A Story: Part 2

A Story: Part 1

Unbending my crunched body, now I am completely stiff from being in the perched position too long.  The sweat of my face has dried into a salty mask. Beginning to get dressed for a new day I hear a faint knock at the door.  Still wearing my P.J. pants I slip a shirt over my pale cold body.  Because of the knock I do not fear the intruder.

I slide to the door, open it enough to let the little form enter, then I quietly close and lock the door.  The small figure curls itself into the fetal position grasping a pillow so tight it might explode.  I wander over to him pulling him into an embrace knowing he must be in agony.

“You okay?” stupid question to ask him.

“No, they’re gone. They’re gone…” the boy cried into my shoulder.

“Don’t fear Danny.  I can help you to remember some of the dreams, but not all,” trying to comfort him because he is not the first to come to me.

“Will I remember my mother? I cannot see my memory of her.  She is my only memory getting me through each day.” Danny said muffled as he sobbed into my shoulder.

This is not the first child to tell me their fears.

.   .   .

After Danny scurried outside my door and hopefully back into his room, I change my shirt again. Because it is currently plastered to my body because it is drenched in Danny’s tears and snot that was trickling down his face.

I take a moment at glance at my reflection in the fractured mirror. I glance at my eyes, they are dead to me. I have not cried for some time and now my eyes are only useful to observe my surrounding and keep me alive.

I quickly glance over the rest of me, but the garment concealing my nude, pale body covers my dreads and fears beneath it. My vison drifts back up to the shard, of mirror, capturing my eyes. My eyes are the only part of me that do not lie to me. They are piercing blue with flakes of orange and green; however, depending on who sees me they always see a different color.

Knock! Knock! Knock! ”Get your lazy butt out of that room and cook up the food!”

I scramble for my shoes and hurriedly slip my feet inside them. That voice is one you cannot let enter into your room. The fear of him far outweighs any other danger.

As the stomps fade away, I crack my door wide enough to slip through the opening. Placing a penny on the door knob, is my own security system and I will know if there was an intruder in my domain. We have no locks on our doors; there is no imprisonment to keep us in, but no protection to keep things out. Beyond our rooms hold the true dangers.

The hallway…the hallway is the quietest space in this place. The musty, burnt umber wood streamlines down the narrow corridor, which seems to travel forward forever.  Every three feet there is a brown tall door, every one exactly the same as the next. The smallest difference seen is the door knobs. Some are drenched in a black liquid slime; others have only a small smudge. The marks help determined who and how many have replaced their dreams with screams.

Continuing down the corridor I come to the only glimpse of change, a bright red door. This is the entrance to reality.

Reaching for the knob a hand clasp my shoulder. I turn and there stands David with Danny on his back, and following him are all the other children stranded here. Danny’s face is still a rosy red, due to the sobbing earlier, but something has changed in his eyes; they seem glossed over or dull. David’s hand still hovers on my shoulder, he is the only other older one I have seen, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze to continue.

“You ready Jane?” he says softly, not wanting to stir up the emotions of the children following.

Of course I wasn’t ready; when is anyone ready to face the unawares… “Let’s go,” mustering up the courage, pulling open that heavy, bulky red door, stepping over the threshold of safety and towards the unknown reality, and then venturing into the light.

Lack of Warmth

Lack of Warmth.png

Last summer I remember constantly complaining that my Pajamas were too warm for the hot weather, and I also remember having the brilliant idea of cutting all my sweatpants off into shorts. Which wasn’t that big of deal they were already 3 inches too short exposing my bare ankle.

However, even though at the time I thought I was being a genius…I was not. I should have saved a few pairs, as short as they were, for this winter. Because I am running from my room, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to my desk, inn short pajamas and I am freezing. I know what you are thinking, maybe, that I should go and purchase some new pants that fit me. The problem is I am extremely busy and all of my teachers had decided to be annoying; one of my teachers said this:

“Since we are coming down to the end of the semester I am going to boost the amount of homework I give; because I know that you all are extremely busy in your other classes, but I want you to learn how to deal with unfortunate situations.”

Normally I am fine with loads of homework; I know how to set my schedule up to finish on time or at least get credit the day of for finishing.  But since this I have planned my day to a “T” and it does not involve buying myself warm, beautiful sweatpants for my constantly numb legs. Maybe I will solve my problem by just wearing a blanket like a dress until I hope into bed. That seems more logical then running to get my headphones that I forgot on the other side of the house. Also, I have been waiting for that “look” from my mother; you know the one, the one that means:

“You are making me cold, go put on a sweater,” this line has actually happened a lot through my life, and I have used it on my athletes as well.

But honestly I would prefer to just steal some of her pajamas.  They are so warm and cozy, but then she comes looking for them when she needs a pair and they are dirty.  Then a new look comes; the one where she makes you feel guilty, in a humorous way, for not being able to give back the warmth she had first lent you. She is good at this face; however, I am just as good. She taught me well.

My point to all this is if you did like me and cut off all you pajamas and you have not yet replaced them, do this before it comes unbearably cold. Because it isn’t just the bedtime you need to worry about, in the morning you must decide on whether you desire coffee more than the warmth of the bed…hard decision. But usually for me coffee outweighs the need of warmth. And as I wander to the pot of delicious steaming coffee my legs grow numb and stiff.

If you wish to avoid these terrible feelings and troublesome actions take the time now and replace your long sweatpants. Or if you were smarter and put them away for the winter, bring them out before you need them. If you purchase these pants purchase some slippers as well. Believe me they are worth the investment. I have these, but no pants…I am half way there to beautiful comfort! Good luck and I hope your winter days are filled with some comfort in your nights and mornings

November 13, 2015 at 12:30 P.M.

I am strangely a highly competitive person. But the sad thing about it is I sometimes am competitive with myself.

Like today at lunch time I had amazing delicious Chinese food,that I had been craving for 3 weeks; but, during my meal, I was three quarters of the way done and the voice of reason said:

“Stop now, because you are content. You can finish it later if you become hungry again.” (Imagine this voice as my angelic side.)

However, there on the other shoulder sprung my highly competitive side.

“No! You want and must finish it now! So, you can proclaim your supreme accomplishment of completion!”

Sadly, I usually have these types of conversations in mind, but rarely do I speak them out loud.

It is ridiculous; I was having a competition based on food with myself.

My competitive side won the match and I finished my meal. I strangely feel like I did accomplish something and I dominated my competitor. But now I get to listen to that angel of reason laughing at me as I sit and suffer through my bloated feelings.

Why do I have to be SO competitive?

Maybe I need to exercise more…

Band-Aids…

I believe I was four, and I remember placing each Band-Aid on any visible skin possible.  The room in darkness concealing my presences and securing my hiding place.  Every box empty and its contents stuck to my soft skin.  Hundreds of wrappers covering the floor crunching beneath my feet as I wiggle my legs.  As I extend my legs then Band-Aids expand tugging at my fair hair upon my arms and legs.  I remember being extremely proud of my hard work accomplished.  Of course I began with my hands, so attempting to open the Band-Aid’s wrappers took much skill as a child.  I believed I had mad skills and a new proud talent. I remember sitting on the floor applying band-aids continuously to open areas of flesh.

Suddenly the door swings open and the light engulfs me.  I don’t remember my mother’s reaction, but I do remember me smiling back, standing confidently, and relishing in my accomplishments. The sudden opening of the door was because I supposedly had been gone far too long and I was way too quiet.  I am a Band-Aid lover and I still am to this day.  Which means my family still hides the special band aids from me; though, I am allowed to use the $1 a box band aids. My mother forever called me Mad Max. Which is perfectly fine with me, because I see myself as the Band-Aid bandit!

My Defining Memory

A defining moment in my life was the moment I stood up to my Father.  My father is verbally abusive and throughout my childhood I cowered around him and always tried to stray from his words.  As a child I was unclear about his actions and the words he would say, but as I matured I always attempted to gain praise or just avoid contact in fear of the repercussions. I remember the last night from my childhood in that house, I was ten years old and I remember waking to sobs.  My mother as strong as she is had the most abusive experience out of all of us.  That night I remember hugging my mother until I was too tired to sit up anymore. The pain and suffering from that night thankfully ended that day; we as a family left my father.  Even though the pain was still pinned to our hearts we were once again alive. Many years passed and times grew harder.   My mother had been talking with my dad, on and off again, and she hoped he had changed.  At the time we needed a place to live and everyone hoped and prayed that he might have changed.  He had changed; he had grown to be even more angry. We stayed there for about two days; because when my mother was not present he would change into a controlling monster.

I am now about fourteen years old. I remember the second day back in that house. My dad does the yard work, and on that day he purposefully ruined or destroyed half of my older sister’s plants. Sadly my older sister has gotten the harsh grief from my father for years prior to my existence.  I remember that morning, the air was crisp and bitter but the sun was shining. My eldest sister, younger brother and I went outside as he worked and moved all the undestroyed plants away from his path.  He took this as an insult that we don’t believe him, and he tried to play the victim.  Also, since the younger children were helping her move the plants, she must have brain washed us to believe he is the “bad guy”. Maybe we had been moving plants for about a minute and he started screaming at my sister. She tried to step away from him but he came towards her with a look of true hatred in his face. In that moment I found my true gift, protectiveness. He came forward and I stepped into his path, between him and her. The continuously yelling and abusing had to stop! I knew in that movement I was putting myself in danger, but I was more afraid of what he would do to her. I shouted, “BACK OFF! Leave her alone,” to his face and not breaking eye contact.  I was terrified after the words left my mouth.  I had never seen him be physically abusive but some looks from my siblings told me otherwise. As he backed away I called my mother on my phone, because I didn’t know what to do or what would happen next.  She came home quickly and watched over us as we finished our task. I know now if this would ever happen again I am allowed to call the cops, but as a teenager in fear for her siblings’ lives I knew my mother would come.  In this moment I found my true self, I am a protector of my family and anyone who threatens them will deal with me.