The warmth of the shimmering sun, so tauntingly fading amongst the overlooking hills, peeled the last speck of summer flesh from her shoulders. He knew her to be a myriad of untamed, dark freckles, each seemingly more bold than the next in their shape and prominence on her pale skin. The sun reflected dances of gold on her body where peels of pink ought to curve, but he decidedly liked it better that way. This week was the first in so long since she had emerged from either constricting storms of hospital sheets or rooms gone pale with darkened, closed blinds. This was the first week she had truly been outside since her discovery of the cancer.
A stampede wherein surges of freckles should have laid stood one marking he had been unfamiliar with. And since his familiarity with her body was so magnificent, so adjusted to all of its contours and mixed tones of flesh, it was immediately known that something was different. Something was wrong. He did not need the ultasound, taken only weeks later, to be permanently fixed upon his mind in glaring defiance. He did not need the skin cancer, but he did need to whom it was playing host, intrusive and unwanted.
She had started to lose her hair. Then within minutes of a single morning, within the slashes of a single razor, she cut the remains of her pride. The last of the weary strands that had once known such flame and bounce, took instead to curling not upon her back but drifting neatly in the stains of the bathroom toilet.
There had always been a rebel inside of her; however it had yet to force itself beyond the screams of a child's fit. Lying dormant until the cancer's effects had worsened, it was only now that she found it rattling strongly in her actions. There was a stiffening in her lip whenever others would pass with blank and unsympathetic stares. A look in her green eyes that beckoned them to draw closer in the hopes that she could, perhaps, throw her baby doll in their direction. It, too, lacked hair.
For being only five years of age, there was a manner in which she proudly carried the reflection plastered on her bare head from the lowering light. She was not angry, but determined. He gathered it to be a certain punk, rock star quality that allowed her to display her head's weakened form to the brilliant shines of many cancer patients' enemy: the sun.
He would one day teach her, he promised, to bring out that rebel fully. That rock star. So as to where she would no longer just demandingly stare in the faces of both cancer and peers, but to fight them. They too will die along with the sun, for it is the only thing that makes his daughter's beauty transient.