Cindy Shiggins
My life changed on April 2nd, 2003.
I was twelve.
I was like the Cinderella of the twenty-first century. No joke. First of all, my first name is Cindy. my full name is Cindy Shiggins, and I was born October 25th, 1991.
I used to have the best dad of all time. His name was David Shiggins, but they all called him Dave. I called him dad. We used to live alone, dad and daughter, David and Cindy.
"Hey Cind!" He called me to the garden one summer, a garden we planted a few months before. his voice was all excited and he was hunched over something. "Cind! come here! You gotta see this!"
Turns out we'd grown our first tomato. It was a small tomato, but really fat, and orange-red. It was shiny and bright under the rays of the sun. Dad was already sweating, and I was starting to.
"Should we pluck it?" He nodded and let me do it. I was a natural tomato-plucker, he told me.
"Wow, Cind. You didn't even break the skin!" he said, and then ruffled my hair while I cradled it so it didn't break. Wow, I thought. Our first grown tomato.
Everything changed when he married Lucilia. She had two daughters: Judy and Tessa.
They were demons in human form, all three of them.
I never got along with any of them. They were complete girls, with the makeup and clothes and wannabe personalities. I was a tomboy. When I wanted to play video games, they wanted to play Barbie. When I wanted to go outside for a run, they wanted to go to the mall. They hated me ever since they saw my faded blue overalls, and I hated them ever since I saw their yellow and pink frilly dresses.
And then one day, they became my stepsisters. I was miserable, but at least I still had my dad. He was the one thing that hadn't changed yet. He was still there for me.
Then one day we got a phone call from the hospital, and there he went, too. Gone. Just like that, the only dad I ever had, the only person in this house that I cared anything about.
I never ate tomatoes again.
i lived alone in a house full of people. i was completely, utterly alone. i swore to myself never to call them by nickname, like Tess, or Jude, or Luce. To me, that's signifying some kind of closeness.
"I don't know why you still get to eat with us. It's not like you belong here or anything," Tess said one day at dinner. "I mean, look at your clothes. They're disgusting."
Her mom was in the kitchen, on the phone. Her back was on us.
Usually I would ignore her. "Whatever," I would say. Usually. But not today.
I smiled very sweetly at her, and said in the most dramatic voice I could manage,
"You know, Tessa, I don't really care what you say. Your clothes would work so nicely in a hospital." I spread my hands out in front of my as if emphasizing a headline. "'If you feel the need to vomit, come here.' Lovely, I know."
She pursed her mouth, and after a while said in a really loud voice, "Careful, Cindy, don't go breaking mom's favorite China!"
I looked at her in confusion for a second, before I realized what she was going to do. But by then, I was too late. She was out of view from her mother, and I was too. She took a China plate, grabbing both ends with her hands, and threw it onto the ground.
It was loud. It was very, very loud. The loud smashing and shattering sound, and then the fierce anger and a bit of fear I felt.
"Tessa, you did not..." I said through clenched teeth.
She smiled--an evil, menacing smile.
"Oh, yes I did." Judy was giggling under the table.
"CINDY!" Lucilia rushed out of the kitchen, saw the mess next to my chair, and lost it. She yelled in my face, telling me what an ungrateful child I was, how I should "think about others for once in your life," how I should have "regarded Tess's considerate reminder," how I should "miss my dinner tonight" and even maybe breakfast tomorrow and go to my room for the rest of today.
Why? Why, dad, did you have to do this to me? Why couldn't you see what kind of person she really is? Why?
I was mad at everyone, even dad.
I stomped down the stairs to the basement, my new room. I slammed the door really hard, and locked it.
I went to my favorite magnetic dart-throwing game on my wall. I took all 12 darts and piled them in my hand. I threw and threw, over and over again, never getting a bulls-eye because I was throwing so hard. Some fell on the ground, and when I ran out, I went over and brought all of them over to throw again.
Whack. Whack. Whack. Thump. Whack. Whack. Thump.
My hands were sweaty, my eyes brimming with tears of anger. I threw those darts hard, and when the red target became Tessa's laughing head, I threw them even harder.
Do I Look Like I Care?
Author's Note: Sorry. Must sound depressing. Maybe my next piece will be happier. (:
I feel trapped. I'm suffocating in this life that I have.
My sister's seventeen and messed up. My mom died sixteen months and twenty-seven days ago. My dad's a beer-drinking jerk.
He made us move after mom died. He made us move to the other side of the country. He burned everything mom had, and hauled us away. Now we live in Los Angeles, in a run-down shack they call a house. There's a bar across the street: Dad's second home. He spends more time there than anywhere else. My sister is gone most of the day, for days at a time. Sometimes I think I'm the only one left sane in this family. Dad changed all the phone numbers; all my other relatives are out of reach--not like they want to be involved with a psycho dad or any of his family.
Sometimes I watch TV commercials and they have happy families together, a pretty mom, a strong-looking dad, a blonde daughter and son.
The perfect family, the family that I crave.
Every time I think of what i used to have, I come really close to crying. I haven't cried in fourteen years. Not even when I was a baby.
"She's a tough one, isn't she?" said the doctor. I was five, watching the labcoat man stick a silver, thin needle into my skin. It hurt, but I bit my lip and got it over with.
Sometimes I go into my room and shut the door real hard. There's nobody in the house anyway, so I don't see what good it would do, but I still slam it. I turn on the radio so loud it's vibrating the floor beneath my feet. I stash my face into the pillow and scream for all I'm worth, until I've got nothing left. then I turn off the radio and sleep through the rest of the day. if I'm hungry, I get something out of the fridge.
That's usually how my life goes. Until one day, I can't take it any longer. I get out of bed at midnight and miraculously, my dad's at home. although I can smell beer on his clothes, I walk over and sit on the chair next to him.
"Daddy?" He looked at me; he was watching the TV on mute.
"Did you drink today?"
"Not much."
Pause. I was surprised.
"Why not?"
"Didn't feel like it."
There was another pause, longer. And then I spilled. I think that's what happens, when you keep it locked inside too long. You burst. And you start telling someone--anyone--everything that you're worried about, everything you're feeling, because you can't take it anymore. I spilled my life out to this man who used to be my father. He didn't say anything because I didn't give him enough time to. When I finished, he looked at me for a long time.
"Okay." His voice was dead, and so were his eyes when he turned them back to the screen. I broke up inside. That was all? All I get?
He must of noticed my look of shock and hurt, because he turned back and said in a louder voice, "Well? What do you want?"
The words came out before I meant them to, in a whisper.
"I thought you were supposed to be my dad."
And he saw red.
"WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO, KID? TUCK YOU TO BED AND TELL YOU EVERYTHING'S GOING TO BE OKAY? IT'S NOT. IT'S NOT GOING TO BE OKAY! I'VE KNOWN THAT EVER SINCE YOUR STUPID MOM GOT HERSELF KILLED. STOP COMPLAINING, KID, AND JUST SUCK IT UP! IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, YOU CAN GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN!"
That stung.
"But, I just thought..."
"YOU THOUGHT WRONG."
"But daddy, I'm hurting right now. I really am."
I could hear the raw desperation in my voice. I was desperate for help.
His answer stung me more than anything he had ever said to me before.
"Do I look like I care?"
So I left. I slammed the door behind me, turned the radio up as high as it would go, stashed my face in my pillow, and cried for the first time in fourteen years.
The Pressure of School
It's below. (: For the story behind it, go to the Wogger's Corner! =) Enjoy! I love it.
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Why We Should NOT Do The Humanities Presentation
Author's Note: My failed protest on not doing the Humanities Presentation. Instead, Mr. Power laughed. -_-
When we first stepped into the uniformly hallways and felt the dull glow of the yellow lighting above our heads, we were all prepared for an occupied year of homework, assignments, tests, and work, however much it was despondently acknowledged. Yet, through persevering through the year, all of us had made it through, somehow reasonably unscathed. It’s been stressful, pressuring and so very exhausting at times, most of the time, turning in so many projects, working on homework and assignments simultaneously, at the same time trying to remember and not fail the impending tests. It’s been tough for everyone, even for those who make it look effortless.
We all expected a load of work in the beginning of the year, however unreasonable the quantity. It was anticipated, by everyone.
Now, when you pass the halls that we had all walked down so many countless times throughout this year, everywhere, you can see the considerable signs that prove that the year is coming to a finish. Students carrying yearbooks, cleaning out lockers, teachers asking for textbooks back, library books back, more special occasions towards the end to end the school year on a better tone…
Students are all in a better mood, feeling lighter and happier, especially with the huge weight of homework, assignments and tests off their backs. There’s no more pressure, cramming, sleepless nights or worries about examinations anymore. At least, for now.
Summer is here, let’s all be happy and enjoy the remaining days we have in SAS, and say our final goodbyes to our close friends who will be leaving.
Is all of this—all of this that is shown so clearly and obviously throughout all of school—going unnoticed and overlooked through the eyes of all the teachers?
It’s completely iniquitous and out-of-line to suddenly assign one final task in the last days of school, days of school that are — were — meant for enjoyment and reflection. Inspired by their adamancy, what is the true motive for this presentation?
Do teachers feel the need to—there is no nice way to say this—torture us further, before they release us into the lavish paradise we now recognize as summer holiday? Do we have to bring with us as our foremost school memory, a last academic and unjust presentation, so last-minutely assigned?
Why do we have to do this presentation, if, from the words of these teachers, “It’s not that big of a deal”? It’s not counted as a grade, either. If it’s not important, and if it’s rudely intrusive and life-wasting, why are we still subject to it?
I’m sorry, but I do not see the point or benefit of this final additive to our project, the project that we have labored over for so long; the project that many of us had stayed up to finish into the early hours of the next morning.
“Everyone can share what they wrote about.”
Do they assume that we would enjoy this presentation? I’m sorry to burst your bubble, teachers, but sitting through presentation after presentation…it does get kind of boring, believe it or not. We didn’t choose this project to do, so it wasn’t like we wanted to do this project in the first place, we have no interest in presenting them. If we are not interested, how can everyone else be? Most of our projects were merely supplements to fill the requirements; minimal necessities that we fill to make sure our grade doesn’t plummet from incompletion.
Students are not made to toil; we are not made to simply accept without question this kind of obligation from authorities without fair protest. So teachers, be fair, and cancel this project.
Listen and make us feel like we have some say over what we are asked to do, what we are asked to work on, what we are asked to waste our lives to finish, and what we are intended to learn.
“It’s not that big of a deal.” Not to you, maybe. For us, more work, more worries, more strained thoughts. No assignment in school we receive can be deemed as “not big of a deal” anymore if we want to stay above the failing line. Do us a favor, and cancel the project please.
Don’t ruin the seventh grade end-of-the-year atmosphere.
Spare us, please.
Watcher
Author's Note: This wouldn't be my favorite, like I said in the Wogger's Corner, it was all really in the "August Rush" mood. That's a good movie. You should go watch it. =)
I am a watcher.
I've always been a watcher, even when I was placed inside that small, warm, plastic incubator that clung me to survival moments after birth, I kept quiet and still, watching the world go by for the first time through those tiny, flitting eyes of mine, beyond the plastic walls of my cage, my captive.
Some people are never gratified, and always bored at the idea of simply sitting still, keeping quiet, and watching...yet I find it so simply fascinating. They want action, excitement, but so do I. The only difference is, I'd rather watch it happen, see it portrayed from a sideline view. I don't think there are many watchers in the world, and for that reason, I understand things from a different perspective than those around me. They can look, but I can see.
Life is everywhere. I can see it in the sun, the shining orb that brings out the life in all of us, the clouds that swift so slowly and gracefully across the slight blue plane of the sky...is it possible that these things, things that hold such natural beauty, do not have any source life in them? Or even watching an ant, labor across the dirt ground with a comparably large bread crumb across its back , I wonder how much bigger the world must seem to them. How long will it live before it's crushed between two fingers, like many of its brothers or sisters? To what degree are these insects' efforts belittled by us human beings, because of their insignificant size?
Even when I look at the interior of a building, I see things. The interlacing, shaggy lines that run through the creamy-brown marble floor have an uncanny resemblance to, for instance, the veins that snake through all parts of our bodies, that pump essential blood that serve for our existence, or maybe the roots of a tree, that sink low beneath the ground, that collect moisture for the plant to live?
I don't even watch TV the same as others. They watch it as a whole, I sometimes sit so close to the screen, with my nose almost touching the moving figures, watching each shining pixel of color interact with each other, to form each intricate frame into something that we all recognize. A car drives down the road, swerving slowly. A human-generated machine that compensates for distances that we cannot reach alone. As of trains, or airplanes, all ingenious inventions, that all once started as a simple sketch on paper, or a sudden brainwave, as do all great discoveries. What about UFOs? What do these cars look like to them, if they're actually watching us?
Are they watchers, also? Like me?
Do they see the cars as things with life, too? A strangely-shaped lump of metal, speeding across the designated pathways, sometimes pausing to spit something out of itself...its insides? Little stick-like figures that wander around. Internal organs of a metal monster that scurry around with each other, now there's something to look out for.
There's so much to see in the world, out there. So many things happening; deaths, births, experiences, action.
All you have to do, is watch.
Once Upon A Time
Author's Note: This one...is also true. Written from the perspective of a friend.
Once upon a time, I had been a very normal girl. I had been happy, at least. My family survived on welfare, keeping just full, but I tried so very hard to make the best of the life I had. I studied hard and got good grades—the teacher knew that I couldn’t pay the tuition, and so they gave it to me free. I learned fencing—almost every day of the week, I had practice. They trained me hard, but even when I was in pain, I would bear through it; the coach also taught me free. Surely, given all this free stuff, I should give them back results, at least. Once upon a time, I had a dream of succeeding in life. I had a dream of going to a good college, doing something in this world that would have some impact of my life. I had nice friends, food, a family, and shelter.
I had been kind of a normal girl, living kind of a normal life.
Of course, I took all of this for granted, as people tend to do. I watched the news sometimes, watched the news reporters announce some disaster and the number of deaths. I would pity them sometimes, feel a bit luckier, but still, to me and everyone around me, they were merely statistics. I never thought about what it would have been like to actually be in one of those situations, a life-or-death situation.
But now I know.
It all started in school, English Class, to be precise. I was listening, as always, to the teacher pronounce the white chalk words on the board. Then my head started to hurt. ‘Ugh’, I remember thinking. ‘A headache.’ I didn’t think much of it; it was just a headache, after all. It’ll pass.
But it didn’t. It got worse, I put my head in my arms for awhile, I drank a lot of water, but it still didn’t pass. I didn’t want to get sick, so I tried to take deep breathes and somehow self-heal. It ceased a bit for awhile, then grew so painful I muffled my own gasp of agony. My head throbbed, each throb sending waves of anguish through my head. I felt my eyes tear up, and the teacher stop. I couldn’t think anymore, not with this pain in my head. How in the world could anyone make such a torturous pain? And suddenly, everything was spinning, and I hit my head, but there was no pain; that single headache overshadowed everything else, and then I was on the cold floor, and something was dragging me under, into the darkness, and I closed my eyes, and cried silently into unconsciousness.
When I woke up again, it took me a long time to remember what had happened, and an even longer time to realize where I was. The first thing I noticed was that I couldn’t move. I was hooked up to a lot of different tubes, sticking through my arms, and I was thankful for being unconscious when they stuck it in. Then I realized I couldn’t move my head either; it was latched onto something. When I remembered that pain I had come across in the classroom, I was grateful for that, too. No more in any lifetime would I want to experience that again.
I remember seeing my mom crying, and my dad next to her. ‘Don’t cry’, I wanted to tell her. ‘It’s not that bad.’ But I knew something was. Headaches didn’t get that bad. I was in a hospital, under the white covers, wearing their spotted dress things. If I was here, something was wrong. She was saying something to me, but then my head started hurting, but not as bad as before, but bad enough that I couldn’t think right. They gave me some medicine things to drink; they had a funny color, and then I felt myself go woozy, and slip back into unconsciousness.
Whatever I had before, it was worse when I awoke again. I had no idea what time it was, what day it was, what I was doing here, but that I had a massive headache. But I could feel it worsening. I sat there on my bed; it got very uncomfortable and sweaty and humid, but I still sat there, watching the world go by. My head kept throbbing—each time it sent that wave of pain, but it was dulled somehow. Maybe it was the medication. It was nauseating, though. I threw up a few times. I cursed myself for not treasuring the time I had before, so many years I had, not like this, not sick and in pain and throwing up, hooked to IVs and strange machines. Why, must it be that you only learn through the experiences that hurt the most?
The doctor came through the door, clipboard in hand. He was analyzing it. Maybe, I thought with a surge of hope, that clipboard had the answer to this whole mess. It would cure me. The thought enlightened me, and the doctor leaned over to speak to my mother, who, I just realized, was sitting there the whole time. But my hope vanished in a puff of smoke when I saw the expression of horror on my mother’s face. Then she walked—stumbled—out of the room, her sobs echoing throughout the concrete walls of the medical centre.
Something was very wrong.
I waited there, in anticipation, counting the number of dots on the ceiling, or watching a bug cross the floor or fall into an unexpected pit. I watched and waited. Whatever I was waiting for, I knew it wouldn’t be good. My mother came back soon enough; her eyes were still red and puffy. I flinched; her pain was my pain.
‘Honey,’ she spoke slowly and carefully, as if I were mentally challenged.
‘We ran a few tests from you the past few days,’ she continued. So that was what they were doing when I was…in the dark.
‘And we’ve found out that…’ her voice cracked. I braced myself. ‘You have a brain tumor, sweetheart.’ She paused, and she looked like she would cry again. I stared at her, the fact not quite sinking in. Brain tumor. What was that again? My mother’s words were rushing out now.
‘The doctors don’t know what to do about it, they can’t remove it, sweetie, because it’s so close to a big nerve connected to your spinal cord. If they removed it like it is now, you’ll be…paralyzed, honey. You won’t be able to move, or walk.’ I didn’t want to be paralyzed, I knew that. I didn’t want to be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, half-dead and unable to move. I didn’t want that. What did I want then? I wanted everything to go back to normal, of course. That’s what I wanted, more than anything else in the world, I wanted to live in peace. I wanted to live a normal life, that was pain-free.
It was a dilemma. They were the doctors, the ones that saved lives, the ones that held hope, and they didn’t know what to do. I was done for. Please, God. Please help me.
Brain tumor, a clump of something extraneous in my brain, I think. Ahh, that explained the headaches. Brain tumors were also sometimes…fatal. Through this careful thinking, I realized something else:
I didn’t want to die. I was too young for that. Please, please, please. Don’t let me die.
I will remember that day until I do die, whether it’s going to be recent or not. But until then, I sit in my living room, playing with cell phones, or drawing on a piece of paper, doodling, wondering, dreaming, thinking.
And waiting.
Once upon a time, I was a normal girl. Now all I need, is a happily ever after.
Thank You
Author's Note: Someone had given me a free Upgraded Membership on Writing.com, this is written from gratitude.
I didn't think I could hold on much longer.
I was only a child of twelve, and already my live faced enough hardships to last anyone else three lifetimes.
Hardships that were not overcome yet, and that worried me to the edge of insanity.
My mother was seriously ill, leukemia, the doctors told me. Coming from such a family of poverty, I had no idea what it was, only that it was awful, evil, a stupid virus that would ruin my life, forever.
"She has a chance of survival," one of the female nurses told me once; my father was away at work--he only managed to return home once a month these days, we needed all the money we could get.
"If she's treated now, she may be able to survive."
How much money? I didn't even ask, for I knew, no matter how much I pleaded, it would be well out of our range. Treatment was expensive, even if the cost was the life of someone you loved dear; someone who had breathed into you your first breath of life, who had raised you for twelve years before the cruelty of reality struck them. It was a good thing I was an only child, even though I'd been wanting a sibling for years on end. I wouldn't have been able to support another person besides myself. I lived at the hospital, watching my mother die, day after day. Growing more and more frail, the curve of her bone more and more visible against her pale skin. What had happened to the fun-loving, daring, happy-go-lucky mother that I remember spending my life with? Who was here, on that white bed next to me, so fragile and sick?
What had happened to my life?
The hospital was kind enough, letting me eat with the nurses and doctors in the cafeteria at noon; I tried only to take bare neccesities, unless I was truly and utterly starved to my core. I lived my life by the second, not knowing how long I would be able to hold on.
My father would return monthly, and I would have to bear watching his eyes and soul wither as he watched my mother, month after month, cling to what she had left to live, or scream in frail agony whenever it hurt.
"I have to try harder. I have to work harder. I'm not doing good enough." He would always mutter, and I would try to reassure him, unsuccesfully. What he made was only barely enough for us to survive food-wise, let alone save my mother.
Over time, I saw that he, too was starting to become deprived of health. His once-black hair receded to become mostly white, his eyes always had purple patches underneath, and he fell asleep even while in the middle of his meal.
I begged him to stop working, we had food here in the hospital.
"Stay with me, Dad. Please." But he would have this torn look in his eyes and mutter about how he would not let my mother die, how he would work himself to death if it meant saving my mother.
"You will NOT be motherless," he declared, before leaving again, back to work.
I would never forget that day, that day that saved my life. That day that saved me, and everything else that I held near and dear.
It was raining, the gloom trapping everyone in the plastered white walls of the rowdy hospital. It was the type of day that would have been though to bring bad fortune, yet what it did bring was so much the opposite.
Never, for the rest of my existence, and even in my grave, will any second--millisecond--of that day be erased from my memory. The entrance of the nurse, with that rain-soaked white package in her hands, reading it in disbelief as if anyone else in the world knew that this family of ours existed; no, it was already too broken up, this family, she probably thought. They had no chance.
The package was blotched and muddy; the nurse said it was left on the doorstep.
There was a bulge coming stretching out the whole thing pretty wide, whatever was in there was pretty darn thick. There was no address, or return-address. Whomever had left it probably hand-delivered.
Who knew this simple old package was the one that would shift my future onto the right track for the rest of my life?
There were a few things scrawled in messy handwriting; some of it was blotched out, but it was readable.
First, it acknowledged the names of my father, mother, and myself. Then, below that, in a slightly bolder hand, the message:
"I hope this gift helps."
Nobody knew who gave it to us, nobody knew where the money inside was from. All they knew, was that our family had received nothing short of a miracle, and that it was a heck of a lot of money.
Enough to save my mother, father, and myself.
Enough to ultimately brighten my future, and spark my life.
Enough to make me observant enough to see that light, shining bright, at the end of that dark trail that had been my life before.
And so, thank you, anonymous, whom made my life so much easier to live.
Thank you, for saving my family.
Thank you, for saving me.
[In other words, thanks a lot for that upgraded membership! It means a lot; I'll keep writing! =)]
Flames of Compassion
Author's Note: Ho-hum. I didn't like this one much, either. This was for another Humanities assignment.
Elena was awoken by the frightful screams outside her window. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. The air was filled with smoke—it stung her eyes and forced her to cough.
“Mother?” she called. There was no reply. Panic beginning to build up, she headed to the window. Her heart caught in her throat.
The whole village was in flames.
Neighbors were screaming for loved ones, almost in hysterics. Elena searched her house for her mother and father. Both were gone. She shut her eyes.
This had to be a nightmare.
Struggling in the thick smoke, she hurried to the door on bare feet. She saw shadowed men pouring something onto the houses from a pail. Gasoline. They were under attack. Hope drained out of Elena’s heart as she realized that this was reality, not some insignificant figment of her imagination. They were beyond help now. She flinched as one of the houses collapsed to the ground. There was no way out…unless…
Elena took off without a second thought. The bottom of her feet was scratched and bleeding by the twigs and pebbles of the forest floor, but that was the least of her worries. She remembered years ago, when the town had caught that…woman. She had been performing witchcraft on a child and sent into exile into the forest. Of course, the village didn’t believe in execution.
Elena turned right; it was only natural for children to know the exact location of the witch’s headquarters. The news spread like wildfire. Wildfire. Elena felt her heart lurch as she was reminded of the fire that was invading her home. Another turn to the left, and there it was. Elena but her hands on her knees and panted. There was no time to lose. A little hut was built in a small space that was enclosed by trees. Fresh panic erupted inside of her. Elena paused and prayed to the heavens that the witch would not turn her into a frog or a slab of cheese. Holding her breath, Elena knocked on the small wooden door. She heard someone stumble to the door. The door opened, and Elena had to look down to see the old woman that greeted her. She looked nothing like what Elena had expected. She was leaning on a cane and her face was filled with wrinkles. Elena was reminded of the traditional grandmotherly type of people she had read about in books.
“Hello! What can I do for you?” she asked politely in that expected grandmotherly voice. Elena shuddered. It might be a disguise, a cover-up for her true identity…Elena shook herself as she realized what she was here for.
“The village! The village…it’s in flames! People are dying and I just thought…” Elena took a deep breath. “I just thought if you might be able to help us,” she finished. awkwardly The old woman stared at her for a moment and then laughed.
“Child, remember that compassion can overpower evil in the most difficult situations!” she said cheerfully. She shuffled off and returned a moment later.
“Here, girl, take some bread.” With that, she closed the door, leaving Elena to stare at the wooden door in dismay and confusion. She was her last hope, that shimmer that she had hoped would save her village and her family. And it had gone…just like that. Elena broke down and began to sob. Her parents were probably still stuck in the fire. Whether they were alive, she didn’t know.
Something prodded her side. Elena swatted it aside. It continued to prod her. Elena looked up. A shaggy dog sat beside her, looking up at her with big eyes. It was missing patches of fur, leaving sections of pure pink flesh. Gashes cut deep into some parts of its flesh. The few patches of fur it did have were matted with dirt and cut in uneven tufts. It began to whimper and look from the piece of soggy bread in Elena’s hand to Elena. Sighing, Elena took the dog and put it on her lap. At least she had a companion now. Ripping off part of her nightgown, Elena began to clean its wounds. It was then did she suddenly realize her overpowering hunger. The bread was the only food she had on her; her village would be ruined once she returned, and her parents…Elena forced the tears back down. No. She couldn’t think about that stuff, about the destruction that she could not stop. Her stomach rumbled. The dog continued to look back at Elena. It was obviously hungry. Elena ripped off half of the piece of bread and handed it to the dog. It began to wolf it down hungrily. She looked at it in pity. Sighing again, she handed it the rest of her bread. It gave Elena a grateful look and continued to devour the food. As soon as the final crumbs were gone, it jumped off her lap and hurried off into the forest. Elena felt her heart sink. So much for companionship. She picked up a twig off the floor and began to twiddle with it. She prayed for her family and her friends. She prayed for her home, and for their hard-labored crops. She prayed for hope.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light from somewhere in the depths of the forest, in the direction of her village. Elena felt her stomach lurch. Was it an explosion? She felt the temptation to look and find out, but she didn’t have the guts. Elena rose from the floor and began pacing it. She should go—whatever happened wasn’t going to change; she would have to face it someday. Feeling lightheaded and wavering on the brink of unconsciousness, Elena found her way through the woods. She stopped many times to take some deep breathes and prepare herself from the mass destruction she was about to witness. Soon, she reached the place where only a few trees blocked her view of the village. Praying to the heavens one last time, she proceeded. What she saw brought her to her knees.
Nothing was destructed. There were no flames, there were no corpses. All the houses were standing; none were destroyed. This wasn’t right…she had seen the smoke, the flames…a figure was rushing to her.
“Get up from that ground, dear, you’ll ruin your clothes!” That voice. It was so familiar.
“Mother?” The figure came into view. There was her mother, unharmed, not much different from the night before.
“We were so worried! What were you thinking, going into the woods all by yourself? Things could have happened to you! Especially with that…her on the loose! Really, Elena! Get some sense into you!” Elena was dumbstruck.
“Where’s father? Where is everyone? Are you okay?” Her words tumbled out in a confused jumble. Her mother looked at her like she was going insane. She might have been right, thought Elena.
“Father’s at the field like everyone else! My, the woods has gone into your head…Now, come along, you have chores to attend to!” Her mother continued to scold. Elena arose from her trembling knees and began to follow her mother. She caught a glance of someone sitting on a log near the forest. It looked like…
“Mother! I’ll be right there!” Elena rushed over to the old lady. The witch.
“How did you…what…I…” was all she could manage. The old lady was knitting.
“Compassion always overpowers evil in the most difficult situations,” she said, tapping her head lightly with her fingers, without looking up. Elena nodded and smiled, holding back tears. She and her family and friends were safe, and that was all Elena had ever wanted.
“Thank you,” she managed, turned, and left.
“Oh, there you are!” Her mother beckoned her into the house as she reached the front porch. The air was clean and fresh without any tinge of smoke. Elena smiled at her mother’s smiling face.
“Guess what came into the house when we were asleep?” Her mother shuffled over to the dining table.
“Come out, you poor thing. There’s someone you should meet!” Elena heard a shuffling of paws as something with missing patches of fur and large, begging eyes squeezed out from the bottom of the table.
Indecision
Author's Note: This was all true, I was organizing my thoughts. =)
It was one of those days, when you were faced with a decision that left you nowhere to turn. Should I or should I not? Yes, or no? The debate is with nobody but yourself, yet it rages on for eternity.
This time, it was fencing. Fencing is a beautiful sport, one in which you can with great pride, announce to your peers that you are learning. Although it is generally known to distribute towards the self-defense area, it also tests the extremity of your reflexes, observation skills, hand-eye coordination, and strategic thinking. And in order to test these skills, one must also train.
And that is very, very tiring.
It was such a normal Saturday morning, when we would have training from 9:00 to 11:30. Training was tiring, to the point when one feels like there is no way they could work harder, and so of course, neither of us were really looking forward to it.
But then, my sister took it to the next step.
She couldn’t quit. That was one of the things that helped the exhaustion; knowing that there was someone feeling the same thing. And now, the thought of me going alone…
My mother came in the room. “I have to talk to you about something,” she had said, but I knew all along what she was going to say, and what she was going to do. She was going to give me a decision to make. So now there was only one question, one question that only I could answer.
Did I want to quit, too?
I could tell that my mother didn’t want me to quit; her disappointment was clear when Tiffany had turned her back on the sport. My coach didn’t either; she was, after all, the coach. I was tall, and had long arms and legs. I was good for the sport. But was the sport good for me? Or rather, did I like the sport?
I didn’t look forward to it, that was a fact. It was tiring, but it was productive. I only went twice a week. I had the necessities to do well. If I did go, I would have to face the training and the staring eyes alone. These were all facts that would have to lead to, in the end, my conclusion. What was my opinion?
Never did I ever realize how hard it was to decipher your own thoughts.
I didn’t like training, but I persisted, simply because it was such a cool sport. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, that contributed to why, too.
I didn’t want to disappoint myself.
So what I really had to chooses from was what I wanted, and what I thought was right. Or, in other words, what I thought was the best decision for me to make; to learn something new, exercise, and train my skills. To take the opportunity I would otherwise not have. What I also knew, was that what I wanted wasn’t always right.
What I also wanted was for everyone to be happy. What my mother wanted was for me to be happy. This was a dilemma right there; what made me happy would disappoint my mother, what made her happy would disappoint me. So what do I do?
I ask my mother to cancel for today; so I can think it over. Then, I go to my computer, and write it all down.
I organize my thoughts.
Maybe, I’ll go to tomorrow’s practice, and experience it again. Is it really that bad? Maybe I would learn to love it, maybe it would pay off eventually, like when I persisted for black belt in tae kwon do.
The world is full of maybes, the hundreds of thousands of outcomes that could occur from a single decision, no matter how small.
I’m stuck in between; an indecision.
But I’ll continue to think, organize, wait, and feel. With all of this combined, I’ll, sooner or later, reach some kind of conclusion.
Sooner or later.
