07-25-2017, 10:43 AM
Irene, to her shame, had spent the first week of his death avoiding her father. She had gone to the hospital to see Holliday and once assured that her sister was alright, she had gone home and cried herself full sore at the news that her father was gone –except that he wasn’t – he was still there, stull running the hotel, still doing everything that her father had always done – nothing had changed, other than the fact that he seemed to be rather enjoying the fact that the physical constraints of the hotel no longer applied to him.
It had been an odd adjustment, despite growing up in a magical household, where the reality of ghosts was an accepted truth of life, it was still odd to know that one’s own father was a ghost – technically dead, with everything that entailed, and all the terrifying finality of the grave, and the end of his mortal life, but somehow there wasn’t a need to be sad about it. She had hated it immensely until Somerby had spoken with her at length about the whole mess, and she was now assured that it wasn’t entirely a bad thing. After all, all children must lose their Papa’s eventually – hers would now never leave, and without him they might have lost Holliday too, and that would have been too much for Irene to bear she was sure. So all in all, it was not much of a situation to be sad about.
Still – her father’s sense of humour and his new ‘abilities’ were not exactly a harmonious match, more than once squeels had echoed around the house, as he had snuck up on someone, and today, as he stuck his head through the door, Irene found herself letting out a cry of her own in surprise at the sudden appearance in the door. ’Father!’ she let out in a sing song voice, and threw on the small pillows that adorned the chair by her desk at the place in the door where his head was situated, it hit the wood and slid to the floor with a dull thud.
”you are worse than the Bloody Baron!” she exclaimed, and closed the small notebook which functioned as her journal and placed it aside to finish later. ”Will you never grow tired of that?”
@'Odira Potter'
It had been an odd adjustment, despite growing up in a magical household, where the reality of ghosts was an accepted truth of life, it was still odd to know that one’s own father was a ghost – technically dead, with everything that entailed, and all the terrifying finality of the grave, and the end of his mortal life, but somehow there wasn’t a need to be sad about it. She had hated it immensely until Somerby had spoken with her at length about the whole mess, and she was now assured that it wasn’t entirely a bad thing. After all, all children must lose their Papa’s eventually – hers would now never leave, and without him they might have lost Holliday too, and that would have been too much for Irene to bear she was sure. So all in all, it was not much of a situation to be sad about.
Still – her father’s sense of humour and his new ‘abilities’ were not exactly a harmonious match, more than once squeels had echoed around the house, as he had snuck up on someone, and today, as he stuck his head through the door, Irene found herself letting out a cry of her own in surprise at the sudden appearance in the door. ’Father!’ she let out in a sing song voice, and threw on the small pillows that adorned the chair by her desk at the place in the door where his head was situated, it hit the wood and slid to the floor with a dull thud.
”you are worse than the Bloody Baron!” she exclaimed, and closed the small notebook which functioned as her journal and placed it aside to finish later. ”Will you never grow tired of that?”
@'Odira Potter'
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