I watched as you went from room to room looking for your reading glasses when there it was, perched right there ever so snugly on the top of your head, nestled among the golden streaks of highlights of your auburn hair. I wanted to call out to you, to tell you just where exactly you could find them, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hold your hand, smooth back the few strands of hair that have come loose from your bun and tell you to relax, but I couldn’t either. I could only crouch here, hidden behind your white picket fence, smell your hydrangea from the bush in your garden that was in full bloom, and look at you from afar.
You curse as the sixth drawer that you pull open, too, sees no square-rimmed, gold-framed pair of spectacles. You really need them; how can you fill out that form you have on your coffee table when you can’t even read the words? And knowing you, the consent – or lack thereof – that you would scrawl onto that sheet of paper is of utmost importance. Just like the many other petition forms and appeal letters that sit in stacks on your office desk. Just like that one particular form you signed so many years ago that... Never mind. The thought was too harsh, too painful and sad, for me to even think of.
I watched as the yellow school bus rolled into your driveway and the young boy about sixteen years of age got off it. Even at first glimpse, I could tell he couldn’t have been younger than me any more than two years. He trudged up the driveway lazily and I watched as he let himself in to the house. You look up from the chest of drawers you had been searching through at the sound of his voice, and went out to the front to embrace him in a hug. I watched as he shrugged you off in indifference and climbed the staircase to his room.
I watched as you sank into the nearest couch in resignation. The slightest sign of exhaustion crept over your features to reside in between your eyebrows. You took one look at the many folders and documents splayed across your coffee table and sighed. The slump of your shoulders pained me, and I wanted so badly to collect you into my arms and hold you till your worries melted away. You stretch and brush the loose hair off your forehead. That was when you finally located your glasses and you laugh mirthlessly at your own folly. At least you can now finally get to work.
I watched as you straightened up to position yourself closer to the coffee table and the documents upon it. You sat with your back straight and head slightly tilted forward with the grace of a ballerina. You went through the papers with no haste, and I marvelled at how temperate your hands were with the documents as, one by one, you went through them. Your fingers were long and slim; your hands were those of a musician, no doubt. I repositioned myself to lean on my other leg as I adjusted the guitar strapped onto my back. I cringed when the neck of my guitar accidentally caused a ruffle in bush nearby and made you look up for a while to stare out of the window in my direction. I shrank further back into the shadows.
After a while, you go back to your work. I watched as you finish reading the sheet of paper you held in your hand, put it down onto the table and picked up the pen. I watched as you touched the nib of the pen to the paper and penned in your signature. A big loop of a C first, over which you write your joined H-R-Y-S-T-I-N, with a long tail which extends far to the bottom for the Y. You finish by underlining it bold and straight, always sure, never unwavering.
You always do your signatures like that. No-nonsense and to the point. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just like how you signed those papers so many years ago; those adoption papers that gave up all the rights you had over me as a mother.
Just like how you signed those papers, exactly eighteen years ago today.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Lace Upon the Blue Chiffon
Those who know me would know that love stories and I have never gone too well together. As such, when I was assigned to write a piece for Valentine's Day, this was what I could come up with. Jia Huey said it was too morbid for a Valentine's Day article but this is the only way I know how to go about romance, so this is how it will be =) It is also too short for my liking - it didn't give me sufficient time to expand the characters - but seeing as how I had a word limit to abide by, this is the best I could do.
------------------------------------------
My gut feeling told me all that I needed to know before I even had to pick up the phone. Just as I had foreseen, my best friend Kaylie’s voice floated to my ears the moment I held the receiver close to the side of my face. Before I even needed to say ‘Hello’, Kaylie uttered the words I have heard just too many a time:
“Lena, I need your help.”
***
Kaylie’s room was as it had always been – so messy it was a wonder she’s ever managed to find anything at all amidst the piles of clothes at the foot of her bed and tower of books stacked so precariously on her table they were on the verge of toppling over. The girl herself was in the act of digging through her wardrobe when I walked into her jungle of a bedroom. When she looked up at me with the all-too-familiar fluttered expression on her face, hair askew and panic flashing vividly in her eyes, a single thought broke into my thoughts: Luke.
As if on cue, she bounded over to me. “God, I don’t know what to wear!” The whine of exasperation in her voice was impossible to miss.
I touched her arm and gave her the most indifferent look I could mustre without looking like I was patronizing her. “But you know he’s always thought you looked beautiful in anything.”
Kaylie had been going out with Luke for almost two years now but as happens without fail each time they’re due to meet one another, she’d undergo this unexplainable panic attack over what to wear. It wasn’t as if she had anything to worry about; she was one of the prettiest girls in school with a personality just as compelling and dynamic to match. Anyone who had seen Luke and she together could tell he was head over heels in love with her, and she him. In a way, I have the nagging feeling that maybe that was what exactly the problem was: they were too in love with one another – if at all something like that was even possible.
For sixteen-year-olds, they loved each other with a passion so undying you only see in that of adults. I, as her best friend, knew this was no longer mere puppy love. Kaylie had serial dated before she met Luke and the fact that she had stuck with him for two years considering her previous dating record was proof enough that this time, she really loved the guy.
“But this time it’s different!” Tears were dangerously welling up in Kaylie’s eyes as she spoke. “You don’t get it: I really like this skirt to go with that blouse, but it’s all of the wrong colour and this top – it’s just too… well, wrong!”
Fearing for the worst, I quickly scanned the room for something to save the day. My eyes came upon the blue dress I knew for myself Luke had picked out specially for Kaylie last Christmas – the dress she had shoved to the very back of her wardrobe as if the mere sight of it pained her to end.
“What about that one?”
Kaylie turned and when she saw which dress it was I meant, chewed her lower lip in deep contemplation. “Are you sure?”
I knew exactly what it was she was asking. But despite the dresscode culture and tradition had set for us to abide by as means of respect, I really didn’t see why not.
“All I want is to look nice for him,” Kaylie murmured, more to herself than to me, sounding really doubtful. But the quiescent way in which she said it told me that she had made up her mind.
“Quick,” I said, smiling. “Get changed – I’ll send you there.”
***
The girls all dressed in black loitering outside the front door clicked their tongues when we walked up to the cold gray granite building. Kaylie tugged uncomfortably at the sleeves of her dress at their disapproving stares and took to staring at the ground. I could tell it was taking her great efforts to simply put one leg in front of the other while shuffling her way into the building, all the while looking at nothing but her feet. I protectively slung one arm around her shoulders and gave it a small squeeze.
“Hey, don’t worry about them. You look great.” I gave her the biggest smile of reassurance I could mustre. She merely smiled feebly back in return.
At the door, we paused. Stealing glances at my best friend, I could not help but see just how much she was shaking – out of trepidation, out of pain, out of fear. I could not help but also worry; worry over the fact that she had not cried a single tear since receiving the news. I did not know if she was trying to be brave, the part of her Luke had always told her he loved most, or simply because she was still in denial. Whatever it was, I knew that her having not cried was every reason in the world for me to worry about how she was coping after the incident.
“Ready?” I asked.
Kaylie looked up at me with her wide doe-like eyes, as if for strength.
“You can do this,” I told her.
Fingering the delicate lace rested upon the blue chiffon of the dress she loved so much, given to her by the one person she loved more than anything and anyone else in the world, she took a deep breath and nodded. Taking my hand, she pushed open the door to the church and strode in, with her head held high, into Luke, her one true love’s funeral.
Walking in with her to the last time she’ll ever see Luke, it gave me an odd moment of serenity to see the tears spilling down her cheeks – the first tears she’s ever cried for Luke in the two years they have known one another.
If anything at all was proof enough of her love for him, it would be this: her insistence on looking her best for him, even at his funeral, just as she had on their very first date.
------------------------------------------
My gut feeling told me all that I needed to know before I even had to pick up the phone. Just as I had foreseen, my best friend Kaylie’s voice floated to my ears the moment I held the receiver close to the side of my face. Before I even needed to say ‘Hello’, Kaylie uttered the words I have heard just too many a time:
“Lena, I need your help.”
***
Kaylie’s room was as it had always been – so messy it was a wonder she’s ever managed to find anything at all amidst the piles of clothes at the foot of her bed and tower of books stacked so precariously on her table they were on the verge of toppling over. The girl herself was in the act of digging through her wardrobe when I walked into her jungle of a bedroom. When she looked up at me with the all-too-familiar fluttered expression on her face, hair askew and panic flashing vividly in her eyes, a single thought broke into my thoughts: Luke.
As if on cue, she bounded over to me. “God, I don’t know what to wear!” The whine of exasperation in her voice was impossible to miss.
I touched her arm and gave her the most indifferent look I could mustre without looking like I was patronizing her. “But you know he’s always thought you looked beautiful in anything.”
Kaylie had been going out with Luke for almost two years now but as happens without fail each time they’re due to meet one another, she’d undergo this unexplainable panic attack over what to wear. It wasn’t as if she had anything to worry about; she was one of the prettiest girls in school with a personality just as compelling and dynamic to match. Anyone who had seen Luke and she together could tell he was head over heels in love with her, and she him. In a way, I have the nagging feeling that maybe that was what exactly the problem was: they were too in love with one another – if at all something like that was even possible.
For sixteen-year-olds, they loved each other with a passion so undying you only see in that of adults. I, as her best friend, knew this was no longer mere puppy love. Kaylie had serial dated before she met Luke and the fact that she had stuck with him for two years considering her previous dating record was proof enough that this time, she really loved the guy.
“But this time it’s different!” Tears were dangerously welling up in Kaylie’s eyes as she spoke. “You don’t get it: I really like this skirt to go with that blouse, but it’s all of the wrong colour and this top – it’s just too… well, wrong!”
Fearing for the worst, I quickly scanned the room for something to save the day. My eyes came upon the blue dress I knew for myself Luke had picked out specially for Kaylie last Christmas – the dress she had shoved to the very back of her wardrobe as if the mere sight of it pained her to end.
“What about that one?”
Kaylie turned and when she saw which dress it was I meant, chewed her lower lip in deep contemplation. “Are you sure?”
I knew exactly what it was she was asking. But despite the dresscode culture and tradition had set for us to abide by as means of respect, I really didn’t see why not.
“All I want is to look nice for him,” Kaylie murmured, more to herself than to me, sounding really doubtful. But the quiescent way in which she said it told me that she had made up her mind.
“Quick,” I said, smiling. “Get changed – I’ll send you there.”
***
The girls all dressed in black loitering outside the front door clicked their tongues when we walked up to the cold gray granite building. Kaylie tugged uncomfortably at the sleeves of her dress at their disapproving stares and took to staring at the ground. I could tell it was taking her great efforts to simply put one leg in front of the other while shuffling her way into the building, all the while looking at nothing but her feet. I protectively slung one arm around her shoulders and gave it a small squeeze.
“Hey, don’t worry about them. You look great.” I gave her the biggest smile of reassurance I could mustre. She merely smiled feebly back in return.
At the door, we paused. Stealing glances at my best friend, I could not help but see just how much she was shaking – out of trepidation, out of pain, out of fear. I could not help but also worry; worry over the fact that she had not cried a single tear since receiving the news. I did not know if she was trying to be brave, the part of her Luke had always told her he loved most, or simply because she was still in denial. Whatever it was, I knew that her having not cried was every reason in the world for me to worry about how she was coping after the incident.
“Ready?” I asked.
Kaylie looked up at me with her wide doe-like eyes, as if for strength.
“You can do this,” I told her.
Fingering the delicate lace rested upon the blue chiffon of the dress she loved so much, given to her by the one person she loved more than anything and anyone else in the world, she took a deep breath and nodded. Taking my hand, she pushed open the door to the church and strode in, with her head held high, into Luke, her one true love’s funeral.
Walking in with her to the last time she’ll ever see Luke, it gave me an odd moment of serenity to see the tears spilling down her cheeks – the first tears she’s ever cried for Luke in the two years they have known one another.
If anything at all was proof enough of her love for him, it would be this: her insistence on looking her best for him, even at his funeral, just as she had on their very first date.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The Stolen Kiss
He delighted in the fact that she shrank away from his touch. With every step he took towards her, it pleased him to see her try to bury herself deeper into the wall that she was already pressed up against. He fancied her as a small mouse, trapped with nowhere else to go, no form of escape. A tiny little mouse trapped, whose end fate lies solely in the palms of his hands. He shook his head in amusement as he undid the top button of his white shirt, a small smile playing on his cold thin lip; hasn’t she learned that to resist was futile? He was so near now, that all he had to do was reach out and her soft supple skin would be under the mercy of his fingertips... He could smell her perfume, the whiff of it mocking him coyly. Mixed with the fear that emanated off her shivering form, it was enough to make him lose control.
The rage that pulsed inside him was one that terrified even he himself. It was one of unspoken vengeance, one of repressed hate. Too long has he kept it to himself. Too long has he been denied of what was rightfully his by birth. Too long has she teased him, always giving him merely a glimpse of that that he so badly needs, only to promptly draw it back after she’s got him hooked. Tonight, he was going to set things right.
He stopped two feet short from her and shut his eyes when her plea for mercy once again came to his ears. He hated it when a woman cried, when she cried. The smallest flutter of sympathy fleeted across his heart but was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He knows not the weight of emotions as such, of empathy and forgiveness. He stopped feeling – for her, for anyone at all – the day she had ripped his heart out, fed it to the dogs and helped them wash it down with a glass of the finest red wine.
He always thought she had beautiful eyes. With the thick eyeliner she favoured so much and lashes impossibly thickened and lengthened with coatings of mascara, he had always been helpless whenever she turned those pools of gray to look at him. Her gaze burned into his soul, warming the dark and dank prison that was his heart and mind without her even having to utter a single syllable. Even now, when her usually precise and clean eyeliner were smudged and running along with her tears cascading down her cheeks, he couldn’t help but still be blown away by the command those eyes of hers have over him. It pained him that the new addition of fear and desperation present in them were by fault of his.
But he had not meant it to be this way. He had never meant to hurt her. To hurt her was the last thing he wanted to do. He loves her.
Her whimpering sobs echoed around the dark cellar, a jarring cacophony that was too harsh on his ears for his liking. He winced. Her grace and soft-spoken ways had always been her main attraction to him, just before her intelligence and wit. The way she was choking on her own tears and saliva now was so unlike her, it was getting on his nerves. Why wouldn’t she shut up and go back to her silent and quiescent ways? Was being in his mere presence torturing her so? He means her no harm, doesn’t she know that? He loves her.
He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes. She withdrew, as if his touch had seared her. Did his touch disgust her so? Was her hatred and repulsion so pure reserved solely for him? He couldn’t help feel another bout of loathing bubble within him as he thought of the many other men who might have touched her while making love to her; had she yearned for the touch of those other men then? Had she cried out in pleasure for it then? He raised his hand and slapped her smartly across her right cheek. No other man could have her but him, can’t she see that? He loves her.
Suddenly realising what it was that he had done, he hastened to undo the damage. Still feeling the sting on his finger, he cupped her face in his hands. He loved her. He couldn’t bear the thought of her hating him. He hadn’t meant to hit her; she had made him do it. She and her sly, conniving ways, always playing him for the fool. Brushing her smooth flawless skin with all the tenderness he could muster, he whispered a hasty apology; please don’t hate him, he didn’t mean to hurt her, he never had. He loved her.
He was so close to her now he could feel the faint beating of her heart against his own chest, the soft mounds of her breasts. He inhaled deeply the scent of the shampoo in her hair, how it smelled of early morning sunshine on a bright cloudless Sunday morning. She was still crying; why was she crying? He was here, he was going to make sure she was alright.
He wiped away at a tear with his thumb. Everything was going to be alright, he was going to make sure of that. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. He loves her, so much.
He felt her stiffen and struggle against his embrace. It was going to be alright. He loves her, that is all that matters. As her hands pushed against his chest, his hand brushed the length of her jaw line before snaking its way around her throat.
Her pulse beat hungrily under his touch. He pressed himself against her as she began to push harder against him. Her struggle excited him. He loves her, doesn’t she get it?
His finger wrapped himself around her throat and he began to press. He watched as her eyes widen in trepidation as she soon realises what was going on right before her very eyes. Her hands stopped heaving against him and they came now to claw at his arms. However, every scratch her nails made on his skin only fuelled him press harder instead.
With a shudder, he watched as her lips parted and a silent cry escaped them as her lungs choked a last attempt for air. He kept constant the pressure he applied to her throat. Finally, when she was struggling no more, he let go. Her arms fell to her side, like dead weights.
Even in death, she had beautiful eyes.
He scooped her in his arms and wept into her hair. She smelled so pure, so pristine. Of early morning sunshine on a cloudless Sunday morning.
He held her close and wept.
He loves her.
So much.
Doesn’t she get it?
The rage that pulsed inside him was one that terrified even he himself. It was one of unspoken vengeance, one of repressed hate. Too long has he kept it to himself. Too long has he been denied of what was rightfully his by birth. Too long has she teased him, always giving him merely a glimpse of that that he so badly needs, only to promptly draw it back after she’s got him hooked. Tonight, he was going to set things right.
He stopped two feet short from her and shut his eyes when her plea for mercy once again came to his ears. He hated it when a woman cried, when she cried. The smallest flutter of sympathy fleeted across his heart but was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He knows not the weight of emotions as such, of empathy and forgiveness. He stopped feeling – for her, for anyone at all – the day she had ripped his heart out, fed it to the dogs and helped them wash it down with a glass of the finest red wine.
He always thought she had beautiful eyes. With the thick eyeliner she favoured so much and lashes impossibly thickened and lengthened with coatings of mascara, he had always been helpless whenever she turned those pools of gray to look at him. Her gaze burned into his soul, warming the dark and dank prison that was his heart and mind without her even having to utter a single syllable. Even now, when her usually precise and clean eyeliner were smudged and running along with her tears cascading down her cheeks, he couldn’t help but still be blown away by the command those eyes of hers have over him. It pained him that the new addition of fear and desperation present in them were by fault of his.
But he had not meant it to be this way. He had never meant to hurt her. To hurt her was the last thing he wanted to do. He loves her.
Her whimpering sobs echoed around the dark cellar, a jarring cacophony that was too harsh on his ears for his liking. He winced. Her grace and soft-spoken ways had always been her main attraction to him, just before her intelligence and wit. The way she was choking on her own tears and saliva now was so unlike her, it was getting on his nerves. Why wouldn’t she shut up and go back to her silent and quiescent ways? Was being in his mere presence torturing her so? He means her no harm, doesn’t she know that? He loves her.
He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes. She withdrew, as if his touch had seared her. Did his touch disgust her so? Was her hatred and repulsion so pure reserved solely for him? He couldn’t help feel another bout of loathing bubble within him as he thought of the many other men who might have touched her while making love to her; had she yearned for the touch of those other men then? Had she cried out in pleasure for it then? He raised his hand and slapped her smartly across her right cheek. No other man could have her but him, can’t she see that? He loves her.
Suddenly realising what it was that he had done, he hastened to undo the damage. Still feeling the sting on his finger, he cupped her face in his hands. He loved her. He couldn’t bear the thought of her hating him. He hadn’t meant to hit her; she had made him do it. She and her sly, conniving ways, always playing him for the fool. Brushing her smooth flawless skin with all the tenderness he could muster, he whispered a hasty apology; please don’t hate him, he didn’t mean to hurt her, he never had. He loved her.
He was so close to her now he could feel the faint beating of her heart against his own chest, the soft mounds of her breasts. He inhaled deeply the scent of the shampoo in her hair, how it smelled of early morning sunshine on a bright cloudless Sunday morning. She was still crying; why was she crying? He was here, he was going to make sure she was alright.
He wiped away at a tear with his thumb. Everything was going to be alright, he was going to make sure of that. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. He loves her, so much.
He felt her stiffen and struggle against his embrace. It was going to be alright. He loves her, that is all that matters. As her hands pushed against his chest, his hand brushed the length of her jaw line before snaking its way around her throat.
Her pulse beat hungrily under his touch. He pressed himself against her as she began to push harder against him. Her struggle excited him. He loves her, doesn’t she get it?
His finger wrapped himself around her throat and he began to press. He watched as her eyes widen in trepidation as she soon realises what was going on right before her very eyes. Her hands stopped heaving against him and they came now to claw at his arms. However, every scratch her nails made on his skin only fuelled him press harder instead.
With a shudder, he watched as her lips parted and a silent cry escaped them as her lungs choked a last attempt for air. He kept constant the pressure he applied to her throat. Finally, when she was struggling no more, he let go. Her arms fell to her side, like dead weights.
Even in death, she had beautiful eyes.
He scooped her in his arms and wept into her hair. She smelled so pure, so pristine. Of early morning sunshine on a cloudless Sunday morning.
He held her close and wept.
He loves her.
So much.
Doesn’t she get it?
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The Gypsy's Last Dance
The broken glass glinted in the sunlight filtering in from broken window overhead. It sat among its many counterparts, all winking each time a golden ray fell upon them. Like diamonds, they sparkled a thousand smiles and threw splatters of dancing colors onto the nearest surface.
They almost succeeded in bringing a smile to her face. Almost. But not near enough. The shadow of a smile creeping across her delicate features vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
A single drop of blood dripped onto the very piece she had been watching.
Her head cocked slightly at the sight of it. Her eyes followed the claret, as it seemed to weep along the glass, leaving in its wake a trail of clouded crimson. Her lips quivered. Despite the warmth of the April sun, a shiver ran down her back.
It was the cold that pained her more; the wound on her wrist was but a distant woe. A sob escaped her lips, choked and suppressed. The wound on her wrist was a mere caress compared to the pain she felt inside. A mother’s touch to the hopelessness in her hidden core. She keeled to her knees as the jagged glass slipped from her fingers and plummeted downwards; as the tears fell from her eyes down her ashen cheeks.
She watched; watched as the glass shattered into a million more pieces among those on the floor.
-----------
Kay was a buoyant child, with a mouth that was forever ready to smile and eyes that never ceased to twinkle. At least until before Nanna passed away. Nanna had been the mother she never had, her shepherd, her best friend. Nanna taught her things she could never learn at school and told tales of gypsies and dancing and oddly, a pink moon. As a seven-year-old, Kay had wondered whether Nanna was a gypsy herself.
Nanna had long silver hair and peculiar yet mesmeric violet eyes. She always smelled of peppermint. Oh how Kay missed falling asleep on Nanna’s lap, taking in the sweet scent of peppermint in the robes and long shawls Nanna always seemed to be in. Kay couldn’t picture her in anything but.
Two days short of her tenth birthday Kay had walked in on Nanna dancing to the song she put Kay to sleep in every night. The Gypsy’s Last Dance. It was the song that had drawn Kay to the living room in the first place. Her bare feet made no noise on the thick carpet as she made her way to the music. What greeted her made her jaw drop.
Silhouetted in the dying ambers from the fireplace, Nanna’s figure moved its way across the floor as graceful as a swan on water. Her arms came and went with the music, bathed in the lambent light, and her feet pranced with the weight of feathers. She had her eyes closed and a smile was upon her face.
“Nanna…” Kay unconsciously whispered.
Soft as it was, it woke Nanna from her reverie.
Yet, instead of being irate, as Kay had expected her to be, Nanna broke into a smile. It was magic.
“Oh! Did I wake you up, darling?” She beckoned for Kay to come closer.
“You were beautiful, Nanna,” Kay said, moving into Nanna’s open arms.
Nanna chuckled. “Why, thank you, darling.” She held the young girl close to her bosom, gently stroking her hair. She gave a small sigh of contentment. And then she thought of it.
“Have I ever told you about Nicollette DeLavue?”
Kay pushed herself up to look into Nanna’s eyes. The spark of curiosity burned bright.
“I take that I have not.” Daintily she positioned Kay into a more comfortable position on her lap.
Kay wondered what fascinating tale she would be told this time as she watched Nanna pull back the sleeve of her robes on her left arm. What she saw made her gasp.
Etched upon Nanna’s otherwise milky white skin on her inner arm was the tattoo of a serpent, coiled around what was undoubtedly the moon.
“Nanna! You – a tattoo…”
Nanna gently pulled the sleeve back over the grotesque scar. The snake sneered up at Kay before disappearing beneath the cloth. “Hush, child.” She stroked the hair of the alarmed girl.
“Her story is yet to be told to anyone. You’re going to be the very first.”
-----------
Kay’s eyes snapped open. For a moment she wondered where she was. And then she remembered. The darkness was deceitful.
She hurried to hoist herself into a sitting position. An unexpected sharp pain shot up her arm and reflexively, she withdrew. She had forgotten about the glass.
Drawing her arm into the moonlight to inspect the damage, she heard a familiar song play in the deep labyrinth of her mind. The Gypsy’s Last Dance. Ignoring it, she focused instead on the newest wound.
The glass had pierced her skin deep, enough to draw blood. But it was mild compared to the gash on her left wrist. Where she had dragged the sharpest blade of glass across. It surprised her that it wasn’t sufficient to do the job.
A drop of blood from the fresh wound escaped to trickle down her palm, over the one on her wrist. As if going over. Rewriting a script gone wrong. Burying the skeleton that had made residence too long in the closet of her heart.
Nicollette DeLavue had a tattoo just like this, at this very spot.
But why, Nanna? Only bad people have tattoos.
Oh, child… The tattoo symbolizes darkness. Evil. It exists to remind her how far off the right path she once went. It exists to remind her how easy it was to succumb to temptations and take the very first wrong step.
But what did she do?
Hush, child. It shall not be spoken of anymore. Just remember Nicollette. Take after her. Most people rather rewrite their past than to live upon it. But she chose to face it and learn from her past mistakes. Learn that and you will do well.
And Nanna had planted a kiss upon her forehead, sealing the conversation.
Kay looked up, out of the window. The moon above reminded her painfully of Nanna’s tattoo, around it which coiled the sly serpent. Its jaundiced and leprous face leered down on her as if reminding her of her own shameful deed.
Most people rather rewrite their past than to live upon it.
Kay’s cheeks scorched with shame.
Suicide was a coward’s way out of confrontation. Nanna brought up a stronger girl than that. Nanna herself had been a woman of fierce passion and enthusiasm, one who saw life as a challenge. One who saw the world as her playground. She would only expect the same of Kay and none less.
The gash on her wrist seared with forbidden wantonness.
But it was so hard. So painful. Nanna didn’t know what it was like to try and try and try; and fail each and everytime. To work so hard for something, only to have it slip away just as it was within your grasp. To blunder doing the easiest tasks. And watch as somebody else came and claim the prize. Your prize.
Kay felt the planted knife dig deeper into her soul. She swallowed hard, feeling her heart bleed in time to the tears running down her face.
Nanna didn’t know but she knew. She had seen the pale face of failure. Heard its rattling breath reeking of disappointment. Shook its cold hands of defeat. Bow to its spouse of mistakes who sang to her all day. Nanna never met inadequacy.
Chewing on her lower lip, Kay ran her fingers lightly over the cut she had inflicted upon her own wrist. It had long stopped bleeding and dried blood caked the mouth of it. She didn’t know why but she applied pressure onto it, opening the wound again. Fresh blood awoke from its slumber.
It was like ecstasy, comforting inside but only so because of the danger to her life it yield.
Hush, child…
Peppermint. It was undoubtedly peppermint that she smelled; its unmistakable sweetness laced with somewhat fiery spice.
Oh, Nanna…
The drifting breeze chose that very moment to play with her hair. The way its delicate fingers run through her long tresses was not unlike how Nanna used to stroke them. A crystal tear escaped down her tear-stained cheek.
But she chose to face it and learn from her past mistakes.
Taking a deep breath, Kay made up her mind. Shredding a strip of linen from her dress, she wound them around her injured wrist and bound them tight. It was going to leave a scar. A vivid reminder of tonight. But she will remember Nicolette DeLavue. The scar would stay to remind her how far off the right path she once went and how easy it is to take the first wrong step.
I will remember Nicollette. She who came to be my Nanna. The mother I never had. My shepherd. My best friend.
Many choose to rewrite their past than to live upon it. But I choose to face it and learn from my past mistakes.
They almost succeeded in bringing a smile to her face. Almost. But not near enough. The shadow of a smile creeping across her delicate features vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
A single drop of blood dripped onto the very piece she had been watching.
Her head cocked slightly at the sight of it. Her eyes followed the claret, as it seemed to weep along the glass, leaving in its wake a trail of clouded crimson. Her lips quivered. Despite the warmth of the April sun, a shiver ran down her back.
It was the cold that pained her more; the wound on her wrist was but a distant woe. A sob escaped her lips, choked and suppressed. The wound on her wrist was a mere caress compared to the pain she felt inside. A mother’s touch to the hopelessness in her hidden core. She keeled to her knees as the jagged glass slipped from her fingers and plummeted downwards; as the tears fell from her eyes down her ashen cheeks.
She watched; watched as the glass shattered into a million more pieces among those on the floor.
-----------
Kay was a buoyant child, with a mouth that was forever ready to smile and eyes that never ceased to twinkle. At least until before Nanna passed away. Nanna had been the mother she never had, her shepherd, her best friend. Nanna taught her things she could never learn at school and told tales of gypsies and dancing and oddly, a pink moon. As a seven-year-old, Kay had wondered whether Nanna was a gypsy herself.
Nanna had long silver hair and peculiar yet mesmeric violet eyes. She always smelled of peppermint. Oh how Kay missed falling asleep on Nanna’s lap, taking in the sweet scent of peppermint in the robes and long shawls Nanna always seemed to be in. Kay couldn’t picture her in anything but.
Two days short of her tenth birthday Kay had walked in on Nanna dancing to the song she put Kay to sleep in every night. The Gypsy’s Last Dance. It was the song that had drawn Kay to the living room in the first place. Her bare feet made no noise on the thick carpet as she made her way to the music. What greeted her made her jaw drop.
Silhouetted in the dying ambers from the fireplace, Nanna’s figure moved its way across the floor as graceful as a swan on water. Her arms came and went with the music, bathed in the lambent light, and her feet pranced with the weight of feathers. She had her eyes closed and a smile was upon her face.
“Nanna…” Kay unconsciously whispered.
Soft as it was, it woke Nanna from her reverie.
Yet, instead of being irate, as Kay had expected her to be, Nanna broke into a smile. It was magic.
“Oh! Did I wake you up, darling?” She beckoned for Kay to come closer.
“You were beautiful, Nanna,” Kay said, moving into Nanna’s open arms.
Nanna chuckled. “Why, thank you, darling.” She held the young girl close to her bosom, gently stroking her hair. She gave a small sigh of contentment. And then she thought of it.
“Have I ever told you about Nicollette DeLavue?”
Kay pushed herself up to look into Nanna’s eyes. The spark of curiosity burned bright.
“I take that I have not.” Daintily she positioned Kay into a more comfortable position on her lap.
Kay wondered what fascinating tale she would be told this time as she watched Nanna pull back the sleeve of her robes on her left arm. What she saw made her gasp.
Etched upon Nanna’s otherwise milky white skin on her inner arm was the tattoo of a serpent, coiled around what was undoubtedly the moon.
“Nanna! You – a tattoo…”
Nanna gently pulled the sleeve back over the grotesque scar. The snake sneered up at Kay before disappearing beneath the cloth. “Hush, child.” She stroked the hair of the alarmed girl.
“Her story is yet to be told to anyone. You’re going to be the very first.”
-----------
Kay’s eyes snapped open. For a moment she wondered where she was. And then she remembered. The darkness was deceitful.
She hurried to hoist herself into a sitting position. An unexpected sharp pain shot up her arm and reflexively, she withdrew. She had forgotten about the glass.
Drawing her arm into the moonlight to inspect the damage, she heard a familiar song play in the deep labyrinth of her mind. The Gypsy’s Last Dance. Ignoring it, she focused instead on the newest wound.
The glass had pierced her skin deep, enough to draw blood. But it was mild compared to the gash on her left wrist. Where she had dragged the sharpest blade of glass across. It surprised her that it wasn’t sufficient to do the job.
A drop of blood from the fresh wound escaped to trickle down her palm, over the one on her wrist. As if going over. Rewriting a script gone wrong. Burying the skeleton that had made residence too long in the closet of her heart.
Nicollette DeLavue had a tattoo just like this, at this very spot.
But why, Nanna? Only bad people have tattoos.
Oh, child… The tattoo symbolizes darkness. Evil. It exists to remind her how far off the right path she once went. It exists to remind her how easy it was to succumb to temptations and take the very first wrong step.
But what did she do?
Hush, child. It shall not be spoken of anymore. Just remember Nicollette. Take after her. Most people rather rewrite their past than to live upon it. But she chose to face it and learn from her past mistakes. Learn that and you will do well.
And Nanna had planted a kiss upon her forehead, sealing the conversation.
Kay looked up, out of the window. The moon above reminded her painfully of Nanna’s tattoo, around it which coiled the sly serpent. Its jaundiced and leprous face leered down on her as if reminding her of her own shameful deed.
Most people rather rewrite their past than to live upon it.
Kay’s cheeks scorched with shame.
Suicide was a coward’s way out of confrontation. Nanna brought up a stronger girl than that. Nanna herself had been a woman of fierce passion and enthusiasm, one who saw life as a challenge. One who saw the world as her playground. She would only expect the same of Kay and none less.
The gash on her wrist seared with forbidden wantonness.
But it was so hard. So painful. Nanna didn’t know what it was like to try and try and try; and fail each and everytime. To work so hard for something, only to have it slip away just as it was within your grasp. To blunder doing the easiest tasks. And watch as somebody else came and claim the prize. Your prize.
Kay felt the planted knife dig deeper into her soul. She swallowed hard, feeling her heart bleed in time to the tears running down her face.
Nanna didn’t know but she knew. She had seen the pale face of failure. Heard its rattling breath reeking of disappointment. Shook its cold hands of defeat. Bow to its spouse of mistakes who sang to her all day. Nanna never met inadequacy.
Chewing on her lower lip, Kay ran her fingers lightly over the cut she had inflicted upon her own wrist. It had long stopped bleeding and dried blood caked the mouth of it. She didn’t know why but she applied pressure onto it, opening the wound again. Fresh blood awoke from its slumber.
It was like ecstasy, comforting inside but only so because of the danger to her life it yield.
Hush, child…
Peppermint. It was undoubtedly peppermint that she smelled; its unmistakable sweetness laced with somewhat fiery spice.
Oh, Nanna…
The drifting breeze chose that very moment to play with her hair. The way its delicate fingers run through her long tresses was not unlike how Nanna used to stroke them. A crystal tear escaped down her tear-stained cheek.
But she chose to face it and learn from her past mistakes.
Taking a deep breath, Kay made up her mind. Shredding a strip of linen from her dress, she wound them around her injured wrist and bound them tight. It was going to leave a scar. A vivid reminder of tonight. But she will remember Nicolette DeLavue. The scar would stay to remind her how far off the right path she once went and how easy it is to take the first wrong step.
I will remember Nicollette. She who came to be my Nanna. The mother I never had. My shepherd. My best friend.
Many choose to rewrite their past than to live upon it. But I choose to face it and learn from my past mistakes.
Yellow Ribbons & Silver Lockets
Maybe it was the way her breath blew those pretty clouds onto the cold glass, then how those clouds slowly disappear away after that, that intrigued her so. Or maybe it was because how tiny droplets of water often form there after having her breathe a few times on the same spot, calling her tiny hand then to rise and wipe away at it.
The little girl sat by the window, forehead pressed against the windowpane, her breathing blowing misty shapes every now and then. Every few minutes, her heart would skip a beat and her small hands would flutter to the pockets of her dress. Assured that the silver locket was still there, nestled among the many folds of her yellow cotton sundress, her eyes would rivet back to the window, until the next time the locket disappears.
It puzzled Maria Elena Gonzales as to why the young girl does so night and day, no matter what the month or year. She may be well past sixty years old, but she did not miss the look in the child’s eyes as she stared through the glass daily. They were not of mischievous youth as most children her age would have. Those coal-black casement held in them sadness that was almost unfathomable, so deep and intense that sometimes she herself was afraid to look into them.
Maria Elena Gonzales thought that was a shame, for the little girl was very pretty. With those dear yellow ribbons in her hair, young Lysette practically called out to be hugged and loved and made to smile again. Maria Elena Gonzales don’t remember ever seeing the child smile once ever since she came to work here four months ago. That was deeply disturbing.
Then again, she was in no place to question about matters that were not of her direct concern. Who was she but an old foreign housekeeper, paid to wash and cook for the Khoo family and nothing else? She would not have minded at all if she were required to maybe watch Lysette and to take care of her welfare as well, but Mrs. Khoo already has a special nanny for that. And one very much inexperienced as well if she might add, for she caught the woman once giving cold milk to the girl when Lysette had gone on about a stomachache. Even a fool knew that would only worsen the symptom. But that, too, was not of her concern.
And indeed she still had much to do; she had no time to be wondering about what goes on in the mind of a young child or of the mother or the inefficient nanny. The potatoes for tonight’s dinner was still waiting to be peeled and here she was, not even halfway through her cleaning. Mrs. Khoo would not be happy at all if she came back to no food on the dinner table. Oh, no. Bless that woman.
With a final glance Maria Elena Gonzales made herself look away from the petite form silhouetted against the window and carried the pail and washcloth to the upstairs landing. The bucket of water was only half full and the flight of marble staircase was considerably short, yet it left the poor woman panting. Placing the pail gently down so as to not scratch the smooth marble, she wiped her eyebrows with the back of her hand. Oh, she was getting old indeed.
The mistress of the house had left instructions to clean all rooms in the three-storey house, for Lysette’s asthma was coming up again. Maria thought the girl looked just fine sitting there by the window. What the girl really needs, if anyone is to ask her, was a bowl of rich chicken soup and lots of sunshine. Had it her way, she would make the frail girl go out and play everyday from sun-up till sundown. It was not healthy for a growing child to be cooped up inside, not going out to play like other regular children. Come to think about it, it does not seem like she has any friends to play with at all.
This befuddled the fat Mexican woman even more. Shaking her head, she opened the door to the first on her left and heaved in the wretched pail of water. It was going to be the death of her, if those French Fries weren’t.
This was undoubtedly Lysette’s room; from the yellow wallpaper to the yellow double bed at the corner, flanked by two yellow nightstands upon which each stood a yellow lamp with yellow shades. The yellow curtains were drawn close, so most of the room was in shadows. Maybe the girl was not as deprived of sunshine as she thought. She was just getting it from all the wrong places.
Slightly amused, Maria Elena Gonzales went to work. She chose to start with the yellow-painted wooden shelf at the opposite end of the bed.
Dolls clad in yellow tea dresses, beaming, and teddy bears adorned with yellow ribbons and bowties lined the shelf. They were obviously very new, all very much untouched, and more noticeably, unloved. It was sad to think that they had never been in the hands of the child. Even more so was the fact that they most probably never will.
Reminding herself again to mind her own business, Maria got to work. Choosing an empty dollhouse sitting at the corner she got down to her knees. Carefully, she eased the miniature home from its cozy spot onto her lap. A yellow envelope ripped carelessly open at its seams fell onto her lap.
This time she could not summon the will to not meddle anymore. Hands practically shaking with excitement, she persuaded a worn old parchment, yellowed with age, out of its cocoon. On them, scrawled in the messy handwriting of a child in pencil, were paragraphs of words. A letter.
“Dearest Meghan,
This would be the 13th time I’m writing to you. Yet you never seem to write back. You promised that you’d be here for me no matter what. You said we’d be best friends forever. Mummy won’t tell me where you’ve gone or when you’ll be coming back. She just said you’re now in a happier place where you have new friends and other new toys to play with. I really am happy for you but I also hope you have not forgotten about me.
I miss you, Meghan. Don’t you miss me? Don’t you want to play with me anymore? I’m sad, Meghan. I’m lonely. I’m afraid. And you’re not here. You promised, Meghan, you promised to be here for me. Now you’re not. But you’ll still always be my best friend. We’ll be best friends forever. I do hope so.
I got you an early birthday present. You will like it so much, I just know it. I can’t tell you what it is or it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore. But I can give you a clue. A clue for you to work on, just like Nancy Drew. It’s shiny and it rhymes with pocket. You will like it a lot.
I do hope you come back soon. Your Mummy’s been crying a lot too. I think she misses you as well. I hope you didn’t run away. And I really hope it’s not because I dirtied your favourite skirt the other week. It’s your favourite skirt because it’s in your favourite colour yellow, I know. I’m awfully sorry. Do come back, Meghan. We all miss you so much.
Love,
Lysette.
P.S. I nearly forgot. I hope you had a great time visiting the tall building adults call the World Trade Centre or something. You were so excited about the trip. It must be a really fascinating place. The adults have been talking about it a lot lately and it’s all over the news as well. I miss you.”
A drop of tear fell onto the parchment and smeared Lysette’s childish signature at the corner. Maria Elena Gonzales’ hand flew to her mouth as she tried hard to suppress her tears.
The letter was dated 11th September 2001.
The little girl sat by the window, forehead pressed against the windowpane, her breathing blowing misty shapes every now and then. Every few minutes, her heart would skip a beat and her small hands would flutter to the pockets of her dress. Assured that the silver locket was still there, nestled among the many folds of her yellow cotton sundress, her eyes would rivet back to the window, until the next time the locket disappears.
It puzzled Maria Elena Gonzales as to why the young girl does so night and day, no matter what the month or year. She may be well past sixty years old, but she did not miss the look in the child’s eyes as she stared through the glass daily. They were not of mischievous youth as most children her age would have. Those coal-black casement held in them sadness that was almost unfathomable, so deep and intense that sometimes she herself was afraid to look into them.
Maria Elena Gonzales thought that was a shame, for the little girl was very pretty. With those dear yellow ribbons in her hair, young Lysette practically called out to be hugged and loved and made to smile again. Maria Elena Gonzales don’t remember ever seeing the child smile once ever since she came to work here four months ago. That was deeply disturbing.
Then again, she was in no place to question about matters that were not of her direct concern. Who was she but an old foreign housekeeper, paid to wash and cook for the Khoo family and nothing else? She would not have minded at all if she were required to maybe watch Lysette and to take care of her welfare as well, but Mrs. Khoo already has a special nanny for that. And one very much inexperienced as well if she might add, for she caught the woman once giving cold milk to the girl when Lysette had gone on about a stomachache. Even a fool knew that would only worsen the symptom. But that, too, was not of her concern.
And indeed she still had much to do; she had no time to be wondering about what goes on in the mind of a young child or of the mother or the inefficient nanny. The potatoes for tonight’s dinner was still waiting to be peeled and here she was, not even halfway through her cleaning. Mrs. Khoo would not be happy at all if she came back to no food on the dinner table. Oh, no. Bless that woman.
With a final glance Maria Elena Gonzales made herself look away from the petite form silhouetted against the window and carried the pail and washcloth to the upstairs landing. The bucket of water was only half full and the flight of marble staircase was considerably short, yet it left the poor woman panting. Placing the pail gently down so as to not scratch the smooth marble, she wiped her eyebrows with the back of her hand. Oh, she was getting old indeed.
The mistress of the house had left instructions to clean all rooms in the three-storey house, for Lysette’s asthma was coming up again. Maria thought the girl looked just fine sitting there by the window. What the girl really needs, if anyone is to ask her, was a bowl of rich chicken soup and lots of sunshine. Had it her way, she would make the frail girl go out and play everyday from sun-up till sundown. It was not healthy for a growing child to be cooped up inside, not going out to play like other regular children. Come to think about it, it does not seem like she has any friends to play with at all.
This befuddled the fat Mexican woman even more. Shaking her head, she opened the door to the first on her left and heaved in the wretched pail of water. It was going to be the death of her, if those French Fries weren’t.
This was undoubtedly Lysette’s room; from the yellow wallpaper to the yellow double bed at the corner, flanked by two yellow nightstands upon which each stood a yellow lamp with yellow shades. The yellow curtains were drawn close, so most of the room was in shadows. Maybe the girl was not as deprived of sunshine as she thought. She was just getting it from all the wrong places.
Slightly amused, Maria Elena Gonzales went to work. She chose to start with the yellow-painted wooden shelf at the opposite end of the bed.
Dolls clad in yellow tea dresses, beaming, and teddy bears adorned with yellow ribbons and bowties lined the shelf. They were obviously very new, all very much untouched, and more noticeably, unloved. It was sad to think that they had never been in the hands of the child. Even more so was the fact that they most probably never will.
Reminding herself again to mind her own business, Maria got to work. Choosing an empty dollhouse sitting at the corner she got down to her knees. Carefully, she eased the miniature home from its cozy spot onto her lap. A yellow envelope ripped carelessly open at its seams fell onto her lap.
This time she could not summon the will to not meddle anymore. Hands practically shaking with excitement, she persuaded a worn old parchment, yellowed with age, out of its cocoon. On them, scrawled in the messy handwriting of a child in pencil, were paragraphs of words. A letter.
“Dearest Meghan,
This would be the 13th time I’m writing to you. Yet you never seem to write back. You promised that you’d be here for me no matter what. You said we’d be best friends forever. Mummy won’t tell me where you’ve gone or when you’ll be coming back. She just said you’re now in a happier place where you have new friends and other new toys to play with. I really am happy for you but I also hope you have not forgotten about me.
I miss you, Meghan. Don’t you miss me? Don’t you want to play with me anymore? I’m sad, Meghan. I’m lonely. I’m afraid. And you’re not here. You promised, Meghan, you promised to be here for me. Now you’re not. But you’ll still always be my best friend. We’ll be best friends forever. I do hope so.
I got you an early birthday present. You will like it so much, I just know it. I can’t tell you what it is or it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore. But I can give you a clue. A clue for you to work on, just like Nancy Drew. It’s shiny and it rhymes with pocket. You will like it a lot.
I do hope you come back soon. Your Mummy’s been crying a lot too. I think she misses you as well. I hope you didn’t run away. And I really hope it’s not because I dirtied your favourite skirt the other week. It’s your favourite skirt because it’s in your favourite colour yellow, I know. I’m awfully sorry. Do come back, Meghan. We all miss you so much.
Love,
Lysette.
P.S. I nearly forgot. I hope you had a great time visiting the tall building adults call the World Trade Centre or something. You were so excited about the trip. It must be a really fascinating place. The adults have been talking about it a lot lately and it’s all over the news as well. I miss you.”
A drop of tear fell onto the parchment and smeared Lysette’s childish signature at the corner. Maria Elena Gonzales’ hand flew to her mouth as she tried hard to suppress her tears.
The letter was dated 11th September 2001.
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