CREATIVE WRITING
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." - Oscar Wilde
I was born in a caged little pen. My mother and I were separated the instant I was born, and I was the only one of my litter that survived. I cannot remember much else about my family. Over time, I was able to walk and eat food that was hard and crunchy, instead of the wet and brown stuff I used to eat. I grew up in that little pen, chained to a fence in my crate. Dinner came as the sun would set. I saw others that looked like me being moved out of their cages and into giant white vans, filthy with muddy prints on their sides. I was always worried about what those vans meant. Were they vehicles to freedom? To our families? To a better life? I had no idea. I knew one thing was certain: the guys that went into the vans never came back. I lived in this backyard every day, through snow, rain, and shine. I could not say I disliked the backyard; I had no reason to, as far as I knew. I was only eight weeks. It wasn't "bad" yet to be in that backyard - until I turned one. First, I noticed a change in my food; it started to taste slightly bitter. Something had changed. Did they buy a new feed? Maybe I ate too much. I tried to see if the others noticed. Some left their food untouched, whimpering. I noticed a giant cut on someone that looked like me; his nose was bleeding as he kept running into the door of his cage. I heard loud yelling and two bullets of a shotgun go off before he finally stopped. I peaked out of my cage again, noticing the lump laying on the ground. I had always wondered why he stopped running. Another month passed before one of the scariest days of my life occurred. I finally got a good look at the people who fed me and kept me on that binding leash. I felt someone grab a hold of my chain and I started sliding across the patchy grass, barely able to keep up with him. I wondered where they were taking me. Maybe to the white vans? “Pit bulls can fight, but they sure are stupid,” he joked to another man walking next to him. Is that what I am? Who I am? They called me Number 26, but I nicknamed myself “Pit Bull.” When I was finally at the door to the building, I felt an overwhelming sensation of warmth. There was something sweet in the air and there was a fire. My paws were numb and sore. I tried to stay off of them, but the man forced me to keep walking. I followed begrudgingly. Where was I being taken now? I finally found myself down a bunch of steps into darkness. It was black for a couple of minutes, and I felt content again. It was nice to be in such ignorant space, knowing what pain surrounds you without having to look it the eye. But, for me, the lights turned on. It happened so fast. I was thrown onto a wooden table, slapping my side against its rough and uneven boards. I yelped in pain, yet no one stopped. Someone laid on top of me. I felt a hand near my bottom. My tail. Why was he grabbing my tail? I loved my tail. It was curly and tan. He let go of it. I felt relief - for less than a second. The last time I saw my tail, it was docked from my body and red on the floor. After they sliced my ears, I felt different. I could sense my surroundings. The pain was unbearable. Searing. I think I fainted because when I awoke, I was back outside. I was shivering. What was that place? I began to sob uncontrollably for my tail. For my ears. For my shivers. For who I was: Pit Bull. I would hate to bore you with the gruesome details, so I will just say: they trained me. I am not sure what I trained for, but I trained every day for as long as I could and to the best of my ability. I spent hours on treadmills, heading nowhere but getting there faster every time. I was not sure why, but it never really hurt. I was once on the treadmill for six hours before deciding I had had enough. But it was not enough for my owner. He made me get back on for a couple more hours. I began to feel bulkier as I was forced to push heavy boxes across a hallway My meals got a little bigger. I felt a little bigger. My temper was starting to change; I got angry when I saw the others getting more food than me. I got angry when one still had his tail. I guess that was why my first fight never really bothered me. I was angry. He put us into a fourteen-foot wide pen, and I immediately noticed dried red globs on the floor and scratches all along the plywood surroundings. What was I in this pen for? I began to whimper, but my opponent had done this before; he charged me, clawed my eyes, and I was already on the ground. I looked at my paw, wincing in pain. Would I be able to walk on the treadmill? What would happen to me if I could not? I laid limp for as long as I could before I felt arms wrap around me and bring me to my feet. I heard someone in the back of the room say “Again.” Over and over and over. I fell. I was bitten. I was sore. By the time they finally pulled me from the ring, I was bleeding all over. My opponent looked excited, something in his eyes telling me he had gotten used to beating me. Something ignorant. Something that looked like the face that sliced my ears and tail off. But soon enough, I became him. I never had a reason to think it was wrong; it simply was who I had to be. By the following year, I was beating other dogs that were unsure what the plywood walls meant or what the dried red globs were and what they were supposed to do when I came charging in. I became the alpha. I won over and over again. Finally, I was ready. Finally, I was hoisted into the white van. My expectations of the inside of the van were not met. To be perfectly honest, that van was incredibly stuffy and cold. The ride felt endless. I did not like how I felt like I was moving, but my legs were not. Cars scared me, and I found myself trembling on the ride to wherever I was going. The car eventually stopped. I waited for a while before the doors to the van opened. As the night invaded the car, I began to sniff. Maybe my mom was waiting for me. Maybe I was going to have to go on a long journey to meet my dad. Maybe I was going to be able to run away from these people. Maybe I was getting a new tail! But my wishes were quickly diminished. My “owners” hooked a chain to my leash and guided me into a narrow road between two tall structures. White clumps were melting on the sides of the streets, and yellow lights flickered to guide the way as it was the dead of night. As we kept walking closer to where we were going, I noticed a familiar sight: plywood and stains of red. An unfamiliar sight was the people. Why were there so many humans? They were all sitting around the pen looking eagerly at me as I approached. I had never even seen so many humans in my life at once! I knew I was going to have to fight someone, but why the people? Some of them looked at me pitifully, but most of them looked like my owners. “He’s not gonna make it. Did you see that other thing? It was a beast!”, someone whispered as I passed. What thing? I could smell another like me, but I could not find him with my eyes. I wonder if he recognized the plywood and the red stains. I wonder if he came in a van like me. My owner unhooked my leash and I decided to start to sniff for my fellow canine. Before I could, my owner hauled me into the corner of the ring. I looked up and saw him. He looked much like me in the face, though his fur was darker and he was much bigger. Something about him scared me. Maybe it was his size. Maybe it was the way the drool bubbled at his mouth. Maybe it was his bloodshot eyes. All I knew was that I did not want to fight this guy. It was too late. He pummeled me while I decided if I wanted to fight him - as if I had ever had a choice before. I was on the ground. Loud clapping noises evaded my ears; where was that coming from? He bit me and scratched at my eyes. More clapping. He bit me again. And again. And again. Black was beginning to fog the corners of my eyes. I kept feeling his ruthless bites. But just as the black invaded, I saw red and blue flashes. A hand awoke me, stroking my neck. It was the strangest sensation; this calming and rhythmic pattern lulling me back to sleep. Yet it was scary; what if the hand stopped stroking and started hitting? The thought startled me and I jumped up. I began barking as loud as I could. I had no idea what I was barking at, but I just kept screaming. “Oh, I knew I should have let him sleep. He just looked so precious.”, I heard someone say. It was not a deep voice; it was quiet and sounded worried. I slowed my bark to look at where the voice was coming from and saw a person with long, brown stuff falling from its head. It looked at me with a frown, but it looked so nice. I missed its hand on my stomach. As I slowed my bark, I felt my leg give out. It hurt so much, I started to pant and lay on my side. I began to worry; would the person make me walk on it? Fight on it? Or would she try to pet my stomach again? The person came to sit next to me. What was going to happen? I was too scared to move. It took out a long rope and put it on its ears. Then, I felt something cool on my side. It moved from left to right as I breathed. My breaths came in gasps of relief; I was so worried that rope was going to go around my neck and drag me to the plywood and the red stains. I was too hurt to move. The person removed the cool thing from my side and took out another rope. This time, it took my leg that was hurting and began to wrap the rope around it. I grew anxious again, but this time a little less; I knew the person was not going to hurt me. The rope tightened and I felt relief. This person wanted to help me. I do not know where I was, and I do not where I am. What I do know is that I get belly rubs. I get to sleep in a warm bed. I even get peanut butter. My paws never hurt anymore and I never have to be around other dogs that want to fight me. I get to be loved, and little people that are my height want to sleep next to me or convince the bigger people to give me more treats! Sometimes, I see bigger people that remind me of my owners and I get scared, but my new friends keep me close when this happens and rub my neck- rubbing all the worries away. I know that I am safe. I will never have to fight again. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I worry about the other dogs that go into the white vans. I worry about the other dogs back at the yard, and I worry about where their rides take them. Transcript: This I Believe: I believe that the things that seem like they will break us make us. I was always shy; after falling in and out of friend groups, I never felt like I was good enough. I could never seem to fit in; some girls I sat with would be popular and party. Another group I tried would be overly studious and hardly talk to me. I was tired of feeling isolated and excluded; it was exhausting. I eventually found my way into the bathroom upstairs, away from the overcrowded lunchroom where I could not find my niche. Eating lunch in the bathroom every day, I started to blame myself; maybe it was my hair? Were my hips too wide? I did mature much quicker… Maybe it was the way I dressed. Maybe if I were skinnier, did the things they did, talked like they talked… they would like me more.
During this time, I was studying late into the night, stressing out about my upcoming tests and trying to be the best in my martial arts career. My karate instructor always told me to push myself past my pre-set limitations. So I slowly started to remove things from my diet. I began to dwell on every single packaging label, the ounces of water I drank, the breakdown of my calories, what exercises I was doing that day and my overall appearance. I started to train for a half marathon, and this training began to kill me as my restrictive diet took a turn for the worse. To sum it up, I broke down. My heart rate was below forty. My nails were brittle, face sunken in. I was diagnosed with anemia and on numerous supplements. I was sent to treatment for four months after being diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and body dysmorphia. Slowly, I started to battle the monster inside of me that told me I was worthless. Battling ed, my nickname for my eating disorder, was and continues to be, the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life. The re-feeding process was slow and painful. Saying goodbye to my mother when she left me at impatient was traumatic. The endless needles and Gatorade and Boost were becoming normal. Trying to understand the way I felt about myself sitting in my therapist’s office was initially impossible. I thought it was simple: I did not want to eat. But a common misconception about eating disorders is that it is NOT about the food. I found myself on a spiritual journey that revolutionized my way of life. I trusted in God and met so many lifelong friends of many different genders, ethnicity, and with different disorders. Treatment taught me that I am not alone and that my eating disorder is NOT my purpose. I am more than a number. Eating won’t kill me, not eating will. After treatment, I became who I truly am: a loud, rambunctious Italian/Greek with lots of opinions and lots of confidence. More so, I made friends that care about me and that support me in my recovery. I met a boy at 202 WaWa that I fell in love with, and who brings out the best in me. I have healed my family strains that my eating disorder caused, and I am able to eat again. I am able to enjoy food, and I am able to do things I love like volunteering at the Brandywine Valley SPCA and helping rescues find their forever homes. I am able to advocate for animal rights, mental health awareness, and promote body positivity. I am able to expand my faith and focus in class and be a person without having to cave to the loud and selfish voice of Ed. I know that my eating disorder has permanently shaped my life and made me into who I am today. Without my hardships, I would probably still be soul-searching, never have met my boyfriend, made the friends I have, or be as confident in my voice and actions as I am today. A place I go where I feel the drum punch my solar plexus, strums of guitars rattle my rib cage, strobes and lasers and disco lights catch my eyes at the same time. The voice of an idol making the lights blur, as though I were driving on I-95, fast in the rain. With those hot tears streaming down my screaming face, I am helpless to the song and feel my entire body jumping and bobbing to its every beat. My entire heart is given to being an empty face in the crowd.
The Justin Bieber concert. Justin’s concert was not just a concert for me; it was a revelation. I walked into the big room full of people, freezing. My sister and I found our seats quickly, and when PURPOSE came up on the big screen, a young girl’s shirt caught my eye. It was a Justin Bieber tour shirt that said on the back, “Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is God’s PURPOSE that prevails.” I repeated this over and over in my head until the video ended. In seconds, my idol, role model, favorite singer and celebrity, my encouragement and inspiration was descending from the ceiling, his angelic voice gracing my ears with its unflawed sound. Justin’s show did not stop making me emotional; he got close enough to our side of the stage that I could see his scruff. I felt a flutter in my chest, but also a discomforting dizziness. I constantly felt this during the summer of 2016. I tried to ignore it, that is, until Justin sang what would eventually be my recovery song, “Life is Worth Living.” He sang, “What I get from my reflection is a different perception…” and I nearly fell to my knees in the crowd. I knew, and was finally willing to admit, that I was suffering terribly from anorexia nervosa. Justin kept singing and summoning the tears to my eyes. As soon as the concert started, it was coming to an end. I dragged my feet out of the Boardwalk Hall, along with my screaming stomach. Something clicked inside of my malnourished body that night and, once leaving the concert wrapped in my new BIEBER sweatshirt, I knew I needed to get help for my problem. "Dead silence fell in the middle of a word. Out went all light. The fires leaped up in black smoke."1/3/2018 I could smell ash; taste it, see it, feel it surrounding me. My clothes were black and eyes fogged by the endless clouds of smoke. Somewhere in the blur of my vision, I could see an outburst of reds, oranges, yellows, pinks, blues and greens. A fire distorted the sounds in the room; the printing machine that would buzz intermittently throughout the day, the clicking of fingertips on keyboards, the chatter of daily office duties.
In a sheer moment of clarity, a new feeling began to console me: panic. Where was Drake? Was he safe? My eyes watered at the thought of never feeling his touch again, never hearing his sweet voice inviting itself into my ears, never knowing what could have been our future in a world without him. With some motive to push the fallen desk off of my right leg, I began to start heaving with all of my power. It felt like hours. The constant pausing to let my leg rest was the largest nuisance. The flickering of the lights and incessant ash caused my breathing to shorten, making the removal process double in length. I could begin to hear again; the faint ringing in my ears had dissipated to a point where words were becoming comprehensible once more. In the distance, I heard a strong voice grunting, as well as the sobbing of several fellow women in the office. After several more desperate attempts to free myself from the compressing desk, I began to shout for help, wondering if anyone would hear. Who else could still hear the ringing? Did the other survivors figure that no one else was alive? Should I have spoken up sooner? I screamed. Then, I screamed more. I screamed so loud my vision began to shake. I screamed until my voice was returned to the whisper it was when I woke from the explosion. I must have passed out from lack of oxygen or other; I awoke in a bright-lit room, an IV pumping some sort of fluid into my right arm, my right leg suspended in the air with a bulky cast. With my mummified leg, I try to sit up but feel a wince of pain. I did not notice the brace wrapped around my torso. I quickly glanced around the room and noticed a folder with my name across the tab. I leaned slightly to the left, snatched it, and rifled through it. PATIENT'S STATUS: Two broken ribs, a fracture in the right knee cap, torn ligament, loss of three toes on right foot, dehydration, sprained ankle on left foot. With each word my eyes ate, I froze a little more. My stomach did back-flips at the "three missing toes" part, and my eyes became spouts of running water. Nothing about waking up seemed worth it; part of me wished I had not woken up. As the idea came to mind, the curtain next to me opened. A doctor smiled at me, looking overjoyed at my waking up. With a bit of struggle, I managed to see who was sharing the room with me at this dingy hospital. A small gasp escaped me, then the largest sigh of relief in the entire existence of the human race. "Drake..." I whisper in a raspy voice, barely recognizing my tone. Drake's eye enlarge at my attempt to sit up and he gets up quickly, rushing to my bedside. "Natasha, lay down. I'm here. I'm okay, nothing happened to me... I was just dehydrated. You, on the other hand..." "I know, it's not ideal..." I frown and hold up seven fingers. "Who needs ten toes when you can have seven?" A smirk escapes him in spite of everything that just transpired at the office. The doctor leaves us to talk and, with the shut of the door, Drake takes a seat on the edge of my bed. "Drake, who found--" A sentence unfinished. My mouth was sealed with a kiss. I was walking along the shore, the sand squishy and cool in between my toes. The colors of the sky -- kaleidoscopic and shades of pink -- reflected atop the gentle waves of Ocean City New Jersey. My eyes caught on the ripples in the water; they sparkled in the face of the setting sun. After several minutes of absolute stillness and serenity, I decided to pick up my sandals and return to the rental house. The pink shutters were visible as soon as I took the first two steps onto the boardwalk.
Goosebumps started to reveal themselves on my arms, making the little hairs stick up to the extravagant skies. I started to jog; the cold was starting to make my teeth chatter. I picked up my feet quicker and quicker until I was out of breath! I giggled as I slowed my pace to the front door and caught up with my breathing. In the kitchen, I could smell the coffee pot brewing a fresh pot of joe. It was such a pleasant sight before me: my grandmother and mother in the kitchen, scooping ice cream cones for all twenty-one of us kids; the laugh of my uncle and grandfather deep in some sort of conversation; the sweet smile of the newest addition to our gigantic family. The television remained black-screened and powerless. It was refreshing to be in an environment so calm and isolated. Back at home two months before, I felt different kinds of waves crashing into me. Schoolwork was ridiculous, my friends were fighting, and I found it hard to even get out of bed in the morning. I would wake up, peel myself off of my mattress like one peels a skin off of a banana, and sloppily get ready in the bathroom. By May, I stopped dressing to impress anyone. Nothing I found in my closet made me feel the way I used to when I looked in the mirror. I stuck to black leggings and over-sized t-shirts to hide whatever heaviness found me. My hair stopped cooperating; no matter what styling I did to assist it, it only seemed to become poofier and frizzier. I became frustrated by nearly everything and everyone. Each friend in my group had an issue with one of the others; I, therefore, became the mediator, required to counsel each friend and give advice in between papers and essays and tests grander than the textbooks themselves. In spite of my growing rage, I could not resist my friends’ need for me to heal their friendships. I was like the stem to the flower, providing all sources of food, and each of them were a different colored petal sprouting from my center. I could not think of any way to pick them off of my back, so I bit my tongue and stayed up until one in the morning to help them for four nights straight. By Friday of that week, I fell asleep in every class and failed three tests. I had not eaten a complete meal since the Sunday before the big fight commenced. Nearly every bone in my body ached with either exhaustion or soreness; lacrosse was another contribution to my untamable stress. I think I hit, what some people would consider, “rock bottom.” Nearly every aspect of my life that I had under control was completely and unrealistically out of control. Even being around my big brother, Andrew, upset me. He had his life together and was newly accepted to Fairfield University, was in a committed relationship, and had excellent grades. Slowly, I took apart the puzzle of my life and scattered the pieces. Or was it even me who did this? Perhaps it was my friend group, complaining right to left. Perhaps it was my teachers, dropping an anchor of work on me. Perhaps it was lacrosse, expecting too much of me in a time where I had little to no expectations for myself. Whatever it was, I was in the deep end of the world’s largest swimming pool, my only salvation the 14th of June: the last day of school. I trudged on through the dismal days of that May, doing everything in my power to stay afloat. My friends continued to bicker, but I was home “sick” for four entire days, feeling at peace for the first time in the entirety of May next to my mom watching Food Network for several hours. When I returned to school, however, Jennifer was nowhere in sight; the friend I considered myself closest with punched my other friend in the face. Her suspension from school hung over my head or the weekend, and I dissociated from my family. I cried in my room one night, laying in the pitch dark and feeling like a ghost. My head spun and pounded. My hands were soaked in the drops of my tears. I tried to count my blessings, but nothing mattered to me anymore. I could hardly face the mirror; who I saw was a stranger to me. I hated what I looked like; my self esteem was suffocating under the choking and tight-gripping hands of depression. Returning to school friendless did not help me feel calmer; despite the fact that most of their drama was off of my chest, I had a new feeling overruling. It was the feeling of utter loneliness. When I went home the first day of eating lunch alone, I found my mother trembling and screaming in my father’s gentle arms. Tears rimmed his eyes, a phone lay dormant on the kitchen table face-down, and the silence that indicated Andrew to not be home made my stomach lurch. It was a Monday on that particular day, which meant Andrew would be home studying his AP Psychics. I strained my ears for his voice, a foot tapping, or his overplayed soundtrack of Queen. I looked for his backpack strung over a chair, his shoes kicked off by the door. I tried to smell his Axe spray, but nothing revealed his presence in our house and every bad feeling one could possibly surfaced within in at that very moment. Dead. Andrew was dead in a car crash leaving school in a hurry to surprise Clarise for their official two years. I can still hear his overexcited voice telling my mom about it this morning. I got her flowers and tickets to the gardens. I picked out a perfect movie and I’m cooking. I have all the groceries bagged in my car. I got you some candy, too, Angie. Dead. Andrew was forever only a memory of my childhood, my high school years. I would never get to be an aunt and he will never get to meet my children. Dead. As fast as rain pours from the skies, frightening as ships sailing without sails. Dead. My brother was dead and I was alive, wishing at this point I were dead, too. School did not matter anymore. I was homeschooled for the remainder of the year. Whatever strength I had was used to brush my teeth, shower, eat, sleep. My mother drowned in memoirs and pictures of Andrew, crying intermittently over the course of a day. My father continued to work, throwing himself into his job more than ever before. Our coping mechanisms were not the best and, after visiting four days a week, my grandparents were starting to worry. As June came to an end and I finished my finals, my grandmother told us over dinner that they booked the rental house by the shore for the family’s annual “Week of the People.” She decided that it would be best to carry out the tradition, in spite of the absence of Andrew. In July, I packed my suitcase with some swimsuits, toiletries, and one of Andrew’s sweatshirts. I could smell him on it, and it seemed as though he was embracing me in one of his aggressive hugs. I felt tears spring to my hazel eyes, but I suppressed them and lugged by suitcase down the stairs. When we arrived at the rental in Ocean City New Jersey, the whole family was already there: Uncle Joe and Aunt Lisa with David, Carrie, and Josh; Uncle Mike with Kevin and Alexa; Aunt Barbera and Uncle John with Lou, Larry, Carol, Allison, Kelly, and Joann; Aunt Meg with Katie and Shelly; our family friend, Davis, with his wife and four kids; and Aunt Maria and Uncle Tom with Jake, Maddie, and Ross. My grandparents were cooking in the kitchen, preparing something that smelled like crab. My lips were salivating in seconds and, for the first time in seven weeks, I felt a small smile creeping helplessly across my glowing face. Weeks flew at the shore; we created multiple games in the waves, dug the biggest hole in the sand as there were twenty-one of us kids, and we ventured the entire boardwalk. I stuffed my face with caramel corn, Manco and Manco pizza, and lots of salt water taffy. During the final week, I was walking along the shore, the sand squishy and cool in between my toes. The colors of the sky -- kaleidoscopic and shades of pink -- reflected atop the gentle waves of Ocean City New Jersey. My eyes caught on the ripples in the water; they sparkled in the face of the setting sun. After several minutes of absolute stillness and serenity, I decided to pick up my sandals and return to the rental house. The pink shutters were visible as soon as I took the first two steps onto the boardwalk. I let my brother’s sweatshirt warm me and a tear streamed down my rosy cheeks. In this summer of salvation, I found peace in myself. I feel stronger than I did in May. My family’s arms surrounded me in the most demanding time of need. I look out to the ocean and take pictures in my mind to show my brother when I float up to heaven to join him. He calmly stroked my hair, taking my hand from out of my pocket and squeezed it tight, as though if he could just continue to hold on, nothing would change. I felt warm tears streak my cheeks, but his strong hand came to meet my face to gently cast them away. He pulled me into him and kissed my forehead, leaving a chilly, wet mark where his lips were imprinted.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered again. His hushed voice was so smooth, like the sweet sound of lullabies or a children’s choir. It was hard for me to remember that only moments ago his screams and shouts were loud enough to make my chest tremble to its rage. It was like being at a concert and feeling the beat of the drums. It reminded me of a screaming infant, uncontrolled and erratic. He was throwing the glasses at me in one moment, but then quickly stopped and started to pull me by my hair to our bedroom. I somehow managed to escape his grip and run to the bathroom. I locked the door as fast as I could, my heart barely beating. The lock was a blur in my fingers as black, mascara-tinted tears cascaded on my white blouse. I leaned over the sink, threw up twice, and laid on the floor until I finally heard a polite knocking on the door. When he eventually convinced me to open the door, he looked distraught at how he made me. His eyes were kinder than they were only minutes prior, and his mouth looked kissable once more. My shaky hands tried to pull my weakened body off the bathroom floor, but he ran in to assist me as soon as he sensed my struggle. I felt exasperated by his quick switches from hurt to help. He noticed several pieces of my hair still entwined around his fingers, slowly starting to cut off of his circulation. His eyes were bright red, tears on their rims. I felt a pull in my heart for his sudden desire to be my husband again. In his invalid display of disrespect and anger, I found I could not help but love him. A monster, perhaps, but my loving husband underneath. What would happen to me, anyways, if I tried to leave him? A big fight, perhaps. A few punches and pulls, even. What if… I regret the thought but, my own death? Well, he calmly stroked my hair, taking my other hand from my other pocket and squeezed it tightly with the other. The tears ran over and in between his fingers. I felt fragile in his arms. “I am so sorry, my dear, do you forgive me?” Like it was a question; like I had a choice. I pressed my face into his chest and murmured. “I do, I always do.” As I hear his sigh of relief as he releases me to continue on his merry way to work, I reach for the sofa as spots appear in my vision. I can hear my mother talking to me of my father. “No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow.” MARY
Henry Percy’s letter finally reaches me. He writes with evident haste and quite briefly. Be ready at midnight. Put a candle by your bedroom window from ten of the clock if you are ready to come tonight. At midnight tonight, blow out the candle and let yourself down from the window. I have horses and a guard and will have you away to France at once. Trust me. I would give my life for you. Henry Percy Mary Seton takes both of my hands into her own. I feel the heat of her nerves radiating off of her snow white skin. Her eyes are glossy with tears, and I can hardly imagine how I will be able to escape the restrictions of this castle safely; however, I know in my heart I will stop at nothing to try. I am Queen of Scots, and I need to reclaim my authority, my dignity, and my throne. My legs wiggle and shake with both excitement and fear. I know I am not in the correct physical shape to run out of this prison to my freedom. This is a most daring task, one that requires great agility and wit. I look at my reflection in the small mirror of my room, surrounded by my French parfums and aux toilettes. My face, though still striking as ever, has paled tremendously from worry over the course of the past several months. My lips quiver with my short and rapid breaths. Mary Seton stands behind me, tying bedsheets together in tight knots. She tugs on each new addition to our handmade rope and, once we deem it long enough and secure, wraps it around the bedrail. In comes my steward, John, rushing to seize the bedsheet rope from my lady-in-waiting. She hands them to him sheepishly and gives me a look of worry. His feverish actions create a sense of uneasiness in my grand escape, but we carry on as I blow out the candle to signify I am ready in my bedsheet rope to be lead to freedom. I climb up to sit on the rim of the open window, the chill of the winter air hugging my visible skin. I glance downwards, recalling my sneaking out of Bolton Castle. I see a beaming Henry Percy along with flashing silver; it would be his promised guard and horses. I turn to give John a smile of commencement and feel the bedsheets tighten around my waist. Mary Seton bites her lip and wishes me a farewell, a quiet tear cascading down her face. In moments, I am out of the window, tiptoeing down the side of Sheffield Castle. As I get closer and closer to the firmness of the ground, I hear a screeching noise from my lady-in-waiting, and a loosening of my tied up sheets. I give Henry Percy a grave look, and he reciprocates with a face that tells me to hurry. I am too slow, however. In seconds, the rope is falling onto my head, and I falling into the ground. I land hard on my back, groaning as Henry Percy’s hands hoist me up and onto my awaiting horse. My vision begins to fog, but I can faintly see the ground becoming a blur and the sound of shouts from my prison bedroom. All at once, darkness encompasses me, and I am running, running far away in the brisk air with Henry Percy and his guard at my side, to my very own freedom; to Scotland’s throne; to my dearest Bothwell; to a grand Spanish armada of many men waiting to fight for me; to my new beginning as Queen Mary of Scots. I looked at her and felt vacant, as though I were an emptied house. The corners in my rooms were dusty, my stairs creaked from their old age, and the windows in the bedrooms could not be looked out of as they were filthy and foggy from a thousand years’ isolation.
When my parents read her form, she was described as intelligent beyond her years, paramountly beautiful to all women in our town, and unconditionally loyal to whomever may be honored to be matched with her. She appeared to be the perfect mate for me, or at least in my parents’ eyes, but I recall feelings of doubt in our pairings. The forms were scary for every adolescent in town; a form essentially determined one’s entire future. It would dictate your job, whom you will be programmed to love, where you will live, your permanent salary, and the number of kids that one will be permitted to have. The forms commence creation the second a child enters the third grade. Once this age is met, school and sociality are graded, as well as appearance and overall character. My form did me a service when it granted me a well-paying job as a systems architect. My starting salary will be double what my father made before he was of retiring age, and nearly quadruple what my mother presently makes. My form supposedly gave me the most desired woman in our town, but for some reason, upon a single glance at her form, I handed it back to my parents, mid-yawn. Of course, I did not get a choice. My parents signed for my chip to be programmed to love this woman. My voice became voiceless in my head and, slowly, I started to find her more interesting. Her parents told me she had hoped to get paired with me; she had been admiring my work ethic and outward appearance for years. She probably knew I would be well-equipped with a hefty salary and, thus, permitted an extravagant house with many children. My retiring age would be earlier and my competence to keep up with the ever-changing society impenetrable. At word of our courtship, devices and animatronic voices were buzzing of what a couple we would make. The two most attractive people in the county, found through not their looks but intelligence. We were promised to be the most adequate and perfect match since the forms were invented fifty-three years ago. What was not promised was for our relationship; our powerful, cogent, exemplar relationship, resulted in the first mistake of the forms. My chip, placed on the far left side of my brain, started to become loose in the middle of my high school years. Unknowingly, it gradually shifted in its designated place, dislodging itself from my brain. I woke up one morning in bed with my new bride to find the chip on my pillow. Before she could see, I tucked it in my bed dresser drawer. I felt something lifted inside of me; I still feel this when I awake today. I turn to my bedside and see the body of the woman I truly love, rising slowly and falling softly. I run a shower and feel the warmth of the shower, taking extra, once considered “wasted” minutes to bask in its steam and heat. Life seemed somehow fuller at the expense of my chip. I am thankful for the therapy sessions in January;
The long-awaited return to school in February; In March, a wave of confidence crashed on me; In April, a run to WaWa where my future boyfriend found me; In May, Hershey kisses not in the form of chocolate; And June was the month I discovered I got published; July was full of dates and a trip to Virginia; August, we went on vacation and I never wanted to leave him; September was scary but the coffee got me through; He played me a song for my birthday in October, six months of every dream come true; November, our football team still plays to the Championship; And I know in December, I’ll be thankful for my sister, especially on December 11th. |
About the author.I love creative writing, especially poetry and short narratives. I hope expand my career as a poet and to always be reading something. Archives
April 2019
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