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roxane
Senior Member
since 1999-09-02
Posts 505
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0 posted 1999-09-08 12:19 PM


What I lay down before you now is my baby. By that I mean to say that this is the story that I am proudest of. (If I didn't use the right superlative there, I am soo sorry but it is late and I just got off work) I wrote this story back in April and want to know its worth so be brutually honest and I need as much imput as possible. I can only post a little at a time because I haven't the time to type the 25 pages. So, if you like this untitled thing, let me know and I will go on posting it until it's complete.

My shoe was untied. Not lazily and accidently like others, but as though it had a purpose, an ill plan. Its laces unfurled like tenacles, trying to latch on to whatever horrible thing it could. It crippled me; lashing about as though to spite me, but I couldn't stop. To stop would be to attract negative attention. I just wanted to make a clean break.
Always at this time, he passed me. It was 1:23 pm, the second floor of my high school. Here he walked by with his friends. I, so idle and alone, tried to catch one glittering glimpse of his dark eyes.
The hallway buzzed with voices. It was maddening as each step brought me closer, shook me harder, made my heart beat feverishly beat at an irascible and unnecessary pace. The resistance from the movement of people in the other direction blew back my hair and made my steps seem quicker.
I caught him in the corner of my eye as usual. Time slowed as he floated past me. Things were always quite surreal when he lovingly vandalized my sight. I stared at him for as long as I could before I decidedly looked down in order to avoid any misfired glances that could hit me.
And life was like that: avoiding, adoring, and being confused. More than all else, I had outgrown my childish facade and was now an adult with a somewhat bitter personality. I was, however, in the precedeing times of changing from an awkward adolescent to a clumsy adult quite quiet. I was a benevolent spirit, rattling the chains of small talk and little else as I wandered the school, the house, and the world. As far as the friends I had begun to ignore for their own sakes, they hated me, although I knew their hate to be hypocritical. They claimed to be disenchanted with me because I was so loathsome, but no, it came from their quarrels with my lifestyle and such. It was silent animosity that we had for each other, but I could feel it running and deep, like the enflamed cheeks of an embarassed friend rightfully accused of a faux paus.
As much as I wish that this tale was about something significant, it's purely a recount of how I came to have the only emotion I was left: a weird bakcwards vainity glazed with melancholy fear. I know it can't make for interesting reading as I was not even interested enough to live it at times, but I'm also sure that few will read it. My story begins thus.


Part 1

I was beautiful at birth. I'm not afraid or ashamed to say it. I was quite beautiful. My hair was tiny scarlet rings. My eyes were pristine blue. My skin was soft and fair like fresh rose petals. In time, as you shall see, all this faded. Perhaps that makes for more sadness, regret, despondancy. I don't really know. When I was a young child, I cared not at all for my looks. I took them for granted, and that normalcy was also beautiful. I could have been a model for a human unscathed and untouched. That was a mere thought though, and even if I had my desired purity then, I have sinned by some God and lost all my innocence.
Deeper than that, deeper than a superficial purity, I was a Wednesday child pure of heart and mind. I cannot recall an ill deed that crossed my mind when I was younger that didn't punish me with weight upon my perpetually heavy conscience. Now, my mind has been rotted by self-destructive ideals and jealous loathing. I suppose that I am going too fast. All this is a later tale. Before any of that could happen, I had to be disillusioned and broken. I had to be hurt at home and lose that little innocence.
My parents were, to my extensive knowledge, never there. It's cliche of the 1980s tough love parenting philosophy. It's so terribly cliche that I almost omitted that fact for fear that I would vomit. Perhaps it was not my family's fault that they decided not to take an interest in their first three children and wait for the fourth to be born before caring. They waited for the 90s to roll around, and then it was passe to be a bad parent. I was certainly no novelty. A second-born daughter. A second disappointment. Born on an inopportune April morning in 1978 that should have never existed. I think I was too burdensome for their trendy lifestyle, nonetheless, they gave me life. It is for that reason that I both loathe them and treat them with nothing more than casual deference. They made me hate the life that they gave me. It is in them that my downward spiral begins.
It was July 1987, tediously hot and bothersome. My eldest sister was tapping against the wall of our room in the darkness of a late summer night. Her dexterous little fingers beat out a rhythm of insufferable boredom. Juliet, aged 12, was rather immature for her age and found solace in me, a rather subdued (yet eager to impress and be adored), gentle (yet prone to withdrawls) and patient (yet that patience was a child's and could be easily broken if frustrated) nine year old.
I could not sleep. I slept very little as a child anyways. I was very timid, and that heavy conscience kept me up with every tainted thought that crawled into my head. I thought about it until I was scared and then felt slightly better. Tonight was no different.
"I hate the night," Juliet said. "I hate going to sleep when Mom and Dad are already asleep. We're all alone in this big scary house and I hate it."
I didn't say anything. I wasn't naive enough to believe that Mother and Father were asleep. Father was as always at his desk, working. Mother, a mild alcoholic was watching television, a beer resting on her stomach, ripe with a third useless child that writhed in her womb. In the sticky summer heat, it seemed we waited out our lives. Sundays, with their rituals kept us tired and cool. In our beds, we grew hot and bored. Elbows and knees had to be bent and unbent to keep comfortable.
"Violette," Juliet said.
"Yes?" I said.
"Do you know why we sleep?"
"Because we are tired..." I sighed.
"Do you know why we are tired?" Juliet asked.
"I don't know..." I rolled over on to my back, pushing aside my claret tresses which had still luster and shine. My untired eyes seemed fluid and cold. I blinked them over and over hoping to catch a moment of rest. The stillness of the night enveloped us in a mirage of security, yet all my senses seemed pricked, acute, prepared, as if this night was some vigil and I was to wait for something to happen.
There was a knock upon our door. Juliet and I jumped quickly. I drew in a terrified gasp. It was only our father though a rather tall, strong man, always seemed weak and somber. I remember most vividly his hands; they were the sort of hard-working hands that only fathers may possess, even when they can be considered fathers by blood alone. It would be a stretch to deem him attractive, but he was not really ugly. He merely had a dark, vagrant look to him. Beard stubble was ever present on his cheeks, as if he kept it there to ensure that no loving daughter would ever kiss him with gentle lips.
Juliet and I waited in tense anticipation. It was like waiting to be struck across the face, but our father never hit us. He was far too passive for that. Just his presence was frightening, especially since he had sought us out.
"Girls," he said, "I have to take your mother to the hospital."
Juliet and I sat up suddenly in our beds.
"What happened?" I cried.
"Calm down," my father said, frustrated. "She's gone into labor. You're going to have a new baby brother before the night is over."
Juliet and I looked at each other with excitement. A baby was something to break the endless monotony of the last nine years. And a boy! My father and mother had been pining for a little boy for as long as Juliet or I could remember. My father just did not seem as excited as he should have been. He merely looked doubtful.
"I can't get anybody to watch, so be good until tomorrow when we come back," he said.
"Okay, Daddy," I beamed. He left and shut the door. The dark house suddenly seemed full of light as though a bright citrus sun dawned in all corners and all windows. Even after my mother and father left, Juliet and I saw no reason to sleep. The morning had come for us, despite the darkness of the hour.
"How long is it going to take?" I wondered aloud.
"Last time, you came home in one day. Mom and Dad left me with Grandma that night and picked me up the next evening. It seems fast." Juliet said.
I rubbed my hands together in glee. Who could sleep? As incapacitating as boredom was, hindering sleep, our excitement, anticipation, and every emotion otherwise had dispelled the heat, the fatigue, the thought of sleep, and the fear of being the last two little children awake. That night there was a little boy struggling to awaken for the first time.
After a while, Juliet and I did fall asleep. It was rather late though. She drifted off before me, as I was still busy with thoughts of how to welcome the young savior home.
When mother and father arrived home late the next evening, they were unusually aggravated. Father threw open the door. Juliet and I were waiting impatiently for our brother. Mother came staggering in afterwards, her face grim and unglowing, quite unlike a new mother's countenance. Rather, her face was stormy like death and defeat. She was carrying him in her arms. All wrapped in blankets, the baby cried. All wrapped up in pink blankets, the baby was uncomforted.
"It's a girl?" I said.
"Yes," said my mother bitterly. "IT is a girl."
The word 'girl' seemed dirty to me. Father was already in his office as if it were just another ritual of the day to have a baby. Mother flopped the baby on the couch and turned on the TV. The girl, the daughter was crying, probably from hunger or fright.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Scarlett Marie, okay? Why don't you go play in your room or something?" my mother snapped.
At the time, I didn't realize why she was named Scarlett, but I have since made the realization. First Juliet, then me Violette, and now Scarlett, all rhyming names that were unspecial and fitting for three worthless daughters who could not carry the family name and could not, despite all their efforts, be appreciated, loved, or cared for. I didn't know why a boy meant so much to my parents. I still can't figure it out, but the fact that it was such a mystery disturbs me even more.
She must have chose Scarlett of the many rhyming names available for the pure disgust taht dissecting the name would bring. My mother (whom it could be noted hated girls altogether and even hated her own wretched body that she gave to whoever asked, causing Juliet to be born at the tender age of sixteen) wanted the image of scars ripped open and let bleed to appear in people's minds when they thought about it enough. She wanted a wounds reopening and a torturer's apathy to be the icon of her daughter. I forever held this day as a wound to be reopened time and time again.
Her daughter was a sweet looking girl with dark eyes and golden fuzz for hair. An angelic baby who looked as though she annointed with golden rays of sunlight was a Scarlett. She could never be this to me or Juliet. We could assume when we saw her that no greater thing had ever been born and thoughts of the Absentee Messiah fled our minds with a touch of her tiny fingers.
Perhaps, about their motives, I am wrong.
Scarlett would not stop crying for any amusement we could give. It can simply be said she was an infant, who was starving even for the bitter milk of her mother's unloving breast.
"Mommy, I think she's hungry or something. Shouldn't you try to feed her?" I asked.
"I'm sure she's not hungry. I just fed her. Don't try to tell me what to do!" she leaned up closer to my face. Her breath filled my nostrils and it reeked of the thin, tea-like cigarettes she had refused to give up during pregnancy. Oh Mother, what if it had been a son?
Scarlett's cries crescendoed, as if she was realizing what I was. I picked her up and cradled her in my arms, although she was almost too big for me. At that moment, I felt such compassion for the poor pink thing and I wished that I could have been her mother and taken care of her like she deserved to be taken care of.
"Shhh..." I coaxed. "Come on, don't cry. My name is Violette. Violette."
"She can't understand you." Mother snapped.
Suddenly, the sound of Scarlett's cries, my mother's TV, Juliet's polite banter with Mother became a low-pitched whir spiked with moments of loud noises. Incoherent, but it seemed to be building slowly, but steadily. The slowness was momentary, for all at once, it seemed to go faster and faster: the cries, the diversion, the pleas. My eyes glazed over and I could no longer make out Scarlett's face. The feeling which I still cannot define swelled to a point and popped its own illusion. It climaxed with my father's words.
"Damn it Ann! Can't you shut that daughter of yours up!"
Coarse words ensued, but my mind floated away. Daughters were a blemish, an apologetic look, things of shame to pass on to either mothers or fathers or, as in mine, Juliet's and Scarlett's case, the daughter's themselves. Parents encased themselves in thorny vines and beard stubble and then ruled us and made us see we were quite small. It confused me altogether.
Inside, a part of me grew numb with the realization that parents don't necessarily love their children and the bond between them can be severed as easily (and quickly) as an umbilical cord is cut. Feelings deadened, my compassion became worthless. My beautiful, soft curls of crimson began to fade that day. I became ugly as I lost the illusion of family. A piece of my sweet innocence was forever gone.


Here goes some more.

Part 2
Time speeds by when you feel unwhole. I felt unwhole after the incident with Scarlett. Four years had passed and my thick curls had grown straight and thin. The reddish hue was all but vanished. However, my skin was still smooth and soft, my eyes still shone immaculate blue. I was no longer beautiful. The features of my face made me scarcely pretty, but from with radiated empathy and love. There was but a hollow place in my heart where compassion had once lit its sacrificial flames. I was twelve years old. My angel sisters, Juliet and Scarlett, aged sixteen and three respectively, had grown up too. Juliet had lost her immaturity. She had become reliable, trustworthy, and was as she'd always been, a raven haired beauty. She had that dark, disturbed look of my father (that is presuming that one father could produce a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead), but did not look lost, merely exotic. Scarlett was a bright healthy child who did not in the least trust mother or father. One can only say that she was preceptive and quite sensitive.
I find at February 1991, seventh grade for me, a dark shadow of indifference cast over my life. Life had become a series of rituals: getting up, bathing, dressing, going to school, making polite conversation with friends and classmates, going home, and doing it all again. Not that I minded; I was more like a machine than a person. I was simply an anonymous soul with little place and no purpose.
I had a couple of close friends. Both of them I had no deep realtionship with. I had known them each for a year or so. They had quite a talent for applying eye makeup. They said funny, pop culture things. Boys called them and held their hands. They made adequate grades, and never got caught cheating. They weren't popular, but they Popular acknowledged them and treated them with respect (a delicacy among our approval hungry teenage hearts). The Popular were aware of their existences.
Claire was the type of person whom I could never feel at ease with, even when we were alone, talking with great trust and admiration. She had an air about her which made me over explain my actions with my clumsy adolescent tongue. She knew her arguments. She picked her battles, and she was always right. Her hair always looked great. Even when I felt that I had something on my side, she could pit it against me. She did it unintentionally, I must believe, or else I had no real friends. Besides, I saw behind her a great rusty machine of some grandiose. She WAS flawed. No one else could see it, but she was just like my horrible shoelaces: she had an ill plan. Her face was fair, her demeanor, genial. I saw beneath that a dark armor that snatched away light. I never voiced this fear, because she could in some way use it against me, I'm sure.
Jessica, my only other friend had less mystery and depth than Claire. Perhaps she was not a person. Nonetheless, she had a personality, one which needs explaining for this tale to be told. She did things without motives. A heartless joke here, a rude comment there, back-stabbing: it all added up, formed into a hardened thing of bitter hostility that replaced her heart, if she ever had one. We were friends so that she'd never be alone in the halls, she could call me when bored, and make an unattended friend jealous by writing me a note. I was not aware of this at the time, but in hind sight, at this epitome (possibly it's an epiphony) of my dumb enlightenment, I see it all.
Understand: I was quite naive and still mostly innocent.
February again, 1991. It was a pleasnat time on the surface, underneath filled with unfulfilled aspirations. I went to a rather small middle school where everyone knew everyone. Gossip ran rampant and when its heavy feet stepped on the pedicured toes of the popular, there was hell to pay. Fights seldom occured though because the popular would rather torment someone mentally and emotionally than physically. Fashion was everything. Revolts against the teachers were commonplace. Most of us still had our innocence and knew little of the world. We knew home. We knew school. Those who knew more than that appeared lost and used up. Those witha sweet and seemingly undying compassion for humanity and a rather holy innocence had a special look to them. Eyes glistened brightly. Faces shone with an ethereal glow. When they walked, they floated like a hundred tiny cherubs were carrying them in a procession of good. However, it seemed that those less comely innocents were not so special or honored. Perhaps God, or something of that sort, gave them a chore to be ugly for some reason.
There was one particularly beautiful innocent that I came to know. His name was Grey and his eyes were quite aware of that. He had a stormy, reckless look to him. I became enchanted with him immediately. When I first noticed that we were both named for colors, I believed it to be some prophetic sign. In fact, I believed everything to be some prophetic sign that he could adore me as I adored him. I was constantly searching for a loophole to put his glances in and assume that he loved me, even though we seldom spoke. His demeanor was intent and overbearing, yet his eyes, the blessed things, gleamed with heavenly emotions we could not comprehend: an inner sadness that clarified itself over and over again.

Here is more.... I hope that I am not boring anybody with this.....

I had two classes with him. In both I sat in close proximity. He was not aware really of my presence, but I feel that he would have been aware of my absence. I watched over him carefully. I graded his papers unstrictly. I picked up his pencils when he dropped them. I loaned him my homework when he needed to copy it. Sometimes, he uttered an earnest "Thanks," and my heart swelled. That syllable. Those eyes. The chance to have my own eyes call out to him from inside, imploring, entreating. It was enough.
By February, my watchful love had consumed my days and nights. I often came to school wild-eyed, sleepless, clutching several sheets of paper in my hand: another attempt to put to words the feelings I had for him. However, they were always simply thrown away after Jessica and Claire had critiqued them. My goal was to have presented him with a letter by Valentine's Day, 1991. (Isn't my naivete disgusting? Aren't my romantic ideals that can't ever be reached just so disgusting?)
"What now?" Jessica asked.
"Could it be anything else?" I said, handing her three sheets of paper.
"God damn it," Jessica, tossing the papers to her right exclaimed. "Why don't you just give him something already?"
Dejected, I snatched it away.
"I'm trying." I said.
"You know you won't give him anything by tomorrow," Jessica snarled with more declaration in her voice than sympathy or instruction.
"I'm just so afraid of what he'll think. I know he won't like me. He'll probably think that I"m stalking him or something." I sighed.
We were sitting in the school library, doing homework, or at least trying to. Claire had devoted herself to copying homework from her neighbor. Thus absorbed, she had no time for Jessica or I. Jessica had little care for school work. She could always copy it from me later. Grey, in all his shining purity, was three tables down with his friends. He stratched his head in thought and scrawled something on a piece of paper.
"Why don't you just forget him? What makes you think that he'll even give you a chance?" Jessica said. She was exasperated and it was quite noticeable. She could forget; it was so easy for her. Not for me.
"What the hell is your problem?" I thought to myself.
"I don't care if he doesn't. I just want him to know how I feel and to know that I care about him very much," I said, pleading, piteous, and tired.
"He's not your type."
"I don't know. He might be. Not everyone can be pretty." I said and gave up. Fighting with Jessica was like trying to move the Earth. It just mocked you and ground you into its gears for your efforts. Like Claire, her rusty gears pulled me into them, entangling my love swollen limbs, expediting my faliures, and preventing my escape.
That night I wrote the letter. It goes as follows:
"Grey-
I'm torn between writing a casual letter and writing one that could give you a glimpse into the thoughts I have had of you. For a while, I have watched you. I have grown to truly love you. PLease believe me. I never want to see hurt come to you. I am forever faithful to the mere thought of you. I am always willing to give anything to the cause of your happiness. I love you! Really. Dearly. Nothing could keep me from that.
"If you have ever felt anything for me, or feel that you could, I would gladly wait for your response. Otherwise, I am content to adore you and silently keep vigil over your happiness. Knowing that you know how I feel would be enough. I don't mean to frighten you or anger you in anyway. I just wanted to make you aware of my situation.
-Violette"

Last names were an unnecessary formality. I was quite sure that he knew my name. Once, he called out to me in the lunch line to ask to borrow a quarter. I handed it to him, careful to slightly touch his skin for the memory. Then, I muttered, "Sometimes to hear our own names is the most beautiful thing that can ever be said." However, he didn't hear me.
The next morning, I awoke quickly, showered, and dressed. As usual, I looked disheveled and tired. I took extra care to fix my hair a little although at this stage in my life, it did not complement my still soft face and empathetic eyes. Valentine's Day brought color to my cheeks and gleams of hope to my eyes.
I realize that what I wrote to Grey was rather mature and sudden of me. Perhaps that was an indication of my problems. How much I could adore a boy I never knew still illudes me. I realize also that 7th graders often don't say such things to each other. Forgive me. I am flawed and stupid. When I loved, it was too great. When I hated, it was too strong and bitter.
I stepped into school that morning. It was particularly windy, as though it could blow through me, blow me away, and the world would not notice. The hallways were void of students, barren. Yet in alcoves and crevices of doorways and bathrooms, students huddled together like primitve man trying to stay warm and kissed passionately. Exchanging red and white valentines. I was alone in my forward path, progressing. They were the scenery, the woodwork, a grand stage set up for the events about to take place in the next few minutes. I worried for a moent that perhaps I was wearing that awful vagrant look of my father, but continued despite that, thinking only of the old adage "It's what's on the inside that counts." I could not worry. Though I had lost pieces of myself along the way of my forward path through life, I knew that inside there were beautiful things. Sounds that only he should hear. Places that only he should see. Thoughts only he should fathom. It was sickening. I was overwhelmed and dizzy, but filled with mock courage.
"It's what's on the inside that counts.
Yes, indeed. "Inside" was a mess. I felt my heart beating heavily but slowly, at peace with either doom or good fortune. I realized I was in over my head and whatever happened had to happen and it was beyond my control. I gasped for a few short breaths, but was afraid to commit myself to breathing. If he arrived, would I sigh? WOuld I cough? It was a risk that needn't be taken.
The paper was crumpled in my left hand. I intently walked on my forward path. "Inside" was not so confident, rather in my head, I was at home, locked up in my lightless room, writing another letter, useless and chronic tears filling my silent space. THis was something real today and it was something to face.
He appeared around a corner. Suprisingly, my steps quickened as if I knew that it would be my last chance and to take it quickly. 'Violette, children also die.' 'Violette, life fades fades fades.' I said to my "insides". He turned his head to face me and his eyes met mine. He was a force. He was an element. His eyes controlled somewhere marionette strings gently weaved through my very core. Now he had taken the liberty to pull them, see how he could make me wrench around.
"It's what's on the inside that counts."
"Yes and children die."
"You could die young."
"You should die."
"Time is cruel cruel cruel and life fades fades fades."
His eyes seemed to engulf everything everywhere. I seemed to be hindered by that. I thought that I could make ten paces quickly enough. In truth, I could have never walked that fast.
The beating of my heart, the staccato rhythm of my steps, the intoxicating stares of Grey, the already weak body mustering all its strength: it made a quizzical melody that wrapped me up in it as if it could keep me from harm, but nothing, nothing in this world could have ever absorbed the shock, the hurt, and the betrayal I was about to be dealt.
Jessica.
She approached him. He approached her. He threw his arms about her waist and kissed her full on the lips.
That wind from outside somewhere got in and shoved to the point where I fell so hard it felt like I had been shot in the chest. Perhaps something did absorb the shock: me. I can tell that my fall broke the mumblings and inconherencies of the hallways because it became clarifyingly silent.
"It's what's on the..."
"Chidren die."
"..inside..."
"You should die."
"..that..."
"Children take their lives even. You should take your life."
"...ruins you forever."
I stood up with dignity I in no way possessed or wished to have. Pride is jsut another thing to be hurt. Jessica and Grey broke away from their kiss to look at me.
"Violette?" Grey said.
"Sometimes to hear your own name is the most horrible sound in the world," I said, but he didn't hear me. It occured to me then that the reason that Jessica had always tried to dissuade me from liking Grey was because she wanted him. The note he was writing the day before must have been to her, accepting her proposal to go out, be together.
"Ummm, yes?" I said, smiling, breathing, blinking, all familiar techniques to prevent crying. I knew I could do it.
Jessica looked unabashed. She merely reached out to take his hand in hers.
'What makes you think he'll even give you a chance?' echoed in my ears.
"What's in your hand?" Grey asked.
"Nothing," I quickly responded as Jessica gave a sick and knowing smile.
It was everything. It was "inside". Every pure inch of my broken, worthless heart. It was all for him.
"Well, we've got to get to class," she said, dragging him away. I felt myself wince being ground around in her gears. I never said a word to her of Grey again. She got pregnant in the ninth grade by someone she met once. She moved away. I never saw her again.
"Time is cruel cruel cruel..."
"Bye Violette..." Grey said. I never gave him any documentation of my care for him. He never knew. He went to a different high school than me. His junior year, he got hit by a train while smoking pot on the tracks. It really is inexplicable. He was killed by its forward path. Perhaps he thought that his shining purity would present an obstacle for it to overcome, but it knew of none. It quickly snuffed out his life.
"And life fades fades fades."
As they walked away, I felt the color leave my cheeks. I felt the softness of my skin become less. The empathy inside me escaped hurriedly, for why should I care for people and try to understand them when they walk all over me? A tear rolled down my cheek from my lonely eyes and gave the skin its last moment of life. I cried not for Jessica or Grey, but solely for my own heart. I remained pale. All the life that could have shone through my face to the world left and went into him because even thoughI never again wrote of him or spoke of him, I had promised him my life. I like to think that he felt that love in his darkest moment and saw not a train coming to meet him, but a girl who loved him, delivering him to peace, for she could give him nothing else surely. Perhaps he was at peace. I never was.
"Violette, time is cruel. Children can even take their lives. On the inside, you count. On the outside, you are dead. Poor girl, you let him have your life. Beauty fades fades fades too.'

Part 3

Often, time goes on and makes expiation for the horrors done. Sometimes, it doesn't. Though I never wished for Jessica to get pregnant, she did. Though I did not wish for Claire to get voted homecoming queen freshman year, she did. Though I tried not to have friends, I had a few casual ones. Though I never ever wanted Grey to die, he perished. Though I never wished my parents to have another child to mistreat, Mark was born. Time wore on, and even though my brother and sisters grew as upright as they could, I writhed. I was a seedy black vine, who no longer wished happiness or empathy to anyone. I was not pretty, not ugly, just plain.
I decided sophomore year to find something to devote myself to: work. By junior year, I was working forty hours a week at a little deli by my house. It helped keep me away from home, where Mother and Father did an impeccable job of raising Mark. It helped to keep me away from my thoughts.
On September 19, 1994, I found myself in my bathroom upstairs, adjacent to my room. It was 6:00 pm. I had to leave for work soon. Downstairs, my mother and father are getting ready to leave.
I was intent on scrubbing my hands, until the water ran clear.
"Violette! Aren't you coming to Mark's open house? It's his kindergarten year." my mother yelled.
In the pinkish water (whose hue was produced by my left wrist), I saw a reflection on every open house that I had ever had, and how absent my parents were. Other kids moms cooked little brownies and brought in Tang. They were concerned about their children's education. If ever being unloved by my parents stung, it stung when I saw how much they loved Mark.
"Violette!" my mother yelled, finally bursting into my bathroom. She saw my bleeding wrist pour its willing blood into the drain. Little red raindrops became crimson swirls on the cool surface of the sink. She looked at it and then looked at me. I turned my head to face her. My face spoke impassively, but my eyes cried out to her with a hurt so deep and profound, I was screaming inside. Oh Mother, it would have taken nothing more than to take me in your arms, your suicide daughter, your waste of space, and tell her once that you loved her, tell her once that she was pretty. It would take nothing more than to sit and wipe away my tears and soak up my blood and smooth my hair back a little. Why why why was that too much to do?
"Are you coming?" she asked.
"I have to work," I said, apathetically.
"Okay, bye sweetie," she kissed me on the forehead with cold lips. And the tone of her voice when she said "Sweetie" showed me that it was all an act. Two tears fell from my eyes, but it went as unnoticed as the blood from my wrist. She ran downstairs and out the door.
"You cannot kiss youe Daughter!" I screamed into the empty house. It seemed that my pain pitied my eyes and found a new outlet, for at once, the trickling blood began to gush forth as if to say that the water, from me, may never run clear again.
The reader should know that my life was not consumed with merely the events mentioned in here. My life was full of little moments like them, ones that disparaged me only a little, for it didn't take long for me to learn the truth of my life. These noted moments mark solely points of transition. I could mention the time my father refused to say happy birthday to me because he had a sore throat (Don't pity him to soon, because he was still able to conduct his business deals over the phone), but I already knew that he cared nothing for me. I could mention the time a girl hit me in the stomach because I was "Ugly", but I already knew I was.
I bandaged my arm and went to work. The deli was a dark little establishment that got very few customers. I worked as a cashier, but was required to do many other jobs as they could not afford to hire mroe people. My bosses rather disliked me. They were old, decaying people who thought of me as a loser and a rebellious teenager for my clothes and make-up. They went in the back and chopped meat when I came in. I stayed in the quiet front, cleaning and sitting, waiting for customers.
"Hello Tracy," I said as I walked in. She grunted at me and went in back. She was one of the more disgruntled bosses.
I went to the register and cleaned around it. An old lady limped in the door.
"May I help you?" I said.
"Do you sell potato salad here?" she snarled.
"No, ma'm we don't." I said politely.
"Damn it, I've been around town to all the delis I can think of for it."
"You could check the grocery store." I responded.
"Don't tell me what to do, you ugly little whore!"
"I'm sorry...I'm just trying to help."
"Shut your mouth whore. You are the most diserspectful thing I have ever encountered. Don't expect to see me here again."
She limped out the door. I felt the familiar tears cloud my vision.
"You handled her nicely," a dark man standing before me said. He was not a boy, it was obvious that he was a mature man. He was taller than me, with black hair that hung to his chin in featered clumps. He had dark, penetrating eyes. His face had sparse beard stubble. His overall look was mysterious, but in his warm eyes, there was a loving look.
"Thanks," I managed sarcastically through my tears.
"I'd like a turkey sandwich with no tomatoes," he said.
I prepared his food and took his money. As my arm reached out to give him his change, he grabbed my bandaged wirst.
"An accident?" he asked.
"Yes."
He began to unwrap it, but i felt that I couldn't move, not even to pull away. He saw the ravaged flesh, but did not look affected. He tilted my hand back so that the skin on my wrist stretched, poised to flood the skin again. He held the wound to his lips.
"In time, all things heal. Death is irreversible," he kissed the wound.
I was speechless.
"Have a good night Violette." he said, staring at my name tag.
"You too," I murmured, with my slit wirst growing hot from his touch.
The next day, he appeared again at my counter. He was quiet and brooding. ONce again, he was dressed totally in black. And even though the deli was quite dark already, he seemed to suck all the light out of it.
"May I help you?" I asked.
"How old do you think I am?" he responded charismatically.
"I don't know, 23?"
"Wrong, I'm 18." he said, as though to establish he wasn't some sort of crazy pedophile stalking me.
"Okay......do you want something to eat?"
"Only if you'll sit and eat it with me." he said.
"A turkey sandwich with no tomatoes again?"
"Yes please."
I prepared his sandwich. Afterwards, I took it out to the two little tables in the front. He sat at the one by the window. Light poured in, but he seemed to steal it all away.
"How are you today?" he asked.
"Ummm...okay, I guess."
He stared at me intently. He did not move his gaze, merely he stared deeper and deeper. I was afraid to blink even. It was a stare that meant he didn't believe that I was okay.
He took a bite of the sandwich. "Very good."
"Thank you."
"Do you like this job?" he asked.



[This message has been edited by roxane (edited 09-18-99).]

© Copyright 1999 roxane - All Rights Reserved
Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296
Purgatorial Incarceration
1 posted 1999-09-08 12:36 PM


Alas roxane, I can offer you little, for such did you offer us. I would like to have a bit more of your story, before I say anything about it. As of now, you have given us but a few words.
Please post more.
(ps, when you post it, edit your message, so we can get all of it at once, instead of having to bounce around strings!)

rogen of the night
Junior Member
since 1999-09-07
Posts 29

2 posted 1999-09-08 02:57 AM


Very good Roxane please keep posting it I would love to read more before i say anything else.But for now it is good.

------------------
The wise man is the storm prays God,not for safety from danger,but for deliverance from fear.It is the storm within which endangers him,not the storm without.
~~Ralh Waldo Emerson~~

WhtDove
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-22
Posts 9245
Illinois
3 posted 1999-09-09 12:57 PM


So far you have me captured, you write well, please post more! I will be waiting!
DreamEvil
Member Elite
since 1999-06-22
Posts 2396

4 posted 1999-09-09 08:11 PM


Very well done.

------------------
Pain is life, life is short, I will endure.
DreamEvil©



Saxoness
Deputy Moderator 1 Tour
Senior Member
since 1999-07-18
Posts 1102
Texas
5 posted 1999-09-09 09:00 PM


Encore Encore!

------------------
"Glory remains unaware of my neglected dwelling where alone
I sing my tearful song which has charms only for me."

-Charles Brugnot



Severn
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-17
Posts 7704

6 posted 1999-09-09 09:20 PM


'Tis good! Need to read the whole thing, but I like it so far. I love that line: 'lovingly vandalized my sight'.
Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187
St. Paul, MN
7 posted 1999-09-12 11:28 PM


Great job! What I've read is great.. the paragraph near the begining about the shoelace was very will written, as was the rest of it, I can't wait to read more! I'm already enraptured.. :-)

------------------
"Threatened by Shadows at night, and exposed in the light" - Pink Floyd


Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296
Purgatorial Incarceration
8 posted 1999-09-13 01:31 AM


Well done roxane. I have to admit it is not my preference reading, (I prefer sci-fi/fantasy) but you kept my interest and it was well written. And I always love lines that evoke powerful emotion, my fave in this one was:
"...her stomach, ripe with a third useless child that writhed in her womb."

Well done again!

Nicole
Senior Member
since 1999-06-23
Posts 1835
Florida
9 posted 1999-09-14 12:55 PM


At the risk of echoing all here, I say well done. And I'd like to read more!
rogen of the night
Junior Member
since 1999-09-07
Posts 29

10 posted 1999-09-14 04:48 AM


Well done Roxane this has been a verry good story that i loved reading and will love reading again.

------------------
The wise man is the storm prays God,not for safety from danger,but for deliverance from fear.It is the storm within which endangers him,not the storm without.
~~Ralh Waldo Emerson~~

The Forgotten Lady
New Member
since 1999-08-30
Posts 6
Columbia, MO, USA
11 posted 1999-09-14 11:47 AM


this is truly inspirational, and quite the saddest story I've ever heard. I've got tears in my eyes. Bravo, bravo,bravo.

------------------
I once was a dream lady, but now I'm forgotten

WhtDove
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-22
Posts 9245
Illinois
12 posted 1999-09-14 03:00 PM


Girl I have tears in my eyes right now! This was a great story! And you leave me once more hanging and wanting more!!!! ENCORE, ENCORE!!!!!!!!!!!!
roxane
Senior Member
since 1999-09-02
Posts 505
us
13 posted 1999-09-14 03:35 PM


i can't believe how nice you all are.... there is just one part left and then a conclusion. i hope that the ending will meet your expections.

roxane
Senior Member
since 1999-09-02
Posts 505
us
14 posted 1999-12-18 03:37 PM


i replied to my own post, (shame) because someone in critical analysis asked me if i had ever considered writing short stories, and i told him about this..... he said that he looked for it, but couldn't find it.... please forgive me for this    
jbouder
Member Elite
since 1999-09-18
Posts 2534
Whole Sort Of Genl Mish Mash
15 posted 1999-12-18 04:00 PM


It was me, it was me.  I am the CA nerd that Roxanne mentioned.  

If your prose is intended to be a home for words then you have built a beautiful home here.  Again, I must say I am impressed by your versatility.

Subject matter rarely phases me.  I enjoyed the story but what I enjoyed most about its wording.  I would suggest that you consider writing short stories.  Thanks for digging this one up for me.

 Jim

"If I rest, I rust." - Martin Luther


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