Originally written November 2, 2011
“Hurry! Hurry up!”
A gang of small children ran down the narrow stretch of ally connecting the market street to the commons. “He’s catching up!” Behind them ran a very unhappy man, blood dripping from his brow and a metal club clutched in his hand. He was faster than they were.
One of the children slipped and fell, skinning his knee and rolling to a stop. Another, a girl, stopped when she saw him, shouting, “Click! Get up! Come on!” She lurched forward to help him, but someone else grabbed her by the arm and pulled.
“There’s no time. Nothing we can do. Now run!” With one last look at the boy Click, the girl rejoined the pack and bolted, disappearing into the crowd of the Market. However, she was not fast enough to shield her ears from the screams, and the blood-cooling crunch of breaking bones and the strike of metal on flesh.
She wove through the people like a mouse, darting back and forth but startling no one. The people of Hasven were used to the uncontrollable antics of children, including their ruckus in the marketplace. No one noticed or even cared about the raggedy barefoot hooligans - as long as no one was picking in their pockets.
The girl hurried toward the Works, knowing that her kind was safe there. The laborers in the plants accepted the youth gangs and hid them in exchange for stolen trinkets and favors, especially favors. All of the workers loved their favors.
Thinking she was far enough away from the alley and the guardsman, she slowed and tried to calm herself, doing her best to blend with the taller, but equally dressed citizens of the Hasven slums. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, smoothing it out and patting it down in a futile attempt to make herself more presentable. Like it mattered, no one would be judging her for her hair.
On her way through, she helped herself to several pockets, lining her own with tiny silver coins. Just as she reached into her latest victim’s back pocket,an arm reached out and seized her by the elbow, yanking her away. He threw her across the ground, skin scraping against the grit.
She could feel the sting of dirt in the scratches. A bead of blood dripped down her temple, pooling at her lip. It tasted metallic.
“You little vagrant!” The man kicked her in the ribs. She rolled a few feet, lurching and crying out in pain. A circle of onlookers had gathered around them, hoping to get a good show. “You bitchy little bastard.” He kicked her again, and this time she spat up blood, mixed with saliva and dribbling down her chin. Her vision was blurring and she could not even think to move, let alone stand or try to get away. “Filthy little whores like you belong in one place, and one place only.” He slapped the back of her head back towards the ground as she lifted it, reaching for his belt buckle with the other. “On your knees, sucking my-“
“Stop it.” A woman had stepped forward, young enough to be a mother, but old enough to show the grief of death, and situated herself between the broken girl and her abuser. “That is enough. She has learned her lesson. Now leave.”
“Who the hell are you lady, to tell me what the fuck to do?” He lashed out and slapped her, sending her reeling. The crowd surged in outrage, cursing and shoving but no one dared to touch the guardsmen. He had drawn his gun. “Now. Any other courageous souls? No? Good.” He pulled the trigger, and the writhing woman stilled, blood pooling at her head. “Public disobedience is a crime punishable by swift, martial justice. Now disperse! Go back to your hovels and shacks and remember what I can do to any of the likes of you.”
Grinning in his triumph, the guardsman looked down, only to be severely disappointed. “Little bitch…” During his speech, the girl had managed to sneak away, and if he had looked close enough, he could have discerned the droplets of blood in the street, a bread crumb trail back to the beaten girl. Instead, he dragged the corpse of his victim to an alley and satisfied his lust with the broken body of a brave woman.
So, I’ve come to realize something. When I write something out, when I speak something out loud, it becomes real, while the figments and inklings in my mind are just thoughts I can pretend that I never thought at all. This is not my realization.
When someone calls me pretty, when someone says I’m beautiful, whether I say so or not out loud, I disagree with them. I’ll mutter under my breath about how they may be crazed or blind, or that they’re just playing to my weaknesses or trying for flattery, just trying to be nice, or sweet or kind. And that’s okay. I may not be beautiful in the conventional sense, with perfect eyes and lips and hair. I may have a few extra pounds in a few unflattering places, extra hair in my eyebrows and an awkward zit above my lip that never ceases to be a pain.
But I love the color of my eyes, how the blue and the grey and the sometimes green blends together so I never know what I’m going to see when I look in the mirror. I love every single scar on my body, and I relish the stories that I can remember and the fun of making stories up for the ones that I can’t remember. Hiding somewhere underneath my hair, I know there’s a perfect right angle scarred into the back of my head, and you know what? That makes me feel special. How many people can say they have something “perfect” about them?
There are so many things I love to do, but I know full well that I am barely good at them and am hardly comparable to those that are actually skilled. I like to draw, design, and run, even if the latter leaves me winded. I like to make music, play instruments, sing and even dance, but I’ve been at the beginner level for the majority of my life, and I’m okay with that.
Every time I see an exceptional dancer, ice skater, gymnast, martial artist - I can’t help but be a little jealous and wish that I could do what they do. But I’m only human, just one girl, and superstars with multiple exceptional talents are extraordinarily rare. And I’m not.
Instead, I used to be like a lot of people: being told that there’s something I’m good at, but not knowing what the hell that something is. But I think I know what it is now. People have always said I’m good at writing, but they’ve always been friends or family or people who know me too well. I’ve never heard it from a stranger. I’ve never heard it from someone who doesn’t know me. I’ve never seen someone genuinely surprised, astonished, maybe even proud. Now that’s a feeling I’m going to remember, but it wasn’t so much pride that caused my elation.
It was happiness. I’ve come to the realization that I am the happiest I’ve ever been. Sure, life isn’t perfect. I’m still plagued by nightmares and I don’t even realize some of the horrible things I say sometimes, or the effect those things can have on people. I’m not suicidal today. I said that today. It was honest.
I am happy. I may not be beautiful in the conventional sense, physically fit or talented or skilled. But I am happy. And really? That’s more than I could ever ask for. It’s more than content (and/or contempt) for how things are, but honest and blissful happiness. For once, almost everything feels like it’s going my way. Sure, the rain picks up just as I get out of the car. I’ll stub my toe on a chair and lose my phone charger for a few days, or weeks. But life isn’t perfect, and I’m happy, and that’s all I could ever ask for.
This happiness is something I can believe in. It’s something I can treasure. And the best part is that it’s the silver lining, not the sun. I weathered the storm so far and maybe this is only the eye, only a moment, but it makes everything else worth it. To get to the light you have to brave some dark places. And maybe once in the light you’ll have to venture back into the dark. But I’ve come to think it’s not so scary the second time around. And if it comes back? I’m ready for it. And from now on? Nothing’s going to break my smile, no he nor she nor fallacy.
As long as I am happy I don’t need to be anything else but me.
It’s that time of year again, and not that I’ve been writing much for the entirety of April, it’s time for me to ship on out for the sake (this word looks really wrong for some reason…) of good grades (Ha!) and all that shenanigans.
In reality, my grades aren’t that great this semester… gotta work on that.
Peace and Pasta Sauce!
~TH
The Aviator lost his way
A cold and breezy summer day
He piloted his craft away
Into the distant sky
The Aviator does not cry
He rarely laughs and does not lie
He loved a girl once - she would die
Alone, in bed, with child
The Aviator, cool and mild
Rarely seen and rarely riled
Lost his love and lost his child
Lost his way in life
The Aviator flies through strife
He wears a scarf once of his wife
He also wears a belted knife
The one she used to go
The Aviator felt the blow
The one she dealt him long ago
A desperate act, could not follow
So much sorrow, so
He flies away.
“Nice. Very nice.” A man circled the chattel on display, a young woman standing on a small dais. Another man stood just out of the way, stroking his grizzly black beard.
“She’s fresh, pure, and very compliant. She will make an excellent wife, Sire.” He caught the woman’s grey eyes and they flickered downward, finding something about the stone tiling to observe.
“She certainly is of fine form and figure, charming face.” He continued to inspect, circling her like a vulture. “Was her mother a good breeder?”
“Yes, my second wife bore twelve children for me. This one here was her favorite, the youngest daughter.”
“Does she have a name?”
“No, Sire. We only named our first son. The rest we numbered according to birth order. She is number Eleven, but you may call her whatever you wish.”
“Of course,” the man murmured, taking hold of the girl’s wrist and pulling her down from the dais and spinning her around once, causing her skirt to flare out. Her legs shook beneath the thin fabric, her eyes remaining downcast and unreachable. He held onto her wrist, rubbing her palm with his thumb. “How is the girl’s mother, Master Scherrs?”
“She died, just this last month. Poor thing took it very hard, so I thought it best to get her away from the memories so she can start again with a clean slate, you understand.”
The potential buyer grimaced, as though disturbed. “How much do you expect for her?”
“Well, Sire,” the man began, “She is my youngest and last daughter and she is very dear to me-“
He silenced him with a hand. “How much.”
“Three hundred.”
“Two fifty.”
“Yes, Sire.” The man dared not argue, bowing low with a gracious sweep of the arm. When he rose the two shook hands and the buyer paid for the woman. As quickly as he could then, he pulled her from the building. She nearly tripped over her own naked feet, stumbling. She had just been sold to the Kingdom’s Second Prince to be his wife.
He chose to walk her to the palace, thoughtlessly putting her on display for the entire city. She walked just one step behind him despite the customary three, but she could not help that he still grasped her wrist and would not release it. Her white frock defined her as chattel, fresh from the sale by the starkness. It was an old tradition that slaves and other servants wear only white. It made it harder for them to steal things for lack of a place to hide them. The cleanness of the cloth was also a telltale of the slave’s purpose. A field laborer would wear his clothes to brown and black, while a house servant would remain quite clean. While a mark of bondage, the whiteness was also a symbol of status throughout the chattel community.
Beyond the tradition, it was a a beautifully contrasting color on the young woman. Her caramel color skin shone against the lack of color, and her own snow white hair seemed to blend into the cloth. To her own gratitude, her long wavy hair also fell over her face, shielding her from the gazes of citizens, and keeping them away from the vacant expression on her face. Certainly, they would have thought her dumb.
In truth, she wanted to cry, but stony determination kept her eyes dry.
He lead her along tenderly, as though she were a toddler in his care. His hand was strong but soft, as though he had never worked a day in his life. She dared to wonder if her own calloused hands would become so soft, but then dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. She was to be the prince’s third wife, not his first. She was headed to no life of luxury, let alone lack of work. Her matron would see to that.
“You are very quiet for an Ancilla.” His tone barely betrayed his interest.
She did not respond.
“You may speak freely. I will not judge or harm you.”
“With all due respect, Sire,” she began in a whisper. “Not here. Others listen.” She kept her words brisk, short, purposefully curt.
“Your father did not lie about your wit,” he commented vaguely, almost in approval.
She could not hide her smile but she said no more. After all, her father did sell her to the highest bidder.
There once was a little girl; she was sitting on her bed
There once was a little girl; she was wishing you were dead
She sang a pretty song as she watched your friends drown
She sang a pretty song as she washed your blood from her gown
And she went to sleep at night, happy, but sad
Knowing there was none to kill next when mad
There once was a little girl; she was crying for mercy
There once was a little girl; she was burned for heresy
She sang a pretty song like a scream or lament
She sang a pretty song while ashen remnants ferment
And she went to hell that night, broken in fire
Resting in flames for a lack of desire.
There once was a little girl; she was haunting a child
There once was a little girl; she was harshly defiled
She sang a pretty song as her spirit declaimed
She sang a pretty song that made mocks of the maimed
And she went to see you, just one moment more
To wish you a life like a festering sore.
There once was a little girl she was born and burned, buried
There once was a little girl, you shall now feel her fury.
So it’s been a while since I made a commentary post. So! (So many so’s)
I realize that I skipped F.12. That’s because that is the Aviator story. And I’m working on it. I just don’t like it yet. I’m working on it. So deal with it.
Until I finish it, I’m going to continue on my merry way.
Okay? Okay.
Moving on!
“And they lived happily ever after.” A mother smiled down at her little girl, curled up in her bed, clutching a stuffed bear with a green ribbon. She breathed lightly, and her mother stood, tip-toed from the room, closed the door and crept downstairs to the waiting warmth of an armchair and a fire.
“She asleep?” A gruff and tired voice barely cracked above the fire. The mother nodded and curled up in the chair, staring off into the fire.
“She’s asleep. Like a little dove.” There was a blissful silence for a spell, where only the crackling embers made sounds.
“Still taking her tomorrow?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” She turned her head, barely able to make out the outline of his face in the dim light.
“You don’t like it when she sees you upset.” He kept his tone level, careful with his words.
“I won’t be upset. I can manage it.”
He started, “I can come with you-“
“No. I need to do this on my own.” She removed herself from the armchair and walked to him, taking one hand in hers and kissing the rough knuckles. “I’m a big girl now.”
He smiled, though she could barely see. “Of course you are.” Taking hold of her hand then, he lead her back upstairs, and not another word was spoken.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
In the morning, the mother dressed her little girl in a bright white dress with blue ribbons and yellow seams. She was so exciting, bounding around the house, wild with whimsy. Only when her mother had finally managed to get her to eat breakfast, and then secured her inside a bright yellow four-door in her booster seat did the little girl begin to settle down.
Her mother, while smiling, was in a much less elated mood. He watched her from the table, watching for signs of distress, but she showed none. She strapped herself in and pulled out of the driveway, waving goodbye briefly through the window. He waved back.
They drove for a short while, out of the suburbs and into the city. The little girl marveled at the bright cars and tall buildings, and all the people on the sidewalks. She would point and ask questions, amazed as though she had never seen any of this before. But she had, she just didn’t remember.
After a short while, the mother pulled into a small gravel parking lot at the bottom of a great hill. Unlike the rest of the city, this space was bright green, dotted with round stones in perfect rows. Somehow sensing the solemnity of the place, the little girl quieted her questions and grasped her mother’s hand once out of the car. They slowly mounted the hill.
The mother stopped about halfway, and turned off the little path into the grass in between rows of stones. The little girl followed, absorbing the sights around her. She had never been to a graveyard before.
“Mommy?”
“Yes dear?” She stopped in front of a modest stone, fresh compared to the others, the plot neater and cleaner than most others too.
“What is this place?”
The mother took a moment, knowing what she would say, but fighting to speak the words. “This is the place where guardian angels sleep.”
“Why do angels sleep underground? Don’t they live in heaven?”
“They do,” the mother assured her, “but when they come to earth they need places to stay, like how people stay at hotels.”
“So these stones are angel hotels?”
“Exactly.”
“Whose angel is this?” She peered at the stone, but she was too young to recognize the name.
“He was my angel once, when I was a little girl like you.” She sat down on the grass and the girl followed suit, sitting in her mother’s lap.
“Was he a good guardian angel?”
Her mother laughed. “A very good angel. He made me believe that all my hopes and dreams would come true, that I could be whatever I wanted and that things would always work out for the better. He was a comfort and a friend, and like a father in many ways. But he had to leave before he could meet you.”
“How come?” The little girl sounded sad.
“It was his time to go back to heaven.”
“Will he come back?”
“He will, and until he does, he wanted me to tell you a secret.”
“A secret?” The little girl perked up and craned her neck. “I promise I won’t tell!”
“I know you won’t.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “He wanted me to tell you that he’ll be watching over you, all the way from heaven.”
“That’s a far way..” The little girl sounded doubtful.
“It sure is, but you’re worth it to him. He loves you as much as your mommy and daddy do.”
“Will I get to meet him someday?”
“You will, but not for a very long time.”
“When I go to heaven?”
The mother smiled and held her daughter close. “Yes, when you go to heaven.”
“But that’ll take forever!” The girl complained, pouting at the stone.
I hope so,the mother thought, holding her little girl close.
“Sweetheart, why don’t you pick some flowers for your angel?”
“Okay!” She rose up from her mother’s lap in a hurry, stumbling and almost sprawling into the grass. “Careful!” Don’t stain your dress!”
“I won’t!” All smiles, the little girl ran to the top of the hill where a small tuft of wildflowers waved in the wind.
Taking the moment to herself, the mother closed her eyes.”She’s growing up just like me. A wild little thing. She questions everything, always wants a story, always wants to understand… I try to be like you. I try to keep the world open for her. You made it seem so easy… you will be proud of her, I’m sure, just as you were always so proud of me. Do watch over her for me? I know you will. I know you love her, just as you loved me.” She paused, listening for the patter of her daughter’s hurried steps. “I love you, always and forever.”
“Mommy! I got the flowers!” Giggling, she handed her mother an eclectic collection of goldenrod and forget-me-nots, a few black-eyed susans and a pretty white flower she had forgotten the name for.
“Beautiful, now go lay them by your angel’s stone. Good girl.” She placed them candidly by the stone and stepped back, taking her mother’s hand. Together, they walked back down the hill toward the yellow four-door. The wind had calmed and the sun was shining, and in the depths of her heart, the mother knew her message had been received.
I haven’t written anything for this journal of mine for a long while, though I’ve tried on multiple occasions and saved the drafts. I’m working on a few stories and I have plenty of ideas in my head, but for now it’s time for just the typical ramble of inner thoughts.
I’m listening to Rockabye on repeat. I don’t care if its official name is just Lullabye. I’ll call it Rockabye.
I’m just chilling in the lounge. My hair is still wet from a shower and its everywhere. I should probably be doing something more productive than merely writing, oh the irony, but for now, it’s good enough.
I’ve been in a mood lately, and I don’t like it. I haven’t felt like this for years - so why has it resurfaced now? Now of all times when it seems I’d be perpetually happy for all the time to come? Maybe that’s why right there: nothing good can last forever, can it.
It’s a nagging sadness and an itching flare, an itch to scream at anyone and simply not care. Things that shouldn’t matter do and things that do matter are thrust into the back seat. I want to run the aggression out, barefoot down the pavement. Somehow, though, I feel like it’d be frowned upon. Case in point: why does it matter? Who cares what other people think? When did I start caring whether or not what I wanted to do was approved of by general society?
I guess that’s just the thing. I’m starting to care. I do care. Maybe that’s what it is, a self-imposed repression that I’m subconsciously fighting against. Ha, imagine that.
I can’t even seem to focus on this post, let alone anything. That kinda sucks considering I have a lot of work to do this week in addition to a double whammy. My immune system picked the perfect moment to fail. Not.
On the plus side, London was absolutely amazing. I never thought I’d fall in love with a city, but London was more amazing than I expected in just that it was so simple. A lovely little city. A simple little city. Quaint. Peaceful. I want to go back already.
I actually want it to be summer. I want to be home, with the trees, the warmth of the sun with ticks leeching off of me. I want to swim in the water, splash in the stream and pick wildflowers until the sun goes down. But, I also have to get a job, probably two, and little of any of that will probably happen. Oh well, a girl can dream.
Everything is gonna by alright, rockabye…rockabye.
