It wasn't too long after that, Pop had us packing up. Since Mama couldn't take care of me anymore and they hadn't had any other family to watch me when I was alone, nor did he have enough money to pay for a nanny, he had decided to take care of me himself. That meant going everywhere he went.

For the next few months, I traveled around with him. He worked at military bases instructing training procedures. He traveled a lot, and after Mama's death, I did too.

When Mama died I lost any semblance I had of a home. At least, a building to call home. It was mostly just faceless soldiers and forgetful barracks. Just because he was an instructor didn't mean Pop got any special treatment or housing.

After a while, it all ran together. Nothing to separate the memories but the weather and the color of the sheets.

We stayed mostly on the East coast, but sometimes we would both get to go over to the west if he wasn't busy and they had requested help.

I specifically remember one where we were in Hawaii and Pop had finished early. We had spent the rest of that trip with each other. He had given me a tour of the Naval Base nearby in Honolulu, and he had let me steer a small boat they had let us borrow.

That was the last time I saw my father truly smile.

Really, I think it was the first time too.

The last time I actually saw him, we were back in New York, the most common camp Pop worked at. Brooklyn, to be specific.

It was the only camp where I knew people.

No, not people.

Soldiers.

They were soldiers through and through. They had hearts, of course, but they were hidden behind a wall of bulletproof titanium. Sometimes, I would get to see through the cracks of the wall. One of those times was when my father died.

They said it was an accident during a routine training drill.

They said it had been quick and painless.

They said he was somewhere better now.

I remember the time after that pretty well. I remember going through the stages of grief. I was the poster girl for the stages of grief.

To be honest, it surprised me that I even felt grief. I don't know why. I had felt it when Mama died, so why shouldn't I feel it with Pop? Maybe it was because each time I felt it, it passed by so quickly.

I worried that I had become jaded to the harsh realities of life and death. But I knew I was still there. At least a little. As long as I felt grief.

Denial.

First came the denial. I ran to the training grounds only to be held back by the soldiers. I remember them telling me I wouldn't want to see him like that.

Anger.

Next, anger. I turned on them and yelled. Why? Why couldn't I see him? Why wouldn't I want to? What could possibly be so bad? I beat on their chests as they stood there and took it. Somewhere inside, I knew they were grieving as well, but I damn well deserved to be selfish just this once.

Bargaining.

After that, I bargained. I think it was with the Gods. I yelled to the sky to take me instead. He deserved to live. He deserved everything. All I did was let my friends die.

Depression.

For the next week, I didn't leave my room. I didn't eat more than twice during that time, no matter how much the other soldiers told me I needed to. They were breaking down their walls to let me see that they felt the same way, and I was stupid enough to look the other way.

Acceptance.

I'm not sure how long after Pop died, I finally excepted it. A month? A year? It was all a blur. A blur of emotion and pain.

I remember the soldiers taking me in. They trained me. They taught me. They fed me. In almost every way, they reminded me of him. How he was trying his best, but war was all he knew. They were trying to be like him. Hoping I would feel the pain a little less.

It worked. Just a little, but it worked. They were there when I woke up in the night, dreams of dead faces appearing in my mind as I slept.

They took down their walls and gave me a peek, and I was finally smart enough to look.