|Current mood:|| okay|
|Current music:||The Scientist -- Coldplay|
i'm posting. finally.
This is some of my older work, as I haven't written anything substancial in a long while. (Longer than I would like to admit, actually.) This is the fourth "test-chapter", as I don't write in chronological order, rather I write as scenes come to me, of my novel-in-progress Inside Glass Walls. Enjoy.
Inside Glass Walls - IV
At night, when alone again, I would pour over magazines and articles, in hopes that I could catch a glimpse of her. A photo credit--something to give me a glimpse of the person I knew, who had left me two years back.
I knew she had gone to Los Angeles. That much, I was sure of. The rest was still a mystery. Even the reason for her leaving was left for speculation.
The manager from the store thought out loud about the "cunt who stole his money." He cursed loudly enough to know that I had heard him. I could not bear to look at him after the night when I saw him in my mother's home the eve before she left town and consequently walked out of my life.
I could hear them downstairs. I sat at the top of the staircase, slid my head between the railings like I would when I was younger. Let my feet dangle from the ledge. Sometimes, I would swing to the other side of the rail, lifting one foot off the carpeting, delighting in the tingling feeling left in my feet after my soles would loose their grip.
He called her Janine, not the Nina I was used to hearing. The rest of their words were hushed, only the odd ones sticking out from the low mumble. I strained my ears to listen, but this only provoked a ringing noise that sometimes would happen if I concentrated a little too hard.
Frustrated, I closed the magazine. "Moira, you need to stop this," I said to myself, standing up and dropping the magazine at the base of the bed. "You know that she's not coming back. You're not going to get out of this place until you're eighteen, anyway."
I slumped back on the bed and grabbed another well-read copy of Glamour. Flipping through the pages, I discovered the secrets to giving great head, the all-knowing way to overpower one's boss and the truth behind dilapatory creams. I fingered the models on the pages, knowing full well that I was never meant to look like any of them.
The girls who looked like me were seen as either geeky sidekicks or unexposed dykes, or both characteristics combined. Even the cartoons I watched on the faded dusty television set in the living room showed me the girl I was to become--Velma, Margaret or the smart bitch on Saved by the Bell.
Tempted to overthrow my freckled skin, I would frantically try to rub out my spots with a nubby pink eraser found in my kit of art supplies. It tore through my skin, leaving it red and raw, but not bleeding. Ironically enough, no one noticed.
This was years ago. I was in a different world, now. A different school, a different life; maybe Momma would have noticed the scars, now. Maybe she would have taken more notice to me. Maybe she would see the things that were happening. Maybe she could do something. I looked to the portrait for something, anything. But she just smiled back at me, not really making eye contact, as it was her way.
I could see parts of her in me, now. I would need to look hard, but it would be there in the little details like how my lips formed when I would say my "oh's" or how my brow would wrinkle when I could no longer bear to think.
The magazine slid off the bed as I stretched to kneel, tucking my legs beneath me and then turned to face the mirror. It stood my height and was propped against the wall on a tilted stand. If I looked close enough, I could notice there were bits of metallic missing from the rounded edges, the had turned golden brown with blackened centers, forming freckles where I had none.
I lifted my shirt before the mirror, stretching my shoulders upward. My white bra wrinkled around the protruding nipples underneath. I stood there, staring for a while, holding my shirt, while locking my gaze with the girl in the mirror. My stomach had gotten bigger, as had my hips. Flesh flowed over the waistline of my snug-fitting jeans smoothed inward as it neared my navel.
My skin was soft, but white, not like the girls who baked golden brown on the roofs of their large white houses on the outskirts of town. I longed to have their eyes, their skin, their silky hair, trailing down their backs.
My own was a tangled mess of curls. Lola had threatened to cut it, once, but Byron persisted. He said that girls my age wore their hair long; that it would be hard enough without my mother this year. At night, when I would fall asleep in the den, I would awake to him touching my hair. Not close enough for me to feel anything--just the ends, gently.
I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. Pretended to be one of those other girls in their frilly white nightgowns, dreaming of first dates and high school. Pretended to be one of those other girls, who I so clearly was not.
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