A twisted story about a girl's mind being torn apart as she slowly notices the person she trusts isn't the Same... A broken path to picked which evil she would endure.
I loved her. I loved the thought of her. It was a short glance in time. Dancing freely in my mother’s back yard. She smiled gazing at me so fixed on every twirl and every footstep. I knew her eyes were near, so I kept dancing. When it was over, she applauded. Her shoulders hunched over the fence as her arms hung over it. Smiling an influential smile. A deep dent on both sides of her cheeks. I always looked up to her, admired her as a God. A religion even I can’t think about worshipping. I smile back, as she complimented my dancing.
“Maybe I should try singing.”
“Never, “she replied.
“Why not?” I laughed.
“Just my own selfishness. “
And she walked away again, I watched her back as she went. It’s ironic how I wanted her to say that, but then again, I wanted her to say anything.
I walked home from school, didn’t really like riding the bus. I was tired of always having to answer stupid questions. Idiotic questions of why I look a certain way, if I’m actually a real demon, if mom screwed the devil, or if I seen my biological father murder them. I smile at how easily they are entertained.
So I walked to school, and then I walk home. Strolling around thinking why my eyes are different. My left eye is sap green and the other one is sky blue. But for some reason I can’t see normally out of them. Everything is black and the people are either white, red, yellow, or green. I remember the time when my mom wasn’t ashamed to hold my hand, where everything was happy. We were at the ice cream shop, and I was excited to taste the new flavor that appeared on TV. However, next to us there was a man red from head to toe. His hair, eyes, skin, clothes, and shoes were bright red. I was scared, he looked god-like. I tried to tell my mom, but she thought I was being racist. But the man next to us kept getting brighter and brighter. I pulled, tugged, and screamed for her attention, but she pushed me away as she talked to the cashier. Flaunting her body at him, not even knowing that I was gone. The man took me, and we stopped at the lake. He turned to me, but just when he would say something, the police took him away. Someone was lucky enough to see me. Unlike my mother, that person made me feel safe. She was that person. Ms. Silverwood, a lady I truly admired.
As I walk, I tend to roam around, thinking that maybe by chance the trees may look normal. Sadly, they didn’t. I knew they were there I just couldn’t see them clearly. I gear their low whistling and I can feel their words go through my black hair. I just sighed at my troubles and kept walking.
I made it to my house. I was only a few feet away, and I was already second guessing my decisions. I took a big sigh, and before I could take another step, there on the other end was Mrs. Silverwood. Her beautiful face went from a smile to a slight smirk. I-I couldn’t tell if she was happy or concerned....
“I see a little bird, that doesn’t want to go home.”
I laughed, “Yeah, and I see a fox, who doesn’t want it to.”
“A wise bird you are,” she looked around the area we were in. Almost as if to see if anyone saw us,” You know, I live an inch away. You can always study at my house....unless the bird is scared...”
I smiled, I enjoy the games we play. These jokes of mockery was just a sweet way of symbolizing our reality.
Her house smelled like burnt honey and intense forest. I could almost get high off the scent. I sat in the black leather chair, and I felt the feel of the seat. I browsed throughout the room. A spacious living room with built-in shelving, exposed beams, and a stone fireplace. It had neutral tone sofas and chairs allow the woodwork to be sort of a focal point. Wood mantel piece held a swirled art piece over ceiling height stone fireplace surround. Close view of the fireplace area in main living room. White rug over hardwood flooring supports natural wood coffee table and twin beige ottomans. Dark wood window molding and exposed beams are visible. Here we have a close up shot of the coffee table, dark natural wood over black metal frame, with round book holder and green decorative elements. White furniture in background.
“A beautiful set I took from the influence of Nord by Design”
“I knew you loved it, you always had an eye for this particular hopsack color”
She sets a cup of hot tea in front of me, “Enjoy” she smiles. I grabbed the handle and put the rim slowly to my mouth. Suddenly, I stopped. The scent.....a familiar smell. It lured me in, and I fell in a plunder of greed. And lust. I woke out of my gaze, to see her smiling.
“I was right about you.”
I looked into her sea green eyes, and all I can see was her dominant features. Pouring in stories she hasn’t yet told, or maybe won’t tell me. I don’t know if she noticed, but I’ve been watching her. More than a neighbor should. I know all there is to know about Mrs. Silverwood. How she listens to Dean Martin at exactly eleven o’clock, and sings alongside Frank Sinatra as he tells her to fly him to the moon countless times through the night. She bathes only in lavender scented bath soap that she gets every Tuesday at the Pure Aroma store down the street of Pansel Avenue. She covers herself in the beige cotton sweater that matches the grey gradient underwear, and ankle socks that she only wears every tea break near fall. She still irons Mr. Silverwood’s suit every morning just to hide the fact that she’s secretly a widow. I always wondered if she does it to show the world that he’s still alive, or to prove herself that he is in the progress. I dream about her. Take pictures of her every morning, because she is and always will be a piece of art. Sometimes, a part of me is sicken of my obsession. I am a sixteen year old girl who hides such greed for a beautiful twenty-six year old neighbor close by. But this feeling. This emotion. This sudden yen to be her audience. I laugh at the thought that she feels the same, but somehow I think she knows. Somehow, I think she’s encouraging such a disease.
“Tell me,” I said, “I want to know.” With that, she smiled. It was a graceful smile, as if the answer was right in front of my disadvantaged eyes.
“How can a bird tell another the color of its feathers, if the bird cannot see the truth?”
I began to frown. It was a disappointed one, because I knew the value of this lesson. I didn’t want to talk about, nor did I want to admit. I looked back down at my tea cup that had a few drops of tea left in its wide mouth. Before my eyes could close o hold back the sadness of the truth, I felt her warm hands cup over mine.
“Why do you constantly lie to yourself? Even I can see you are not the weakling you always entitled yourself to be.”
“I-I”, before I could explain, she draws closer to me as to examine my eyes.
“You’re not blind. But then again, you can’t see all that well can you,” she starts to get even closer where her nose almost touch mind. She stares into my eyes like a scientist ready to dissect its new discovery. I felt like she would just pull them out the socket. I felt her breath on my face, and I almost melted on the chair. I didn’t know what to do, so I closed my eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was so fascinated by the colors that I stepped too far into your personal space,” when I opened them, she smiled an angelic smile that squinted her eyes and widen her smile. That’s when I noticed, how terrifyingly big her smile was. How many teeth is in there? She pulls the brown strand of hair behind her ear, and she whispers into my ear.
“You can see more than the world,” and she paused as if to think, “more than I will ever show you.”
The oven bell rung, and she walked back into the kitchen. I didn’t even notice that I was holding my breath. Suddenly, I saw a blue jacket on the arm of the couch. It was so familiar that I had to get a closer look. I walked up to it, and opened it up. A picture fell to the floor, and just before I could grab it, Mrs. Silverwood would yell my name. It was the first time I ever heard her say it that way. I stopped, and looked at her. Her worried look was fixed into a smile. A forced smile as if to stall or hide what she truly felt. A nervous smile.
“Y-you know...curiosity killed the cat...”