So I know that this is a blog about being happy in your own skin, but it’s also my writing blog. I have to admit that a lot of the fiction I’ll be posting is pretty dark, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth the read! Only my original work will be posted. Plagiarism is bad. If you do it, you will catch a venereal disease, and you will die O_O Enjoy!
The Runaways // Fiction Friday, 1
In her room she pulled a bottle of wine from under her bed, poured a glass and rested. She was within the walls that had watched her grow: wood paneled, the air dusty. Beside the open window was an oak, rotted and dying. She called Amar.
“How are you?”
“I need to talk.”
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s not like that,” she said.
“Vera, come over.”
“Well, I can’t really do that, can I?” she said. “I’m on the other side of town.”
“Is anyone around to drive you?”
“I guess it can wait.”
“Could you . . . I don’t suppose you want to talk about it over the phone?”
“The phone is just so distant. I’m not really in the mood to talk about it anymore anyway.
“Do you want me to figure out some way to get to you?”
“No, that’s okay. It’s very kind of you, but I rather you not.”
“If you would like me to come . . .”
“Amar, this wine your sister bought us is so cheap. You ought to convince her to buy a good bottle, maybe some champagne. If you have to stay under a miserable roof you should at least have a decent bottle of wine—I mean, at least you should enjoy the taste.”
“It’s all about money.”
“Isn’t it always.”
Parents are our wallets, our rent, our prison guards. They are cages that keep children in darkness. They are mistakes made that children have to live with. Still, they are the only source from which may be drawn a love that is unending, stronger than our own. Somehow they keep you locked away, wanting to stay locked away, until they choose to let you go. There’s no choice, not when it’s finally time to fly away, to move out and on. Choice is only taken, stolen and made.
They sat on lumpy cushions not talking until the program was over. Allen ate loudly, holding out his plate to have it filled with seconds. He was balding at the scalp, staring at the television as if Vera were not in the room, as if it understood him completely. All the rooms belonged to him, the silverware, the linens, the mantels on the fireplaces. When she said good night to her father, the cares had leached from her skin. The wine had made her sleepy.
“Don’t stay up too late, Papa,” Vera said as she placed a closed mouth peck on his forehead, “or in the morning I’ll find you sleeping in this chair again.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me.”
“There’s a passage in here,” Amar said. “Would you like to hear it?”
Vera did not answer.
“It’s a story about runaways,” he said. “Ready?”
She stayed silent.
“‘They removed their old selves and cut away their ties. Except for the ones holding them together.’ Vera, would you like to hear what happened to the couple?”
“From the story?”
She did not speak.
“They had left their families, the two of them. At only sixteen like we are now. It wasn’t easy. She liked art and passionate films, and he couldn’t give her that. They were penniless, so one day she went back to her family and told them she’d been wrong to leave. His parents wouldn’t take him back, so he slept under an old overpass that no one liked to drive on. Her family didn’t want her to be with him, so she stayed away. One night he just died in his sleep.”
“I guess it was just the cold.”
“Amar, why are you telling me this?” she asked, looking across the room at the clock. His parents would be home soon.
“Because,” he said, pulling out a box from under his bed, “I want to show you something.”
She sat up with the sheet around her midriff, pulling her clothes out of the tangle. It was an Adidas shoebox, filled with small bills. He took a stack in his hand, the brown of his eyes trained on it, almost too possessively, as he slowly, satisfactorily, ran his finger tips along the edges of the money.
“See,” he looked up at her.
“I see. It’s always about money, isn’t it.”
The next morning on her way to school, she just continued walking. Maybe Amar had seen her passing the gate, or perhaps he was just waiting for her by the picnic tables like he had promised. She had lost her desire to please anyone but herself, to be in love with Amar, to worry about her father. The sun beat down on her hair, its color changing in fascinating ways. She was not afraid of the solitude of the highway, she was not afraid of being alone.
This is my intellectual property, please do not steal it. It is FICTION, most of the pieces I produce have very little to do with my real life, so please no assuming (you know what that gets us!). Thank you for reading, you beautiful people.