CREATIVE WRITING
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." - Oscar Wilde
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.
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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. |
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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