Flutterby
standard-issue human
Hullo there, Flutter here ^^
I'm currently taking an Online Creative Writing class. Part of the program is Discussion Boards for peer review and such. But my school is a little silly, instead of enrolling us with the online instructors and including us in the large classes (like one giant online school), they set it up with school employees as instructors and made us are own tiny online school. Im the only one taking Creative Writing, so there's no one in the "classroom" with me. I mean.. I have to post in the discussion board for points, but there's no one out there to respond soo..
Anyway, a few weeks ago my assignment was a "mini memoir." The prompt was basically to write about a very significant event in your life in 2-3 pages, and "show your readers instead of telling." Well, I hate writing to prompts because I'm a little bad at it and it feels restrictive. I did my best, and it actually got a lot more personal than I ever thought it would. Now I would like to actually share the final product. Since there's no one in the class with me, I figured here would be as good a place as any.
Keep in mind while reading that I am a high school student, with very little writing experience outside of roleplay.
- My Dearest
-
Mist rises slowly off the mountains. It does so every morning since anyone can
remember; the night dew escapes from the sun’s rays before they are visible. Sunrise is slower in
the old hills, the sky grow light far before the sun peaks over the back of the valley and into the
holler. Life is slower there, too. Front porches are the stage of the world’s drama. It was on such
a front porch, nestled halfway up the mountain, that my life changed. Each morning, I would slip
out of my summer-camp style bunk room and down the stairs, padding across the old wood
floors as silently as I could. Sometimes, the door would still be locked. Other times, my morning
buddy was already out and waiting for my company. Most know him simply as Papa Bear,
affectionately of course. It is a truly fitting nickname. His large frame can be intimidating
enough on its own, but his roaring voice often sends people scurrying. What most people fail to
realize, is that he is actually Papa Teddy Bear. This worldly EMT, firefighter, and pastor, has a
truly soft heart, and gives wonderful hugs. We spent those six mornings together, watching the
mist rise over the hills, often matching the comfortable silence of the earth, each waiting for their
other half to emerge from sleep. He knew his well, having been married for 20 years. I had yet to
realize that mine was in Kentucky with me.
Each morning, the young man who I now call my dearest, would wander out the front
door and find his father and me sitting in rocking chairs. And every morning, I would turn, and
there would be a moment when we simply looked at one another. I would take in his rumpled
hair and sleepy smile, staring at the eyes that matched the forest depths. I did not know then what
he saw when he looked at me, only that looking at him and hearing him lowly mumble “good
morning” made my smile grow even more.
When I stepped onto that Kentucky mountain, I thought I had a path: college a mere two
hours from my parent’s home, and easy major in Communications, maintaining my two-year
relationship with the boy from my Geometry class. And yet as I watched that front porch
disappear in the rearview mirror, I was suddenly considering a university eight hours away, with
an entirely different major, and the crooked grin and calloused hands of my week-long
companion, who sat sleeping just a few feet away.
Upon returning home, I spoke with my best friend about how things had changed in my
heart. Her response, though simple, was deeply surprising to me. “I was wondering what big life
changes you would come back with,” she said, with a small laugh. I laughed too, at my silliness
in thinking that she would be surprised. She has always known me better than myself, much as
my dearest always did.
My boyfriend, on the other hand, was revealed to have only a rudimentary understanding
of my disposition. When I said, regretfully, “I think we should break up,” his brown eyes flooded
with shock and pain. He begged, he shouted, he sobbed. With each passing minute, his hidden
Hispanic accent got a little worse and his words got a little harsher. Even as he cried, I was not
swayed. Finally, after oscillating between sorrow and anger, he settled on anger. I dropped him
off at home, and he stormed inside and did not look back.
I cried, too, out of guilt and confusion, and leaned on the same shoulder that I fell asleep
against after a long day of home repair in the mountains. My dearest, who didn’t understand my
pain but tried to quell it anyway. I never intended to fall into his arms, and he never intended to
be the one I turned to, but neither of us knew where this story would go. We were not riding
off into a beautiful sunset and a happily ever after. The sun set on my two years with another,
and plunged us into the thick of night.
My dearest did his best to light the way, but the beam only illuminated horrors that had
been forgotten in the bright haze of my foolishness. So lovestruck I had been for those two
years, blind to my own horrendous torture.
“Can you go out tonight?” Always in a gentle voice, he asked.
I could not, and apologized profusely.
“Why are you apologizing? I’m not angry.”
He would have been angry; he would have made me apologize.
“I’ve missed you since the last time we saw each other.” Always with gentle arms, he
held me.
I tensed, and held my breath.
“Why can’t you relax?”
I never have; he made it impossible.
“I want to be with you so bad. Will you let me?” Always with gentle hands, he touched
me.
I flinched and cried, but didn’t turn away.
“Why don’t you just say no?”
No didn’t work; he would have made me.
After long conversations, my dearest has uncovered many scars that I had hidden from even myself. And with a gentle word, he has made me see that they do not define me. I am okay, and
with him I am safe, as I should be.
