Hey! Iâm just a troubled girl who deals with the struggles of being a teenager through writing. All while listening to Ghost for hours on end and editing my novel.
Hey! Iâm just a troubled girl who deals with the struggles of being a teenager through writing. All while listening to Ghost for hours on end and editing my novel.
Art is a staple in my family. Each afternoon, I walk past a portrait of my mother painted by my father on their one year wedding anniversary. Her legs fold elegantly behind her as she sits in a field of flowers. Every bloom and blade of grass turns to her, as if she is the sun. The painting is kept pressed into a large frame and hung on the east wall of the enterance. This was so my father could show every guest could see how beautiful she was on the outside before getting to know her on the inside.
Once you make yourself at home, you start to realize that the portrait welcoming you is the only real creation in this house.
Today, when I came home from college, it was replaced. A mountain landscape with the northern lights streaking the sky. I removed my shoes, and in that short time, the piece was no longer art. There were no visible strokes of a brush. Each surface was smooth and shiney, as if artificial.
âHannah! Youâre here!â My mother floated down the stairwell, the train of her black dress dragging behind her. After all her years on this Earth, her grace and elegance never stops highlighting every meticulous movement she makes. When she lets go and looks into my eyes, I cannot tell sheâs in mourning. âIâve missed my baby girl so much.â
âHey, mom.â I try to push down my fatigue, but my mother is understanding of my jet lag. âWhatâs with the new decor?â
âYour father and I bought another drawing made by artificial intelligence. Itâs so much more cheaper than a real human drawing.â
âWhere did you put the one dad made?â
âItâs in the attic. He wanted me to put it there. I tried to tell him it would look wonderful in the spare bedroom, but I couldnât get him to compromise.â She wrung her hands together. Her eyes cast off to the side, drained of the joy she once held. Then they widened, back to life once more as she said, âOh! I almost forgot! Before you head to your room, I would like to give you something.â
She fled back upstairs, rummaged through the hallway closet, and returned to me with a book in her hand. âThis was your grandfatherâs sketchbook. The last time Iâd gone to the hospital to visit him, he told me he wanted you to have it.â
When I held the relic in my hands, my thumb brushed against his initials carved in the bottom right hand corner: J.M. âOut of all his grandchildren, why me? I didnât exactly inherit the talent of artistry.â
My mother shrugged. âHe wouldnât tell me. He said youâre the only person who deserves to see his works.â
I ran my fingers against the frayed spine, then met my eyes with the artificial intelligence artwork. If there is a possibility this is the last man made thing on Earth, then I will guard it with my life. After I settle myself into the guest bedroom, I open the sketchbook.
The image of a strange creature takes me in awe. Itâs body is long, like a hotdog, but soft like a fur coat. The ears were pointed and long i stead of short and rounds. The face wasnât anything like a humanâs, with a tiny, triangular nose and teeth sharp as needles. Twisted in an S shape is something labeled as a tail.
This creature was called a cat.
According to the small annotation next to it, cats are close to extinction, as everyone wants to sell them animal testing facilities or kill them for their fur rather than keep them as companions. In turn, this caused the population to rapidly decline. My grandfather describes his efforts to save them, and how they have inevitably failed.
It was only until I touched my wet cheek that I realized that the thought of these adorable creatures being ruthlessly killed off was making me cry.
I slipped the sketchbook under the bed and pulled myself under the covers, releasing my sadness quietly.
The beauty of the world was dying, and nobody did a thing. And now, my generation faces the consequences.
He will win your heart, fulfill your every wish with flowers and kisses.
He will look into your eyes, let yourself bare your soul and jokingly call you his missus.
He will hold your hand, twirl you around and smile as your skirt flows.
He will let the months fly by, gift you with his time no matter what his personal life throws.
He will be watchful, powerful like a storm.
He will never let the two of you be torn.
He will know of anyone who dares look at you.
He will remember every birthday, anniversary, and holiday, while remembering everything youâve done wrong too.
He will strike you, discard you, and you will continue to stay.
He will govern your every waking moment, and you will refuse to run away.
He will take you to parties, while the world dismissed that your eye is black and your lip is split.
He will give you death, and you will love him for it.
In my locket holds colors of my loveâs soul.
Red like the pomegranates she grows. The stains they leave on my lips when she brushes her thumb against them.
Violet like the flowers. Flourishing from her heart, mind, and body. Never wilting.
White like her teeth when piercing my skin. Ripping layers off. Leaving me bare.
But the world is black and white. It wonât accept the colors I have or the things that brought them to me.
Therefore, the locket must remain closed.
Only I will know of the beauty she brings.
Iâve been at this shoreline for hours. The air has cooled and the sun is slowly hiding away. There are no more children running about, or adults relaxing upon soft towels.
The ocean now deposits debris and other miscellaneous items onto the sand as if running a routine cleanup. I havenât moved from my crouched position, and my muscles ache when I adjust myself and get back on my feet. I do not know what awaits me when I return home.
But then, my toes touch something cool and smooth. A glass bottle with a letter trapped inside gleamed in the leftover rays. I reach down and pull off the cork. The raised label brings me Deja vu. Coka Cola was a staple in my family before my father died. Weâd reuse them so we wouldnât have to spend money on cups. I unfolded the note within its fragile containment and reread the handwriting of my six-year-old self. It was almost illegible, but I had hoped it would reach him. I held it up in front of me as if praising an excellent work of art when I see something strange through the thin parchment. Large lettering much different from mine. Each stroke was penned in black, swoops. I turn it over and gasp.
**Iâm alive, Ellie. **
My heart leaps in my chest. How long has this bottle been searching for me? Is my father on an island? Living his life on a boat? Laying on the beaches of another country awaiting his daughterâs return? How did he survive the crash? I take each corner and fold it with care for fear of the information being destroyed and becoming false. I slip it into the left cup of my bra and venture home.
The television blasts on the news, and almost all lights are off. My mother is fast asleep on the recliner, her jaw slack as she snores. A bottle of beer slips from her relaxed fingers, adding onto the pile next to her. Her black ashtray reeks of smoke on the coffee table.
I tiptoe in my room and decide to keep the note to myself. At least for a little bit will my Dadâs words belong to me.
âWait, donât go in there!â My sister yelled, the distance between us growing further. I venture deep into the field, the corn stalks a wall around me.
âFor the love of God, Ben! Get back here!â
Dead leaves decaying on the soil attempt to pull me back, to return me home where the mystery of this neglected corn field will remain unsolved until the intrigue weathers away. But the smell of smoke was a stronger force. It attacked my senses, drawing me further in. I was prey to the secrets of these acres of land.
âBen!â
Perhaps I am intruding on something once sacred, and that this is the only chance I get to turn. There is a chance this place may have always been a corn field, and it needed the presence of a human life again. Whatever the true story was, I kept going until I reached a clearing.
Above me, the sky faded to black. The transition was fast. It had been morning when my sister and I arrived here. Ash crunched below my footsteps until I came across a book. Engraved upon the leather cover was a cross, the kind particularly associated with Christianity. I reached down to pick it up, my fingertips coated in dust.
Then, I saw it. For a flash of a second. Burning, glowing fire ascending higher up the pile of hay. A woman struggling against the post she was restrained to, the fraying rope chafing against her pale skin. The billowing smoke served as a muzzle as she suffocated with each intake of breath. I took a step forward, but the bible dropped from my hands, and it was all gone. I returned to the present moment where the sky remained blue.
As I turned back, I began to cough and hack out the remnants of flame I inhaled. Even after returning to my sister, the words of what I saw wouldnât come out. I was met with a smack on the head.
âWhat weâre you thinking running off like that?!â She demanded. âYou couldâve gotten lost!â
Itâd been impossible to forward an apology. The bible placed in the clearing seemed to be waiting for someone to catch a glimpse of the trial it witnessed in that very spot. Nobody leaves one in a corn field like this, let alone forgets about it. Are there more among this crops?
I couldnât think of the answer now. My sister wouldnât stop hitting me.
I watch, but donât act. I adore her as she brushes past me without a second thought, but I donât dare speak. Adriana clings to her boyfriend Tobyâs arm while he laughs with his friends. Her glazed eyes focus on the front doors. Cars come, then drift off into distant snowy roads as the hope in her eyes dims. Blue lights pulse with the beat of the music, drowning us in this yearâs underwater theme. In her red dress, Adriana almost resembles bright coral.
I worm my way around the condensing crowd to the food table. As someone who isnât big on school dances, the food is one of the few pros I get from forcing myself into a suit. My good friend Saige managed to convince me to come with her, to give it a try. I can see her emerging from the bathroom in her green dress. Her heels clack loudly towards me. I do not rip my gaze from Adriana
âIt seems like youâre enjoying yourself there, TJ.â She quips, smirking at my lovestruck eyes.
âYeah, I am,â I say. I canât pull my smile down, and I donât make an effort to. Itâs easy to ignore the suffocating feeling of the tie around my neck and my rumbling stomach when Adrianaâs around. Even if she doesnât know my name.
âYou should try talking to her. You canât be a wallflower for the rest of your life.â
âI know, but Toby would sock me in the face before I get the chance. You know how he is with his partners.â
With annoyance, she crosses her arms over her chest. âHeâs been ignoring her all night for his football friends. This might be your one and only chance to speak to the love of your life.â
âSaige, would you stopââ
âIf youâre going to choose to be a coward, you should at least do something other than stand there and ogle at her. Come to the dance floor with me.â She says.
I finally turn to her. âNo, Saige.â I told her firmly. âIâm not doing that. You go ahead and have fun.â
Saige lets out a sigh and rolls her eyes. âOkay, fine.â She canters off toward her group of friends from the swim team and twirls around to the next song. When I return my gaze to Adriana, I see her bending down towards the floor. Her corsage broke off from her wrist, and as she tried to fasten it back onto its strand, four white petals fell. Her boyfriend kept conversing with friends and ignoring his date. He had pulled away from Adrianaâs gentle grasp while she continued to struggle with the flower. She eventually decides to attatch it to her the strap of her dress. Itâs rests above where her heart beats.
I take a cake pop from the food table, and in that brief moment, Adriana vanishes. In the short time it takes for me to grab a quick snack, a flicker of red slips into the cold night. Snowflakes begin to fall in flurries, and worry clings to my heart.
âAre you okay TJ?â Saige approaches me once more with concern.
âAdriana left.â
âDo you know what happened?â
âNo, but I donât have time to explain.â
I rush off before Saige could yell for me, but just as I cross the threshold between the dance and the outside world, I can hear the signature sound of her heels as she follows in pursuit.
âAdriana!â The wet snow soaks through my shoes and absorbs into the fabric of my socks. Goosebumps prickle my skin like needles coated in frost. âAdriana, where are you?â
Thirty feet ahead of me is a dense forest. To my left is the parking lot. I do not see the bright red of her dress or the golden locks of hair. I do not hear her melodic voice. The wind picks up, carrying the snowflakes with it and deafening and blinding me further. The only think I can make out is an odd hill of white ahead of me. It looks too smooth to be snow.
I step closer and reach to touch it. I flinch back, expecting biting cold, but instead a smooth sensation graces my fingertips.
Petals.
A path of them leads deep into the forest.
âAdriana!â
The only response is the echo.
âAdriana!â
I run as fast as my freezing muscles would carry me. The path ends and I approach a frozen lake. Deep cracks form from its edge towards its center where Adriana stands like arms of death reaching out for her. Tears stream down her cheeks.
My ability to speak eludes me, for even in her moments of utter despair, she still looks so beautiful. I stare at her despaired eyes, blue like sapphires. As the ice falls from beneath her, that sadness turns to fear.
âTJ!â Saige huffs from behind me. âTJ, what the hell?!â
âAdriana fell through the ice!â
âWhat?!â
I gesture to the gaping hole in the frozen lake. Saigeâs eyes widen. âDonât just stand there! Do something!â
My joints are solid stone. My tongue and throat are dry, and with each swallow, the irritation worsens. The lake slowly brings down Ellieâs body to the deep like a mother putting a baby to bed in its crib. Before I could answer her, Saige runs towards it, ties up her brown hair, and dives in. I remain tense, but with trust in Saige. The seconds are slow, and when they donât emerge from the water, I yell for the nearest adult and have them call the police.
Many ambulances arrive. Both Saige and Adriana are motionless on the gurneys.
I watch, but donât act. I cry for them as the paremdics brush past me without a second thought, but I donât dare speak.
âAfter your stunt at your royal wedding last night, your father and I have decided to send you to a wilderness convent!â
Her words ring true as my crown is stripped from me. An emptiness is left behind in its place, almost like I was stripped naked. Prickling sensations run up and down my arms as I adjust into my new uniform. The thin black fabric covers every inch of me, the collar reaching up to the top of my neck. Every day Iâm going to look like a walking, talking turtle.
How wonderful.
The expansive church stands tall, but not as tall as the trees shrouding it. My screams for help would just barely reach the sky before being baraccaded by the canopy of branches.
The only positive I can turn to is my roommate Liviana. She landed in this situation the same way as I have: by rebelling against the confines she was forced in.
âEvery day, we have our studies outside. We pray to Mother Nature before every meal, and if you take even a single nibble or sip during that time, Mother Lora will have your head.â
My attention towards her instructions is fleeting as I focus on my hair. The rags we are given stifle my voluminous blonde curls. I attempt to use my comb to style the dirty cloth in a way I find suitable. Already, I miss my crown, the one adorned with amethysts locked away in Mother Loraâs office.
âAnd if you get in enough trouble, then you will spend as many days as they give you working until you bleed.â Livianaâs thin, veiny hands snatch the comb. Her black hair certainly needs it more, as whisps of it float in the air and the thicker strands twist together in knots. She rips the rag and ties it tight around my head, the pressure giving me a slight headache. The dirt caked in itâs edges gets into a lock of hair, and I curl inside myself.
âYouâll get used to the grime eventually. They donât get cleaner no matter how many times you wash them.â Liviana said flatly. âCome on, itâs almost time. We cannot be late.â
When Liviana, slips out of the room, I do not move. My body rejects my mindâs command, and instead my eyes drift to the window. The blades of grass ahead dance with the wind, accompanying the fireflies among them. Their flickers of light return my thoughts to the castle with its crystal chandeliers and intricate stained glass. In here, I feel like an old doll stuffed in a basement waiting for the years to deform me with mold and cobwebs.
But, no matter where I am still royalty. Royalty doesnât spend their days in a wilderness convent. They command their people while bringing greatness to past and future generations. Responsibility is held on their shoulders. Every building and road is under their command, their jurisdiction.
My eyes turn up, expecting the family portrait that hangs above the thrones. The frame takes over the entire marble wall, and the people who walk before it gaze upon it with jaws open. Sometimes, the sheer size of it appalls even me. Instead, the big hand of the clock is seconds away from stricking seven. Anxiety floats in my stomach.
For now, I will smile and obey. But I will find a way to get my crown back.
Itâs been two hours since my wife left home for the grocery store. Her perfume no longer lingers around me. The television is paused to the latest episode of Breaking Bad. As the sun sets, my body sinks into the couch, trapped in boredom. Iâve texted and called to no avail. Only one option is available for me, and that is to wait.
Across my street, flickers of light from a failing street lamp keep me awake. Each time the bulb revives from the dead, I roll my eyes. Do I have to walk out there and do something about it myself?
When the full moon makes itself known in the black above, it doesnât distract me. For many minutes, I forget it exists. The stars blink to grab my attention, then dim when they realize their attempts are futile. The brightness closest to me is what I watch despite my frustrations with it. My wife remains absent, and I begin to wish for her warmth.
Thatâs when I notice the pattern.
Certain moments of light last longer than others. The dark it leaves behind can sometimes be quick like a startled critter.
Just like morse code.
I grab a slip of paper and pen and write what I see. The message comes to me one letter at a time like ice slowly melting until it releases whatâs inside.
SâŚHâŚE
IâŚS
DâŚEâŚAâŚD
My heart stops, and so does the flickering. The palms of my hands press against the window, damp with condensation. Questions whisper in my mind as I put my coat and boots on. Is this coincidence? If not, who is sending this message? Is this a prank? The load of confusion makes my head heavy. With each step in the snow I feel as if I might explode.
Then, I see her.
At the food of the street lamp, my wife lay without movement. Blood from the crown of her head gathers in a puddle.
âRoxanne!â
Before I could reach my beloved, the street light awakens. It must have sensed me, must have prepared to mock me as I mourn. Instead, its last words put me at a halt.
HâŚE
IâŚS
BâŚEâŚHâŚIâŚNâŚD
YâŚOâŚU
As I walk into my room, a burning sensation grows between my thighs. Skin chafes against skin, feeding the fire of pain and irritation. Until now, I couldnât acknowledge the rashes growing redder with every step. I peel off my leotard, the sweat on my skin clinging to the thick fabric. When I struggle to pull my legs out, I see the rips in my new tights, I see my motherâs money thrown out the window.
I let my duffel bag slip from my fingers. The old ballet slippers and almost gone deodorant spill onto the floor. My figure, clad in a tight bra and underwear, stands before the mirror, reminding me of my yellowed walls and stained matress. Iâm shown for the hundreth time the dead cockroach hiding in the corner. Wind billows from the open window and wraps around my body in a blanket of chill before teasing my wispy hair. For a fraction of a second, I donât see the door. For a frightening moment, leaping out my window to my death was my only path free. When my eyes meet the rotting, wooden threshold, I sigh with relief.
A soft melody pulls me further from my rattling mindset. I see a small, tiny ballerina spinning atop of the jewelry box on my desk. Her performances are short and repetitive, but the dancer has never once faltered. Neither has her smile or her pirouette. Her flamingo pink tutu and blush tights are as new as the day I got her five years ago. Stress and worry donât pull down her delicate features.
I wish for her be in my mirror instead.
But on the music box she will remain forevermore.
