Stolen Innocence - Writers Forum

SerenityJS · 01-23-2008, 04:59 PM

She stared at me for a moment, trying to digest the inaudible words spoken. Time had been a friend to neither of us and the moment for dishonesty distinguished itself long ago in the quagmire of injustice. We stand at arms length, drinking our vanity from our glass mugs. You always knew, didn’t you? She ask in accusation. Knew what, I reply. The creases across our faces speak of hard work and sacrifice. She eyes me as a death row inmate would eye his executioner. Except, my words are not vague, or dishonest, they merely mirror my soul. Why do you wait until now to tell me such news? She asks in disdain. I reply, there is a time and a place for everything, now is the time that I tell you the truth about our mother. I cant imagine you telling me something I do not already know. I eye her uncertainly, soaking in her ability to handle the truth. My skeptic mind keeps me running in circles from the subject of my desire. I contemplate a way out, yet to still settle her mind. I am sorely disappointed.

Open your eyes, I say, as nicely as I know how. My insides are bursting with the news of our mother’s death long ago. Except our mother, only lives’ just two streets down in a little yellow house with a wraparound porch. I imagine her white hair hanging gangly over her brow and her look of disappointment as I hand her my report card. Yes, that woman is our mother.

Please tell me now, she pleads. I try to overcome the gas that wells up in my bowels but, unable to contain its putrid distaste I expose it with urgency. You must know she looks nothing like us. Do you think she resembles you? I ask, as if to hint at what I am getting ready to say. She says she never paid that much attention, mom was mom, period. I ask her to look now and tell me her sentiment. No, I guess she does not, she replies as she hands my picture back.

In the picture mother holds our hand, yet at a distance there is no love in her eye. How can she love what is not hers. I console myself with these words.

I interject myself in her thoughts as well, as I order us another round. You must not overreact, I tell her. She has a tendency to get really loud. Today is not the day to be embarrassed, but rather a day to celebrate and mourn truth at the same time.

Ok, she answers in impatience, just tell me. With a huge swallow and a deep breath I take her back forty years, to the first remembrance of our mother. Do you remember how old you were, I ask as gently as possible. She replies that she distinctly remembers that morning as we both played in the yard while the sunlight clothed our backs. Now I see it! I see the doubt shroud itself upon her face like a dark cloak that is worn to a funeral. We may as well be at a funeral, I mumble under my breath. She asked me to repeat what I had said and I make up my next words.

In the yard, I ask, do you remember what we played with in the yard? I ask this as I look her straight in the eyes. She replies that we played on a blue porch with two pink bouncy balls. She remembers that we argue over who will go get one of the balls that have crossed the road.

As her memory returns, she smiles with her words as she recalls that we could never resolve that argument. Suddenly she looks at me and says, we both crossed the road that day. Do you remember our pink balls? I nod slowly as she dances around our past like a ballerina in a musical.

Do you remember that we never crossed the road again? I asked in the softest tone possible. She looks at me with a squint and goes back to Laurel Street in her mind. Why can I not remember, she ask, with a blank look.
Finally unable to contain such information any longer I spill the cup of sorrow that has remained full for forty years.
Sarah, we were kidnapped! I tell her, as a tear escapes my eye, perhaps the remnants of my sorrow filled cup. Kidnapped, I here her repeat, in disbelief. I nod unable to think of any appropriate words. The moment is still, the air is thick. I motion the waiter for our tab. We must leave now Sarah.

She looks up at me, emerging from the tomb she has just entered. Let me help you I say to her as I undo the breaks on her wheel chair.

Together, like always we emerge, broken and yet somehow, whole. She holds my hand, as I push her towards Laurel Street. Sarah, I need to show you.

Slowley she starts to understand. Stop, she says, hitting the breaks and causing me to stumble. Looking at me with big brown eyes,(her eyes have always been so big and brown) she pulls me down to her level. In an almost inadudible whisper, she says, Jenna, I could walk. I remember I could walk. Yes Sarah, I reply. Then we are both silent.

Forgotten Abyss · 01-23-2008, 05:22 PM

Interesting, I did not know what was going on, but interesting...

You had a very 'wall-o-text' thing going on there, which made it very hard to read. So you may want to use a different format, like double spacing paragraphs, or useing the 'tab' button at the beginning of each paragraph. (Like what you read in books.)

The last bit was in a much different, smaller text, which just added on how hard it was to read.

Also why was the whole story in Italic's? It was wierd to read it like that, but it gave it that sort of deamey quailty to it.

Keep up on the writing.

SerenityJS · 01-23-2008, 06:52 PM

Forgotten,

actually I did not know the text was like that so I appreciate you bringing it to my attention. I posted it and got called away by my 16 month old..well anyway, it is much easier to read now.

Forgotten Abyss · 01-23-2008, 08:43 PM

Indeed.

Thanks for listening.

Keep up the good work.