Pink. That is the best word to use to describe my bedroom and I hated it. So frilly and girly; so unlike me. I was one of those girls who loved to run outside and get mud all over my shoes. I was one for adventures and stories of the unimaginable.

My grandfather told the best stories EVER. I remember when I was little he used to sit me on his lap and tell me stories. Ones of lost arks and holy grails and he always made the hero himself. I asked my dad once if the stories where true. He told me that my grandfather had always been a great story teller but I think they are true.

My dad works as a professor at a university. But sometimes he organizes agrological digs and takes his students with him. He took me once when I was four and I ran off, chasing a rabbit. I ended up falling into a pit and got bitten by a bunch of tarantulas. I really hate those things. It hurt a lot. Thankfully I didn't die from it. I have very fuzzy memories of it but the one clear thing I remember is the look of pain on my dad's face. My grandfather later told me that my father had carried me all the way back to the camp and I remember it was pretty far from where I fell not to mention we were in the middle of a dessert.

My grandfather tells me all the things my dad doesn't. But one thing he has never really told me about was my mother; only once when I was real little when I had asked him why I don't have a mother. He told me she left when I was just a baby.

I'm pretty close to my grandparents. My father and I live with them. They have pretty much raised me because my dad is always off working. I love them more than anything.

My father is a different story though. He and I have never been close. I have always tried to please him by getting good grades on test and projects but there is always something I can do better. I want to say I love him but I'm not sure if that is entirely true. It hurts not being able to say 'I love you' to someone you know you should be able to say it to. But when you're unsure if a person loves you what are suppose to do?

I told that to my grandmother once. "What do you mean you don't love your father?" I could tell she wanted to be angry but she stayed calm.

"Well," I replied, "I'm not sure if he loves me."

"Of course your father loves you," She was trying to reassure me; "I've never seen him love anyone more before."

I wasn't buying it. "He hates me, I know he does." I truly thought he did.

"Henri Raven Jones, don't you dare say anything like that again. Understand?" She became angry.

"I understand." I quickly left the room then. I feel tears begin to register in my eyes as I recall the memory.

"He doesn't love me," I whispered to myself, "And he never will." I cry hard recalling hated memories.