Post by Amélie Grey on Feb 11, 2007 16:49:02 GMT -5
Amélie kicked forward on the swing, her hands on the chains, the swing rising.
She'd gone out for a walk, just to clear her head. She did this a lot, just went to see where her feet would take her. She just put on her coat and scarf and gloves, and walked... and walked... and walked...
Normally she ended up somewhere isolated, something that had been happening since she was a teenager. She used to go out and just scream her lungs out, hit trees with her tiny, ineffectual fists, and cry.
But today she'd been taken to the playpark, and her feet had treaded to the swings. Maybe they wanted to be off the ground. Or maybe Amélie's mind wanted to break free of it's moorings, raise its anchor, unground itself.
She kicked her legs back. Back and forth... back and forth... back and forth...
Her mind started to wander. It took her home. Back when she was small. Her parents had taken her to the playpark.
She saw clearly her mum's bright, happy, extroverted face, smiling and laughing in front of her as she was swinging. Her dad was pushing her on the swing, and she felt like she was flying, soaring, like a bird, or a butterfly.
Her mind wrenched from her memory, as she felt sick. She stopped swinging.
She hated thinking about her dad. It hurt too much. The fond memories were worse than the ones of hatred. There were memories where her parents were still together, still in love...
No matter what she was telling herself not to think, her mind still drifted to the memory of their last family holiday.
They were in Rome, and the black-clad teenage Amélie was sitting on the edge of the Trevi fountain, her hands running over the cold stone, her face in a smile, her mind in wonder at the history, and the architecture of the eternal city.
And there were her parents, sitting and giggling like teenagers over some private joke.
The adult Amélie couldn't help but smile wryly.
Then the memory switched, like a giant movie screen.
It was just after her dad had left. He was back, getting some stuff, and that was the row. The huge row.
The fourteen year old Amélie was sitting on the stairs, silent tears running down her face. Her arms were wrapped around a banister spindle as she heard the raised voices of her parents.
The adult Amélie felt tears spring to her own eyes as she remembered herself that night. The sounds of her parents yelling in French, the sound of smashing china, the sound of her mothers crying after Christopher had stormed out of the house, her tears mingling with Amélie's as they both cried.
And that night, when Amélie had stifled her sobs in her pillow so as not to wake her mother. Months of night crying would follow.
And then, that memory. The fourteen year old Amélie in her bedroom, a penknife in her hand, her fingers running over the blade, and then running it along her wrists, feeling the quick elation and then the sharp pain, watching the blood bubble up and run over her arm...
Suddenly, the Amélie in the park felt bile rise up her throat. She covered her mouth and ran to the public toilets.
She bent over the toilet and coughed up the bile and vomit, making horrible retching noises, coughing.
She took a piece of toilet paper and wiped around her mouth, then dropped it into the toilet and flushed. She walked out of the cubicle and went over to the mirror, and looked at her pale, melancholy face, her hands shaking beside the faucets.
She saw again herself lying in bed, sobbing, and felt the same pain as that teenager, sobbing along with her, the tears running fast down her cheeks. She rolled up her sleeves and looked at the long, white stripes on her soft, pale skin.
There they were. She could name the date of each one, the reason why, and recall how she was feeling when she made the incision. They were like a faint, delicate tiger stripe on her skin, beautiful, but sad. Poignant....
The memory of her fourteen-year old self in her bedroom resurfaced. She'd been in despair, she wanted to die. She didn't want to live, she couldn't understand... but all she knew was that she was needed to care for her mother. She had a higher purpose. So that was how she'd coped. Blood.
Ironically, it was then that she really set her heart on being a surgeon.
Amélie saw the vision of her teenage self, scared, terrified, lonely, sad...
"No," she whispered aloud in French. "It'll be okay, I promise. It will get better, don't do this to yourself, you'll regret it. I swear it will get better, you'll leave that place, and you'll be happy, I promise you. Don't do this. It wasn't your fault. You won't always feel this bad, you'll grow up properly and you'll move away and you can leave it behind, I swear. I'm not there yet but I'm getting there. I promise it'll be okay," she whispered, looking in the mirror and seeing the teenage Amélie stare back at her with plaintive, pleading, lonely eyes. "I swear it. You don't know this yet. You'll move, you'll get your dreams, you'll fall in love. It's all ahead of you. And I know you're sad, and scared, but it does get better. I swear to you."
She looked at the ghost girl in the mirror once more. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she whispered throatily.
She closed her eyes, breathed a silent prayer, looked back at the girl, bit her trembling lip, and walked out, to go back home.
She'd gone out for a walk, just to clear her head. She did this a lot, just went to see where her feet would take her. She just put on her coat and scarf and gloves, and walked... and walked... and walked...
Normally she ended up somewhere isolated, something that had been happening since she was a teenager. She used to go out and just scream her lungs out, hit trees with her tiny, ineffectual fists, and cry.
But today she'd been taken to the playpark, and her feet had treaded to the swings. Maybe they wanted to be off the ground. Or maybe Amélie's mind wanted to break free of it's moorings, raise its anchor, unground itself.
She kicked her legs back. Back and forth... back and forth... back and forth...
Her mind started to wander. It took her home. Back when she was small. Her parents had taken her to the playpark.
She saw clearly her mum's bright, happy, extroverted face, smiling and laughing in front of her as she was swinging. Her dad was pushing her on the swing, and she felt like she was flying, soaring, like a bird, or a butterfly.
Her mind wrenched from her memory, as she felt sick. She stopped swinging.
She hated thinking about her dad. It hurt too much. The fond memories were worse than the ones of hatred. There were memories where her parents were still together, still in love...
No matter what she was telling herself not to think, her mind still drifted to the memory of their last family holiday.
They were in Rome, and the black-clad teenage Amélie was sitting on the edge of the Trevi fountain, her hands running over the cold stone, her face in a smile, her mind in wonder at the history, and the architecture of the eternal city.
And there were her parents, sitting and giggling like teenagers over some private joke.
The adult Amélie couldn't help but smile wryly.
Then the memory switched, like a giant movie screen.
It was just after her dad had left. He was back, getting some stuff, and that was the row. The huge row.
The fourteen year old Amélie was sitting on the stairs, silent tears running down her face. Her arms were wrapped around a banister spindle as she heard the raised voices of her parents.
The adult Amélie felt tears spring to her own eyes as she remembered herself that night. The sounds of her parents yelling in French, the sound of smashing china, the sound of her mothers crying after Christopher had stormed out of the house, her tears mingling with Amélie's as they both cried.
And that night, when Amélie had stifled her sobs in her pillow so as not to wake her mother. Months of night crying would follow.
And then, that memory. The fourteen year old Amélie in her bedroom, a penknife in her hand, her fingers running over the blade, and then running it along her wrists, feeling the quick elation and then the sharp pain, watching the blood bubble up and run over her arm...
Suddenly, the Amélie in the park felt bile rise up her throat. She covered her mouth and ran to the public toilets.
She bent over the toilet and coughed up the bile and vomit, making horrible retching noises, coughing.
She took a piece of toilet paper and wiped around her mouth, then dropped it into the toilet and flushed. She walked out of the cubicle and went over to the mirror, and looked at her pale, melancholy face, her hands shaking beside the faucets.
She saw again herself lying in bed, sobbing, and felt the same pain as that teenager, sobbing along with her, the tears running fast down her cheeks. She rolled up her sleeves and looked at the long, white stripes on her soft, pale skin.
There they were. She could name the date of each one, the reason why, and recall how she was feeling when she made the incision. They were like a faint, delicate tiger stripe on her skin, beautiful, but sad. Poignant....
The memory of her fourteen-year old self in her bedroom resurfaced. She'd been in despair, she wanted to die. She didn't want to live, she couldn't understand... but all she knew was that she was needed to care for her mother. She had a higher purpose. So that was how she'd coped. Blood.
Ironically, it was then that she really set her heart on being a surgeon.
Amélie saw the vision of her teenage self, scared, terrified, lonely, sad...
"No," she whispered aloud in French. "It'll be okay, I promise. It will get better, don't do this to yourself, you'll regret it. I swear it will get better, you'll leave that place, and you'll be happy, I promise you. Don't do this. It wasn't your fault. You won't always feel this bad, you'll grow up properly and you'll move away and you can leave it behind, I swear. I'm not there yet but I'm getting there. I promise it'll be okay," she whispered, looking in the mirror and seeing the teenage Amélie stare back at her with plaintive, pleading, lonely eyes. "I swear it. You don't know this yet. You'll move, you'll get your dreams, you'll fall in love. It's all ahead of you. And I know you're sad, and scared, but it does get better. I swear to you."
She looked at the ghost girl in the mirror once more. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she whispered throatily.
She closed her eyes, breathed a silent prayer, looked back at the girl, bit her trembling lip, and walked out, to go back home.