never been a word, not a single one. Aren you even happy I made it?
Why can't you, the one person ho I've always turned to for guidance when things went wrong accept me for what I am? Not the person you never were. There are others here, who I know would love to be there for me; just because I have what I do. But they could never be considered any kind of true friend, they would never want me for myself as a person but for what comes with me: the money, the fame. Superficial people like that just aren�t worth the time. But how could I be satisfied with them hen the only person that I wan to be near won't even acknowledge me? Would you even give me the time of day if I asked? Or if you saw me in the street would you look my way as we passed?
They say time's a healer, but how great a healer can it be if for the last four years I've practically been excommunicated from my own family?
I know you were upset when Mum left, we all were; but when you turned to drink it broke our hearts. How could my brother and I survive without either parent to look after us? No wonder then that he took his life the way he did, no one could have shared our pain then, I sometimes dream about him hanging with that rope about his neck. And with everyone else gone the only way I could do anything was to do it my way, and only my way. It wasn't my fault if everything I did you opposed, how could I have succeeded if I was always criticised in everything? I know I lashed out, we all had abominable tempers. I really did hate you then, even if I had no reason to. And I left to become the well-loved star that I am.
But now, there is some regret; some guilt that it might be too late to do anything to change things. All I'm looking for is some recognition, some forgiveness. I hope it isnt too late. I do still love you.

Ema put the pen down and looked at the letter that was written in her own flowing handwriting, she had made the biggest sacrifice he could. Now all there was left was to post it, she'd do that as soon as possible.
But unbeknown to her an ambulance was already making its way through the streets, a casualty on the way to the hospital. It was too late for them though, and too late for her letter. No one would know about this detriment and Ema would never know, her letter would fall on a dead old mat and no reply would ever be received- it would never be read. Some things can be too late.
� Kiandra Riley 2004