The last time I wrote about someone’s real life story, it was a horrifying tale of a boy Elvin whose foster mother was making his life hell. I was one of the people in the link who got to hear his story, and if anyone else could be told through me, just so people know this too happens, I blogged about it.
I have another life story today, that not sharing would be dismissing, and that I can not bring myself to do. As I did before, I will be giving this child an alias too. Let’s call her “Emma”.
Emma was born in winter, and was rosy pink for exactly two days after her skin colour darkened, for no particular reason. She remembers her English teacher generalising in fifth grade, that girls usually like their fathers more than their mothers, that’s just how they are wired. And even though Emma had no reason to ever think about who she loved more, she found it her duty to defend her dad, and she said loudly and sternly in class, “I love my mom and my mom loves my dad so I love my dad double.”
Emma was never a sportsgirl, but she ran through crowded areas masterfully, her skill being dodging obstacles by slipping around them like cream. She later joined the school’s athletic team, but apprehensive of the politics it carried with it, she quit.
Emma paints in her free time, and can usually turn in a complete picture in two days, and usually likes her own work.
She was a confident speaker, and never shy of dreaming. The world was her oyster, and she believed she could live anywhere in it and do anything she wanted as nothing was too tough for her.
Emma was the model of life, of happiness and ambition. Was. All life tales become life tales with some sadness, and then the constant quest for returning to satisfaction. They are all journeys. And Emma’s had just begun.
In adolescence, her father grew distant from her, and she thought it was just one of the effects of being a teenage girl, so she didn’t think much about it. Pretty soon she couldn’t talk to her father about anything.
She had already started keeping away from sports in her school, and with increasing academic work, she stopped going out of her house in the evenings altogether.
Emma’s supple body and cool skin started getting unexplainable rashes, and currently, she has a strange bodily ache that ultrasound hasn’t explained.
She is still a rather happy girl, but not one of her family or friends still associate her with the jovial and unbelievably peppy little girl she was. This infuriates her, and she further turned her face away from these people. Emma has some AMAZING friends, the kind that are rare, and I even I admit that. She knows their worth and sticks to them. She is more than thankful for them.
Her paints, for the first time in her life, are drying. She finds herself waiting days on end for inspiration or regaining the feel for painting.
Though it may look like she’s lost something, but Emma made a really GOOD decision lately. She loves reading and learning about world cultures so she will keep doing that but she is no longer ambitious. That means, she doesn’t have big work plans or wants to be famous, she will just get a job to survive, and stay happy.
I shared Emma’s life today, because it sounds to me like the summation of everyone’s… We all make trips down similar paths. I can see areas where I am like her myself. Emma’s is a tale so strikingly normal, yet interesting, that I really wanted to log it today… Hoping, that someone will see a similarity and feel connected to this stranger girl.
Emma is very happy. But she knows she now has to work on things to stay happy.
Nothing in life will ever be as easy to access and as easy to laugh about as things were in childhood. Those are rosy days to romanticise on. Those aren’t Now.
Now, is a constant journey to stay happy. Emma is trying.
Note- Fiction. I’m writing romance these days, for no particular reason, but as long as it is coming, I don’t mind. Preparing for the Half Yearlies can be really exhausting!
Jagged and cut throughout its length, the frail garment made Style cry. The soft pink silk shredded into ribbons, the thread loose and breaking, the gown falling apart. Every time she tore his gifts or burned his letters he wanted to cry. But he promised himself, he won’t until he understood- why. So Style wiped a stray tear and gathered the dress and bundling it in his arms, he fled downstairs. He shut the door of his study, blocked out the world and buried his head in the torn silk. Would it speak to him? Would it explain? Did the undertone of her wrath- why had she destroyed it? But the lifeless gown greeted him cold and he only felt more lost in his unanswered questions. Why wouldn’t she speak to him? Why wouldn’t she see him? What had happened to his lovely bride that she hated him so? Why the constant punishment? What was his sin, his crime? If she’d only tell him, he would understand and set everything right. Just what was his crime?
Mrs Style. She hated it. She hated what she had done to that beautiful name. Se had wanted to be Mrs Style. She had become. But she had ruined it for him, and for her. Why couldn’t she just let it be? Why had she done it? Why had she even given him a thought when she had Style? Him, that other man. How could she do it? How could she dance in his arms and smile at him? How cold she come home to him and dream about him? How could she call herself Mrs Style when she’d fallen in love with him? She had torn the gown. Like all his previous gifts. She had shut him out. Ever since she’s loved him. She had driven him to hell, hoping and praying,that he’d give her up, he’d hate her. But he just wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop loving her every morning and send her a present with the breakfast maid. He wouldn’t stop finding it shattered outside her door every evening, without fail. Why wouldn’t he hate her, loathe her for this repay of his love? How could she tell him that she had betrayed him and he should give her up? She couldn’t tell him directly- he would put too much faith in their marriage, he’d believe she’d come about. But she wouldn’t come about! He would live a lie! If she could only tell him, and he could understand… everything would be right. But in Lord’s name, what was HIS crime?
I have always been great friends with her. Right since she joined my school and after waltzing around the groups, settled in with mine. Ever since she spoke and, as she says, found a connect in my words, and all I remember, we have been friends since then. That is, until now.
We were shuffled into different classes last year. A fair balance if you think about it, two years together, two apart. So I guess it changed last year. I guess the difference in sections and floors brought with it a mist. From cordial talks that required little effort to continue, we have come to “And? …And?….And?” From ecstatic telephone conversations, and endless laughs at meaningless jokes, we have come to cocking eyebrows and stares. From tightly gathered ponytails and run-loving legs we have, sigh, come to gossip too, yes, gossip.
And the comfort in sitting and talking is itching. The easy-ness in sharing is rough. And the excitement in hearing is slowly, and still slowly, breaking into routine. And all the cause behind the change is not un-willingness, not un-eagerness, not new friends…. but time. And the change it has brought in me, and her, and how i painfully seek something from her and can’t ask for it. (What, do I go to her and tell her what to say to me?) In response to the unmerciful awkwardness, I ask, and get asked, if there is something wrong, at home or somewhere, I am dying to blame this atrocious hurt on an external cause.
But it’s nothing I know. Just change. Old, grave change.
And what do I do? What ‘take’ must I adopt? Anger? Hostility? Irritation? Maybe they’ll work with her, the past’s closeness keeping the bond still fast…. but, it’s like a crack in the mirror. So- Ignorance? Outside help? Or the culprit, Time, itself? I don’t really know…
But what about him? He, also my friend? What about this frustration I set off today, in a moment of tension? What with him- Anger? Hostility? Irritation? …..Ignorance? Outside help? Time? ….. or maybe now, the Knife?