Have you ever received a gift you didn't want, only to find that it would become your very favorite? It's like a book that looks boring at first, with too many pages and no pictures at all, but it opens your eyes once you finally decide to read it. It's when your parents give you an outdated toy that sits in its box for ages, waiting for you to give it some sort of attention. And when you finally do, it's like something new and fresh all over again. Maybe it's a little dusty, maybe a tad bit corroded with time, but that isn't what matters. What matters is that it's yours. All yours.

And just when it means the most to you, it all disappears. Whether it lay broken in your hands or lost out in the world without guidance, the same terrible realization hits us all; that we will never see that happiness again. There is no way it can be reborn.

I cried myself to sleep every night that my best friend didn't come home. Even though I knew he couldn't, there was still a little part of me that expected to see his face appear at my window some quiet, starry night. If only things had gone differently.

It was my father who had brought him into my life, as a friend and protector. And it was that same man who drove him out.

I can still remember the screaming and the violence. My Hitmonchan, my poor Knox. It wasn't his fault. I wept in the corner, unable to stop the rage that was taking place in the center of our once-peaceful home. It wasn't fair. Knox couldn't explain himself in words, for he had none to speak. And I; well, what good was my word against what my father had seen? Or, to put it more accurately, what he thought he had seen.

Beaten and bruised, my cherished Hitmonchan was pushed out into the cold by my father's relentless anger. Knox only looked back once. His wide, blue eyes, now reddened and puffy, looked first to me and then to the loaded shotgun in my father's hands. Without more than a nod of compliance, my Hitmonchan turned his back and walked away. We never said goodbye.

Every day I wish that I had followed him. My best friend, my wonderful companion, who had been by my side since I was just a little girl, was now gone.

It's too early to tell you why my father did what he did. A stranger wouldn't understand my logic. What I ask of you is nothing more than an open mind and an open heart. I will quote the words of Lolita's Humbert; "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs-the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs- envied. Look at this tangle of thorns." Oh, Humbert, you poor misguided man, if only I were in your shoes. If only I were the persecuted one. For, as much as my parents wished to blame the poor creature that they shunned that day, there's no denying that the fault belongs to no other than myself.

Good people of the jury, I present myself as not a victim, but a manipulative scoundrel and a wicked, wanton girl. I am the reverse Lolita. Call me a villain if you wish, call me a harlot, a witch, anything you please. Call me Remy O'Dell, and let that name indicate disgust on your tongue.

I am as disgusted with myself as you will be with me.

The dinner table was quiet and dead. Mother sat across from me with her fork clinking against the porcelain plate, pushing her food around in circles. She hadn't made eye contact with me in days. Father, on the other hand, looked from face to face as though in waiting for a conversation that wasn't going to happen. I couldn't eat. Eating, sleeping; it was all impossible for me now, and even the thought of going on with a normal life made me sick. How could things ever be the way they used to be?

"Remy," father grunted as he gave me a shifty stare from the end of the table. "You need to eat something. Don't waste."

Don't waste. That's all you have to say?

I looked down at the mess of vegetables and untouched dumplings that were turning cold on my plate. "I'm not hungry," I confessed as I lay my fork down and dropped both of my hands into my lap. My father was not pleased.

As if it were an act of protest, my father slapped his cloth napkin against the table with a sharp 'whack!' and dropped his silverware before standing to his feet. His chair almost toppled over behind him. I knew what he thought of me. Such a horrible, ungrateful, disrespectful child I was. There's only one problem here, father. I'm not a child anymore.

I hung my head as my father stomped past me, shielding my face with strawberry-colored locks of hair, like a pair of wavy curtains. Across from me, I could hear my mother whimper. She was always so sensitive, so fragile. Or perhaps it was simply my father's cruelty that rendered her eternally helpless.

With her shaking hands, mother placed her silverware gingerly on her plate and wiped her fingers on the napkin beside it. "You know, sweetie," her soft voice trembled nervously. "Perhaps you ought to see someone. You know, someone professional. It wouldn't hurt, considering the…circumstances..."

I wasn't listening to her anymore. My attention was drawn to a strip of orange light bouncing off the hallway floor and making a trail back to the front door where it was born. The sunset and all its brilliant colors illuminated hundreds of floating specks of dust, all of them continuously circling. Thirteen years ago, a six-year old me sat on the carpet and tried to catch them like pixies. That was the last time I spent the day alone.

A flood of red and orange light appeared where the front door used to be. I blinked my eyes, which were still in that childhood stage of deciding whether or not they were green or blue. The blinding light was soon replaced with the silhouette of my parents, coming home from their social outings at just the time I had anticipated. They were always outgoing people. So warm, so inviting, and so friendly with their adult companions; but not their daughter. Every day I would hold out my arms and await a hug and a kiss they would never give me, and today was no different. I stood up and ran to them, my little bare feet pitter-pattering against the carpet. And then I stopped. Something was different, for this time a third silhouette stood between my mother and father.

"Remy," my father's voice emanated from the tallest of the three black masses as he slowly shut the door, "I want you to say hello to someone."

Hello was possibly the last thing I would be saying. There's just something about being a naturally small person that makes the world that much more frightening, especially when you're young. I noticed right from the off that the stranger my parents had brought home was not a human guest, but a Pokémon. Not only that, but it was twice my height and looked like it could possibly lift me over its head and snap me in two without breaking a sweat. Needless to say, I wasn't quite prepared to say 'hello' to the creature. Rather, I did as most scared children do, and I recoiled in fear.

Mother chuckled. "Oh now, sweetheart, don't be scared." She cooed warmly, beckoning me towards her. "He won't hurt you."

Oh, my dear mother, so confident you were then in your choice. The perfect protector, the perfect babysitter and watchdog; you had no idea what you were getting yourself into.

I pushed my plate away from myself and got out of my chair. While I wrapped my sweater tightly around my body, I took solace in the constricting, almost violent, feeling of the fabric squeezing my limbs inwards. I wasn't even cold.

Somewhat on accident, my mother and I made eye contact. Perhaps if she saw the way I hugged myself close, she would understand the reasons for my actions. Maybe, just maybe, if they had just humored me in my youth and given me that embrace or that kiss I longed for, they wouldn't need to have buy a Pokémon off some seedy bartender to act as my warden. And then—well, we wouldn't be here, now would we?

Your smile is so warm, mother…so why isn't your heart?