Sorry this has taken forever. It has been difficult to write this story as I have to remember things I have blocked out. Sorry it's short. Will try harder.
I took the next few sessions as a test of my patience and, I guess, was of hers too. I filled her in with meaningless titbits about my life. Cornered, and afraid, I resorted to taking up the defence. The most I told her was that my memories triggered a voice that beat me, hurting more than any cut could. Those thoughts, they were my own fault. I waited for the opportunity to bolt the system. I allowed the shadowy winter months to consume my thoughts. I couldn’t see myself telling another person that I caused a good person to turn bad; that I allowed someone to give into his or her lustful desires; the desires that I caused. I swallowed the grimy feeling, the guilt, and each time turning my determined eyes to the gentle hazel eyes that were surveying me. A shadow crept over me, as I burrowed further into my writing occasionally glancing up to realise the depth of the hole I was digging for myself. I was disappointed with myself, disappointed with those around me with the alleged desire to help me.
After a few of these sessions had passed, I was granted the chance Penny personal questions. I had a week to prepare what I would ask her. Perhaps her own frustration had her resort to breaking the bonds of a professional relationship. I secretly wondered if I had driven her to desperate methods. When I got there, faced with opportunity to get to know her as a person, I froze.
“I don’t have any questions,” I muttered, not trusting my voice.
I did though. I wondered whether she knew pain. Why was she a psychologist? Would it be a possibility that she would grow to care for me? I forced myself to look into those gentle caring eyes and squirmed with guilt. I felt as though I was really wasting her time.
I let my thoughts dissipate as I watched the road wind closer to my destination. The days were lengthening and winter’s grip was beginning to lighten. The car slowed as it arrived at Zillah, the local pastor’s house. While I wouldn’t trust people, perhaps something that I had been brought up with might serve as some kind of grounding. Maybe it would help me regain some of my innocence; perhaps restore some of the good I had caused myself to lose. I was beginning to doubt I deserved the redemption. I leapt lightly from the car and was greeted with a smile by a short, red headed woman and the sharp, excited bark of a Yorkshire terrier.
“Hello Gorgeous,” her arms wrapped around me in a tight hug and I hesitantly returned it.
I was glad that she was such an outspoken person as I felt tension cutting off my ability to speak. I instantly regretted my decision to find another path to my self cleansing.
“Come inside.”
I followed her timidly, taking in my surroundings. The house resembled organised chaos, putting me somewhat at ease. She beckoned to the golden orange couches and meekly, I made my way to sit on one of them. The dog, Henry, jumped up lightly and curled up next to me. The presence of the animal reassured a part of me, and I absently scratched his head, more for my benefit than for his enjoyment.
I pulled on my bright personality, my biggest defence. Mingled in with it, I added a genuine curiosity. Unable to rely of my own strength, I had the options of religion or psychology. Perhaps both had a point or perhaps neither did. What this also gave me was a chance to start again. My naivety when it came to dealing with people that I hadn’t seen before was quickly becoming apparent. Our conversation remained neutral, brushing over life and generally stayed with her as the topic of conversation. The occasional question from my side spurred her on to talk. Her opinionated nature put up no protest to my lack of speech. I walked away from that without a mention of my psychological pain, or the pain I was inflicting upon myself. A part of me smiled smugly at the regaining of power.
Nervously, I arrived outside the old building that had formally been the local post office. It was one of the older buildings in Irene, I assumed. It was beautiful though. I made my way up through the iron gates and looked into the art gallery and shop. A dark haired, intense looking woman, named Elmarie, greeted me, allowed me to purchase my first lot of art supplies and led me over to a large table with paint splattered everywhere. In places, the splats of paint had taken form to a beautiful picture. Quite a few girls and one guy surrounded the table already.
“You can make yourself something to drink down there,” she began, directing my attention to the corner of the studio. As much as I would have enjoyed a hot cup of tea, I restrained myself, too nervous to make myself at home. I settled in a seat near the window and waited to begin my first lesson.
“What is art?” she began, directing her unfathomable eyes to my own. They seemed to glow with a contained passion.
“I suppose art is an expression of who we are and how we feel,” I started slowly, taken aback at the seemingly simple question. “It’s different for every person.”
She nodded, and smiled slightly. I felt proud of my answer and a small excitement grew. She explained the properties of lines and that the most important thing to remember was where the light was coming from in the picture. I was starting to settle into the idea of art.
“I want you to draw these feelings,” she started up again, “but no symbols, just lines.”
She wrote out a list of words and told me to begin. Slowly, desiring to please, I began to craft out each word, focusing greatly on the ‘depressed.’
“I really like this,” she praised when she saw that specific representation. “There’s a lot of emotion in it.”
I watched her gently trail her fingers over the dark, thick line upon the page which faded into nothing at the end. She was silent for a moment before she turned the page to the next. She continued to look through all my lines then got out a wine bottle for me to draw. She taught me how to measure the proportions and the importance of it, and how to construct the lines before allowing me to continue. I drew carefully, not satisfied until it was in the exact shape of the bottle. I ignored the chattering of the other students who all seemed very relaxed with each other and withdrew into my drawing, far too shy to join them.
“Here’s my bottle,” the younger boy next to me said, breaking into my silent world. A kind, helpful smile touched his lips. I returned it and glanced down at the well drawn bottle. A competitive envy spurred me on to draw better, just to prove that I belonged in the class. I pushed the strange thought out of my mind.
“Wow,” I replied, “it’s really good.”
We chatted offhandedly for a little bit before I allowed myself to be absorbed into my own world again. It was a start. Finally satisfied, I allowed her to look. Happy with my result, she placed a glass in front of it and told me to draw further, reminding of how to use proportions of the bottle to my advantage. The end of the two hour lesson brought me to the basic outline of my drawing. Next week she’d teach me the shading. Elated and happy, I left, feeling I had some control somewhere. At least that was going better then my sessions with Penny.
I allowed the sessions to be superficial, countering each skilled question from Penny with vague answers and facetious remarks. Occasionally, I dared to open up a little. I gazed at her nervously, feeling very vulnerable and stupid. The feeling was one that ruled most of my interaction with people.
“I don’t want to talk to someone that’s paid to care,” I said stubbornly, adamant in my beliefs that no one could possibly care for me. In fact, I hardly dared even to try to belief that there was a possibility that Penny would grow to care about me. Yet, it was the one thing I desired. I just wanted to be loved again. I felt torn. A part of me wanted to let her in, ever so badly. Yet I knew myself well enough to know that I would let her take advantage of me. I did not believe she would, but I deserved to have people use me for their own happiness.
“Have you ever thought that people do jobs because they love them, not for the money?” she asked me softly, with a hint of a challenge in her eyes. I however, perceived it to be a glint of triumph. Not trusting myself to read her expression, I shifted uncomfortably. I did not want to believe what she was saying, and I did at the same time. The two opposing emotions were beginning to tear me in two and I wished to slowly crawl away and hide, not just from the world, but also from myself. Over the next little while, I allowed myself to touch on a few genuine topics. I had a firm belief that I had to be the good client, which did not inconvenience Penny, or make her angry. I certainly was not allowed to disappoint her, which lead me to disappointing myself.
Better, for me to suffer than her, I reasoned throughout the process. I could not allow myself to be real. Caught up in the perception that I was a bad, unworthy person, I did not risk showing me to her. Instead, I put on the mask, as best I could, of the person I thought she’d want to see. The focus of the sessions for me was not myself but her. It was all about pleasing my psychologist. We did touch on the subject and although she tried to convince me that she would rather see the real me, I found myself unable to let her in. Frustrated I began to talk of leaving. I had stopped cutting regularly and just slumped into my dark world of brokenness. I dare to say I was content there. Perhaps I was unwilling to change. Feelings of intense dislike for myself shifted through most of my interaction with the world. Everything seemed grey and uninviting and I forgot how to live. I pulled away from the closest of my friends and fell in deeper with two girls who were not good for me. My friendship with them was nothing more than a show. I had isolated myself so much that I did not have many real friends.
The only place I felt happy was at art. I was progressing with leaps and bounds and began a journey I had always been scared to take in case I was not good enough. Here I was, doing just fine at something. Also, I began to make friends with the other girls, chatting away eagerly and happily. Our conversations were never deep and allowed me to relax. I made some good friends there, those that really understood a part of me. It helped that we all shared the same talent. Surprisingly, I found them all warm up to me easily. I often found myself blushing and mumbling awkwardly at the compliments I received and the possessive friendships I obtained. It was as though they saw something good in me and wanted to keep me as close as possible. I was touched at their genuine care. Slowly, I felt good enough for them too. I was the oldest girl in the group, the rest a year younger than I was. Stella was a middle aged woman. Friendly and warm, she also built each of the young artists in the group up, taking a keen interest in me. We never really spoke of anything outside of art in my life and I grew to be comfortable around her. She was a bright, spontaneous woman who adored every person in the group. As November approached, Elmarie announced that there would be an exhibition. Excited, I began to work ferociously on my first ever painting that was actually fairly good. I invited Penny along, as a small attempt to allow myself to let her into my life. I found creating something out of nothing exhilarating. I felt almost good enough next to my fellow artists. Slowly, it became less about competing to earn my place among them to an easy friendship.
My reluctance to return to therapy and the constant feeling that Penny could not possibly care about me slowly ground my appointments with Penny to a half. Spring had descended upon the world around me, although I found myself freezing within my own winter. Occasionally, I would realise that I was pushing everyone away from me. After a long, frustrating therapy session with Penny, there came the usual question of when the next session would be. I froze, feeling unsure of whether to come back. This time, Penny invited me to make the next appointment. Something inside me leapt at the opportunity to be alone again, which drowned out the small need for support. My small fifteen year old mind finally called the sessions to a stop.
“I’m not sure if I should come back,” I said finally. “Maybe can I think about it for while?”
“Sure,” Penny said, smiling warmly. “You are welcome to email, sms or call me to make a time.”
“Can I still talk to you talk on email?” I asked tentatively, not willing to give up the whole connection with her. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I had grown quite fond of her. I left the session feeling both free and chained up in my own little world. I kept myself from emailing her for a few days, finally giving in to my uncertainty about my decision, and voiced my ambivalence about returning to therapy. I sat myself down timidly at my desk, quickly locating my email account. I hurriedly typed out two lines of incoherent babble and pressed the send button before I backed out. I shut my email and waited with anxiety for a reply. I hoped she would not hate me. When I did gather the courage to look for a reply, I was surprised to find one. While my quick call of uncertainty was short, my heart squeezed painfully as I read her longer, poignant, and very intuitive reply.
Hi Sarah
It sounds like you are really in a tough place right now. You want to come back and maybe you even want to talk through things in a more open way than you have been able to do before. But you don't know what I will do with what you have to say, and you don't know how I will be with you afterwards. I wonder if you think that talking to me about painful stuff will change the way I am with you? Or will make me think differently about you? What kind of information do you imagine that you would need from me (or about me) in order to decide if you are safe with me? These are difficult questions, and maybe there are no answers; maybe it is like religion - all a matter of faith and trust!
You say that you need to know where you stand with me before you decide. I'm not sure what you mean by this, but I am curious to know what you think I think of you?
Penny
I reread the mail several times before I thought to reply. I could not tell her the truth. If I did tell her the painful stuff, I was sure that she’d hate me. I was sure that she’d see the bad, dirty little girl I was. The truth was that no amount of information could make me feel safe with her. I could not feel safe with anyone, not even myself. I did not deserve her hidden invitation of a safe place in therapy. I thought, that she thought, I was an attention seeking brat who was wasting her time. I could not tell her that. Instead, I scribble an immature letter back, with little attention to punctuation and articulation.
I give you two lines and I get back nine. Quite funny really.
I want someone to talk to but I don't know if this is the right place. I don't know what to expect from you because I don't know you that well and it's your job to help. I need to know if you want to help but I don't want an answer like of course I do it's my job..ect. I don't know what I think you think of me that's why I am confused. Maybe I just need a holiday and I'll be able to think again.
Maybe a just need a different approach to this. A more do rather than speak because if I just say I will I probably won't. Maybe you’re right. Just a leap of faith.
Sarah
True to form, Penny responded quickly. I was truly impressed by her punctual correspondence. One line stood out from the email, reiterating her previous point. However, I could not dare to hope that there was any truth in it even though my logical side saw the validity of the statement.
PS People don't only do things in their jobs BECAUSE it is their job. Sometimes they do what they love and just happen to get paid for it as well. Which is what I hope you will also be able to do one day. Because that is the only way to really live.
I ran my eyes over the statement once more and almost gave in to my desire to return. Instead, I stealed myself, was using the age old method of procrastination. For now, we would talk over email and one day, perhaps, I would return.
Sorry it takes so long. Don't know if you still wanna read.
Chapter Six: Two Broken Souls
Although connecting with people was never my strong point, I always had had a special connection with animals, especially horses. November had come, filled with life bringing storms. The grass, once a dusty golden, had transformed into lush green, spotted everywhere with a variety of colourful wild flowers. My favourite time of year lifted my spirits. I smiled to myself as I watched the veld flash by in a brilliant array of colour, contrasted against a brilliant blue sky which harboured large, grey blue cumulous clouds threatening more rain. The earth itself was utterly saturated by the water and puddles still spotted the ground. The heat was rising, and soon the water would be gone, if only for a little while. I leapt lightly from the car as it slowly stopped on the sodden dirt parking lot at my riding school. As I glanced around, a new horse caught my eye. A sorry looking chestnut stood furthest from the entrance of a small paddock. We had arrived early for my lesson, so I lightly made my way across to the poor creature. As I reached its paddock, it glanced at me, disinterested.
“Come here boy,” I called out softly, clucking to him. He flicked his ear in my direction, unperturbed. Yet slowly, he began to move in my direction. His face held a long, thin white strip, just off centre and not very straight. I slowly ran my hand over his knobbly face, holding a scar in one or two places. I frowned, as I looked him over. His coat was dull and his ribs were clearly visible. He was scrawny and completely without muscle. His two white socks that adorned his hind legs were coated in mud. He must have been ancient. He certainly looked it. The gelding quickly lost interest and moved back to the back of the paddock, looking utterly separated from the world. I felt drawn to him though. Perhaps it was his utter disinterest in the rest of the world and me, which spurred me on to try connecting with him.
I hurried to my lesson, set to ride a very defiant little grey called Remus. I had always enjoyed his difficult nature but today my thoughts were stuck on the skinny horse.
“What breed is the new horse?” I asked my instructor, Monica, convinced he was a Boerperd, a local breed of horse renowned for its hardiness.
“A thoroughbred,” she replied, much to my surprise. He was such a small creature, only about 15.3hh, much smaller than the other thoroughbreds around the stable yard. “Went into the veld for a year after his career as a racehorse. He ‘s about seven years old.”
“And his name?” I persisted, trying to find out more about the dejected animal. I was surprise he was that young.
“We don’t know yet. We don’t have his papers,” she replied simply. “We should be getting them this Tuesday. You should come groom him this week and walk him around.”
Eagerly, I accepted the offer. For the next week or so, I devoted my afternoons to the gelding. He was a lot stronger than he looked and dragged me across the arena in an adamant desire to find greener grass. Much to my dismay, he ignored treats like carrots and apples; however, it was not something I had not encountered before. All the ex racehorses that had found their way to my stable yard had not ever been given treats.
My parents had always told me that we could not afford a horse in case we moved to England. They feared that if they committed themselves to an animal with such a high maintenance, that they would be tied down here forever. The sad fact was that my father tied us all down from living our lives with the constant threat of leaving. We were all waiting to live our lives. Adamant that the poor chestnut was the horse for me, I worked out how much it would cost to half stable him. While that only meant I could ride him three times a week, it also meant that if we did leave, he would still be owned by Monica. Triumphant with my calculation I presented my findings to my parents. After a few days of thought, they came up with their decision. While I could half stable him, I had to give up singing. Triumphant at my success, I gave into the concession easily. I did not enjoy singing that much anyway, especially the pressure to do competitions. I did not feel myself good enough to sing in front of people anyway. The relief was evident, as suddenly I became the more the happy go lucky child that I used to be. I spent most of my days up at the stables sitting by the horse. I was informed his name was Redondo, meaning rounded, or harmonic. I was not to ride him until he had his shows put on and the vet had checked him out. Monica feared he was permanently lame due to being unshod and left out in the veld. Fickle, vulnerable breeds, Thoroughbreds needed a lot of attention and care.
I rested my back against the wooden pole of his paddock, looking out across the rose arena. The day was a silent one, creeping gently forward with no haste. My mind was drawn into an intense silence, and I regarded the world with a cool indifference. The day was slow, ebbing in and out of my perceptions. The day was one to be internalised, analysed then to be allowed to drift off into the meadows of forgotten memories. In all other shorter words: It was a day that was like every other day. I had started off her day with the morning call of my alarm clock, to which I had responded by hitting snooze and turning over to doze for just a few more minutes. This cycle repeated itself a few more times before I had managed to coax her lethargy to lift. As I had sat up, I had tried to grasp the fleeting tendrils of my dreams. Unsuccessful in remembering of detail that had once been as vivid as reality I left my inner world behind and begun my new day; my fresh start. I had never, however, understood the meaning of a fresh start. Each day was a cumulative sum of my life and the past always reflected on the future, whether it is a mistake, or the following through of an arrangement made previously. Then the day had begun. As it was a weekend, I was able to forgo the pleasure of school and the occupation of my mind and instead had a day free to my own devices. One thing about me was that I loved school, purely because it occupied my mind. Time spent with myself was like a poison, killing me within my own thought. My over analysis and critical insight on the world often lead me to ask the unanswerable questions, to pull myself apart and generally become overly involved with my own mind. My annoyingly analytical mind always needed something to do and tended to latch onto rather absurd things and obsess. For this reason alone, I hated both weekends and school holidays and I selfishly wished for them to be over prematurely.
Redondo gently placed his delicate muzzle in my hair, inspecting whether I had brought him any green grass. I jolted out of my inner reflection. I shrugged the gyre like thoughts from my mind as I turned to watch the inquisitive creature.
I felt my lips curve into a small smile.
“Hey boy,” I murmured softly. He snorted softly before losing interest.
“Sarah,” Monica’s voiced carried effortlessly across the distance. I glanced up in her direction. “You can get Remus’ tack and saddle Redondo up. I’ll be with you in a second.”
Delighted, I sprung up, much to Redondo’s surprise, and hurried off to the tack room. I quickly brought back the saddle and bridle and with slow movement, began to tack him up. Automatically, as a brought the bit to his muzzle, he opened his mouth, gently accepting the bit.
“Good boy,” I said softly, running my hand over his scrawny neck. Once I had put his saddle on, and checked the girth was tight enough, I lead him from his paddock. I kept up easily with his determined pace. When my instructor arrived, I lightly swung myself into the saddle and directed him toward the dressage arena.
“Ask him for a trot,” my instructor commanded lightly.
Gently, I touched my heels to his side. He leapt forward into a wild, unbalanced trot. His head was thrown high up in the air and his ears pricked forward.
“Woah boy,” I cooed softly, gently closing my knees. His ears flickered backward, listening to my voice. The jarring trot became a little more fluid. He began to settle and although his was not very controlled, I could already see his desire to please. As I climbed off, I felt his head shoved against my upper body. Taken by surprise, it took me a moment to realise what he was doing. I wrapped my arms around his head. His body relaxed as he took a deep breath. A flicker of joy ran through me. I had my ally against the world.
Thanks for the continued reading!! The support means a lot.
Captured in the moment, the next month passed in a blur of happiness. My greatest desire had finally been fulfilled and even though Redondo was only half mine, it was enough. In this moment, the great depressive storm seemed to have lifted slightly as I spent less time dwelling in my own world of personal thought and more experiencing the wonders of living. I corresponded with Penny, describing with delight my change for the better. My family life seemed to be fragmenting though. I had never really experienced the tight knitted extended family and out of my mother’s four siblings, only one remained close while the others had immigrated or fallen out with the family. I had enjoyed spending time with my younger cousins, often re-experiencing my childhood with them. Now, they had decided to immigrate. Confused and in a state of disbelief, I withdrew from them. I tried not to engage with them past a greeting and small talk. It was my way of protecting myself. Every time I confronted myself with this reality, deep shame and revulsion pushed to the surface. The feelings became a cycle and I often avoided even the slightest thought of them.
Christmas came and went with little celebration. Our family had taken a holiday to England to check on my father’s parents. These holidays were a tense affair. My mom, still baring a grudge on my grandmother about her criticism of my mother’s parenting skill, made it clear that she was not happy to be going. My grandmother kept a fierce ruling of her household and often gave way to serious flashes of anger and unjust accusations. That time for me, caught up in the lifeless cold of a British winter, brought up my darker side. It prowled in the corners of my mind, waiting for me to give into its full influence. I withdrew into myself and remained cool and aloof from the rest of my family. I was angry that we could not spend our Christmas with my family that was immigrating. I took to drawing most of the time and slipping out into the cold by myself and wandering the icy pathways of the area. No snow came, and England remained a lifeless, sodden cage in which I was forced to stay in. When we were to leave, I felt very little. We were arriving back home on the seventieth, two days after school had started. Annoyed with my parents for keeping my away from my sanctuary, I kept my contact with them to a minimum. When I did go back, I settled into the swing of things easily. It was a new year with a sparkling opportunity. That year I got to choose my subjects; which were English, Mathematics, Afrikaans, physical sciences, history and Art. Happily, I began my new start, my new year and was planning to leave my past behind.
The day of their departure seemed strangely unreal. The long drive to the airport was filled with an easy talk, avoiding the impending separation. I engaged with my cousins, talking candidly about our futures. As we drew closer, a small dread filled my heart. It would be strange to say goodbye to people who had for so long been a part of my world and my view of family life. The plan would be to go to New Zealand to visit them in four years, although, knowing my family, we wouldn’t. However, I let those thoughts slip from my mind. Four years was far away and right now, I had to say goodbye. It was an emotional good bye. There were tears from everyone, especially my mother. One by one, I said goodbye to the only idea of family I knew.
Teetering on the edge of sleep, images of death lingered against my mind. Vivid images of plane crashes, of blood and gore took over my half awake mind. Images of my dead extended family sprung to mind. Barely a week had passed since that had left. Five days to be exact. The presence of the thoughts made it near impossible to sleep, so I gave up entirely. My eyes fluttered open and I knew something was wrong. I stepped forth from the holding of my bed and walked toward my parent’s room. I felt my eyes widen as I took in my mom’s tear stained face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked warily, expecting the event not to have any impact on me.
“Uncle James is dead,” the raw, rough voice broke into my heart. I stood there for a second, frowned and walked back into my bedroom. Nothing graced my mind. For a moment, I was nothing, and even to myself, I did not exist. Then, reality, as deft as an opening flower broke through the first reaction. Tears began to fall thick and fast as I gapped in disbelief at my walls, as though they would be able to give me some insight into what was happening. Suddenly, I felt as though something was crushing my chest as I forgot how to breathe. My muscles tensed and a tension headache soon found its way into my situation.
For just a moment, I was rendered helpless. I could only stand there, reliving the images of a plane crashing. No, that would have killed the whole family. I numbly walked into my mother’s room. I curled up next to her on the bright white bed sheets. My mind, looking for something to take away this indescribable shock and pain latched onto the whiteness of the bedding.
“W-what happened?” I finally asked, plucking up the courage. I did not want to distress my mother any more, and due to that did not want to ask her that question. I felt like an inconvenience.
“He was electrocuted,” she replied, her voice filled with a wrenching sadness.
I felt my body go cold and my brain blank out for a second. It couldn’t be. That did not seem fair, it did not seem right. They had gone away to create a better life but now they had a nightmare. My cousins no longer had a father. Angry, and consumed by my own grief, I felt my reality fall away and only the wild unchecked, primal emotions remained. I looked up as my mom continued to talk.
“There was a puddle on the floor... as well as the geyser,” the story remained broken, as even my mother struggled to keep her thoughts together. Uncle James was her brother and the closest maternal family that she had left.
“Chris saw it,” she concluded finally.
Chris, the younger cousin – had seen it. I blinked the tears out of my eyes, knowing that I had to be strong for my mother. It just did not seem fair. Numbly, I went to bed after my father had brought us all sleeping tablets. I stared up at the ceiling, contemplating my first experience of the death of a loved one. The tears came and went in tides of grief until finally I drifted into a very unsettled sleep.
The next morning I still demanded to go to school. I refused to allow myself to be caught up at home and drown in my own poisonous thoughts. Adamantly, I decided that I would not allow this to affect me. However, I sent a message to Penny and Zillah, telling them what happened, just so that I would not be alone in my feelings. I looked at myself in the mirror, horrified to see that I looked like an emotional wreck. I did not want people to see I was upset. I just wanted to get up and get on with my life. I arrived at school just as I received the messages from Penny and Zillah. I barely registered what I read, so I put my cell phone back in my pocket after a shaky reply. I sat in my register class, staring blankly ahead. My two friends joined me, talking about trivial details. Bethan, the more talkative one, droned on about her latest conquests as I zoned out. I had not really cared about her love life before and I was not going to care now. Stacey, the more intuitive of the two, turned her focus to me.
“What’s wrong?” her question took me by surprise and I broke into a flood of tears, utterly uncontrolled. Anger rocked through me at my weak disposition and I desperately tried to gain control again.
“M-my U-uncle died,” I stuttered out.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I was just babbling on about my life. You should have said something!” Bethan said, surprising me. I found myself enfolded in their arms, completely baffled about their reactions.
The rest of the day played out much the same. As people confronted me about why I was looking withdrawn and sad, I broke down and confessed much to my own disgust. Teachers that I barely knew threw consoling looks at me. I knew that they had been informed. My cousins had gone to the same school as me, so I guessed it was only natural that they knew. I managed the day then was taken home. I heard from my mom Zillah would be coming around. I felt encouraged and almost excited. I had not seen her in awhile and always enjoyed her company. As soon as I got home, I curled up on my mom’s bed, waiting for her to arrive. No sooner as I had lay down, was I asleep. I woke up an hour later to soft voices. I picked myself up and crept through to the lounge. There Zillah and a few other people were seated around the dining room table, talking to my mom. I almost shied away as Zillah glanced up and caught sight of me.
“There you are! I was about to come get you up. It’s not good to lock yourself up away,” her voice was exuberant and she got up and embraced me in a rib crushing hug. I smiled somewhat at the whole thing, feeling too drained to do anything else.
“How are you doing?” she asked her gaze sharp.
“I’m fine,” I replied simply, shrugging my shoulders.
“Don’t lie, I know you’re not,” she smiled and brought me once again into a warm comforting hug. That’s a stupid question to ask then, my mind growled. I really was fine though – Well, I would be fine.
“Zillah has offered that you go stay with her while I’m in New Zealand,” my mom piped up. “I’m going to his funeral and helping Colleen managed with everything.”
I nodded numbly, and my lips formed the words, “That would be nice.”
A twinge of relief touched my mind. I got to escape from this horrible reality and my cold, indifferent father and brother. It seemed like a bargain.
I've just caught up with this and it's really good! I hope you can keep writing you're really good! I like the sound of your english teacher, reminds me of mine in a way :) Although it did scare me when you mentioned the psychologist as mines called penny too xD i was like 'wha!?' but she sounds really nice though, hope you're ok hun xx
"It is not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of the spirit"
-J.R.R Tolkien
Thanks all! Your support means a lot. I will have more up after tomorrow's chemistry exam, either tomorrow or Friday.
Moonlight: Ye, she used to be nice. Then she went all weird and well, she wasn't that nice anymore. Oh well. :/ That is kind of weird. But cool. Was your Penny nice? Thanks for reading. :D
Sorry it's late, it's rubbish, and there's not that much of it. I'll try write more later. I just am struggling to remember.
The next few days was set aside in preparation for my mother and my grandmother’s departure to New Zealand. A deep blanket of gloom had settled itself over the household. I began to pack my own bags, preparing to find my own escape. My school bag was set, holding all my new school books. This was not quite, how I had envisioned my grade ten year beginning, nor my ‘sweet sixteen.’ I packed in a couple of books, intent of having some sort of escape plan within a strange household. While I was quite comfortable with Zillah’s family, and her sons had adopted me as their older sister, I was still an uncomfortable idea finding refuge in somebody else’s home. I grabbed my book and went to climb an old, rugged tree. Manoeuvring myself into a comfortable, I opened my book and began to read with unseeing eyes. My brain buzzed, making it impossible for me to concentrate. We had taken my mother to the airport the night before. I could not quite believe I was back in the same place I was a week and a half ago. Nervously, I had watched her depart, fearing she too, wouldn’t come home. The rumble of a car engine filled my senses. I looked up, smiled a brilliant smile of a fake happiness, and lightly jumped down from the tree. I quickly went to fetch my stuff and brought it to the car.
“Is that all?” Mark, Zillah’s husband, asked me.
I nodded in response, and then moved into the car when Mark himself had indicated that I could.
“Hello gorgeous,” the warm, confident voice floated effortlessly in my direction. I smiled and hurriedly responded. My chest constricted in anxiety as I struggled to converse with a person who had such an over powering personality. I tried to hide, sitting in silence on the trip back to their house. Much to my dismay, both Zillah and Mark prompted me to tell them about life. Mundane things really, about school, my social life and of course, Mark’s favourite question, my love life. I squirmed at the intrusion of my personal life and answered each question evasively with my favourite description: Everything was fine. There, plastered on my face was a smile easily mistaken for friendliness or enjoyment, but it remained a symbol for my deep discomfort. Finally, the interrogation ended, due to my lack of interesting responses, and they turned their attention to each other. I returned to my solemn silence, and drifted into my own imagination. The glances of pity I received told me exactly what they were thinking. Satisfied that they believed I had suck into my grief, I allowed them to continue believing it if they ceased to make me uncomfortable with questions about myself.
As we pulled up to the house, a small sense of relief settled upon me. At least if I had some place to escape to, I could evade the onslaught of questions.
“Sartjie!” I turned at the excitable greetings from two youngish boys. Dylan, the older the older one was ten while Ryan was eight. I enveloped them in my arms as each contended for my attention. Each of them desired to show me something of theirs. Amused, I played along with the correct signs of awe.
“Hey. Is it ok if we go out for supper at Spur tonight?” Zillah asked, popping her head around the door. Taken by surprise at the question, I smiled at her curiously.
“Sure, I have no objections,” I replied, still baffled at the request. It was strange having someone ask me permission to do something like that. My family tended just to do things. I supposed it was some kind of guest/host etiquette. I took a brush through my unruly, thick hair, taming the wild length somewhat and waited to leave. I did not join in the conversation in the car ride, finding my own meek voice drowned out by the strong contesting for dominance of the conversation. The meal turned out much the same way. The boys went off to go play while I remained in silence with Zillah and Mark. Their best attempts however, did little to loosen my tongue. The evening itself, was not too bad. On arriving home, Zillah sent the boys to bath and then to bed, while Mark invited me to watch TV. Silently, I obeyed curling up on a vacant couch. Later Zillah joined, and while Mark left to sleep early, I remained as a silent sentry keeping her company. While I barely registered what was on, the company was nice. Time slouched on, and I dozed lightly.
“Hey sleepy,” Zillah chuckled, amused, “you should go to bed!”
“I want to keep you company,” I replied softly, a small smile touching my lips.
“Go to bed!” she scolded playfully, and a hug and a kiss on the cheek later, I knew I had been dismissed.
I sunk into the strange bed, feeling detached but a little safer.
Last edited by Velvet : 23-11-2009 at 05:03 PM.
Reason: Typo
