Once there was a girl.
This girl wanted to experience the world. She wanted to change the world. She wanted the world. She wrote stories. Under the shadow of a tree, by flashlight in the middle of the midnight darkness, in the back of the classroom, in the cave under the stairs. These stories were bright, vivid, heartfelt. Everything she saw, heard, smelt, everything she experienced went into these stories. And they were beautiful.
A pen was her comfort. If she had a pen, she was safe. If she had a pen she could write away anything that was happening. A happy ending to the story was only a few pen scratches away. The yelling of her grandparents, the scars left from her parents, the solitude of the old house all faded when she put her pen to paper.
Most children have an imaginary friend, she had hundreds. The characters came alive to her and she partook in their adventures. These characters became her friends- her only friends. The adventures she experienced with these friends were not held to the binds of Earth.
Worlds came alive to her through her words. Exciting worlds. Adventures leapt from her pen as soon as it touched paper. Her stories were special. Priceless. Beautiful.
But her life was not beautiful.
Daddy was in prison. Mama was in prison. She lived with Gram and Pop in an old house. The house was brown wood, everywhere brown wood. And dark. The windows were covered with a layer of dirt. The curtains were ragged.
Gram didn’t try to keep a clean house. Pop didn’t care if there was dirt and trash everywhere. The yard was filled with garbage. Cans, beer bottles, containers, old farm equipment and glass littered the grass. If it could be called grass. There was more dirt, mud and gravel in the front yard than grass. To walk barefoot across it would be hazardous.
But across it she walked, carefully avoiding the larger, more dangerous hazards, feet accepting the more minor ones. It was early morning. Early summer morning and the morning was hot. Painfully, unbearably hot. The ground was parched, gasping for water, yearning for rain, shouting for relief. The air was dry, desert like, oppressive. The current temperature prophesied the unbearable heat that was to come.
Her young feet flew through the yard and up the front stairs, landing with grace on the brown porch; chest heaving from the run across the yard. Observant eyes took in what had become of the yard. These eyes beheld the disarray before her. Before mama was in prison, this yard was filled with flowers. Before daddy was in prison, this yard was full of neatly trimmed grass. But now, now it was a graveyard, in which her past was buried.
At the far end of the yard, just before it melted into forest, she seemed to see Antonio Vendera, the villain from the story that she was carefully writing. He lurked there, watching the form of his daughter, Elise, converse with her lover, Prince Friedrich. Antonio was holding a knife in his hand, ready to slay either his daughter or the prince. His mind was not made up. A sound echoed out behind him. He turned to see the source of the sound. While his back was turned, Elise and her prince snuck away to safety. Their author breathed a sigh of relief watching her friends outwit the villain. And even as she watched, they slowly evaporated into the trees.
Her childhood was never to be like other childhoods. She was the creator of her childhood. She was victim in many things, but she controlled all she could with the stroke of a pen. Even so she was lonely. Always so lonely.
She accepted her loneliness with an unfaltering, unbowing pride. Her eyes were deep; they said much about her soul. You could study her eyes for eons and never uncover the mystery of all she saw. If you saw her in a moment when she was hidden away, imagining and writing, you could see hurt and betrayal growing in her eyes. These emotions overwhelmed her.
Few words ever left her mouth. All she said came through her pen.
Gram and Pop did not understand her silence. Her silence deafened them. The more she stayed silent, the louder they yelled.
Her young hands opened the front door. She moved with the grace of a bird into the house. Her hand slid the chain door lock, and then turned the lock on the door handle. Secure. Her house was secure.
There was a knock on the door. Her mind’s eye opened it, to find Elise and her lover.
“Please kind madam,” begged the villain’s daughter. “We have been running through the woods all night, trying to escape my father. Can you please keep us hidden in your home? My father will be after us to kill us.”
The writer turned to look over her shoulder. There stood a kindly plump woman wearing an apron.
“Yes, of course child. Come in, come in. My, what a handsome young man you have with you.” The woman began bustling about trying to make her guests comfortable. The author looked back at the young couple, huddled in each other’s arms.
“What are you doing just standing staring at the door, you little crow?”
Without a warning, the friendly figures vanished. She looked over her shoulder. Behind her stood Gram. Gram was not an endearing or friendly woman. She was sharp, plain, rough, and smelled of cigarette smoke. There she stood in a frumpy faded blue sweatshirt, hair gathered in a disheveled, wispy, faded, falsely blonde ponytail. She brought a cigarette up to her mouth. Gram peered through the ill lit, dusty hallway at her granddaughter.
“Well?”
The girl stared at her Gram, brow furrowed.
Gram threw her hands up in annoyance. The girl’s silence was beyond confusing. It was bothersome.
With cigarette still between her fingers, Gram walked back down the hallway, muttering to herself. Her free hand supported her lower back, just by her right hip. Her gait was steady, but uneven.
“I don’t know why we took you in after your no good mother got herself thrown in prison. You have been nothing but trouble.” The volume of Gram’s voice briefly filled the old brown house, but the silence soon swallowed up the noise. The woman walked into the kitchen where Pop was sitting at the table, both elbows rested on the table, a cup of coffee before him.
“That girl is starting to creep me out, Bill. The way she just stares around. She’s like a little crow, always scheming.”
Gram’s voice traveled through the hall to where two sensitive ears listened.
The little crow, as Gram called her, shut her eyes tightly, barring the windows to her soul. When her observant eyes opened, she was again watching the bustling housewife care for the forbidden couple. While keeping her mind’s eye carefully watching these happenings, she raced up the creaking stairway. At the top she turned and ran down the hallway to the left, hand running along the wall. Past the bathroom. The next door, closed tightly, was the door to her escape.
A small but strong hand grasped the knob and pushed the door open. This was her safe haven.
The room was neither large nor small. In the far corner was her bed. Adorning this lumpy mattress was a faded quilt of yellow and green, which had been made many years ago by her father’s mother. Unlike Gram, Nana had been a loving, motherly figure. The few memories she had of Nana were filled with laughter and love. But she had died the year before daddy had gone to prison. This quilt and the sun faded picture of mama, daddy and Nana were all she had left of the happier days. This quilt on her bed and the picture on her dresser comforted her.
Straight ahead from the door was the smaller of the two windows and on the left wall was the larger window that faced the front yard. Beyond the front yard, it beautifully displayed the woods. Adorning these two windows were faded yellow curtains. These curtains flowed mindlessly with the small breeze.
Across from the bed was a low dresser with a cracked mirror. She looked forlornly in this mirror. Observant eyes taking in her dirty yellow shirt, her sand colored hair, her worn denim overalls. The layer of grime on this mirror distorted the picture, but she saw it as true.
She gazed into her deep eyes. She was the only one who could read her memories. It was in her reflection she saw her past. This is why she hated the mirror. It forced her to face the emotion she wished to forget. So much pain had occurred in the short years of her life.
She turned her back on the mirror. Standing in the middle of her room was Antonio Vendero. He was conversing with his henchmen.
“Orazio, Pino, my brothers. My daughter Elise has run away with Prince Friedrich. I will not have my name attached to the crown! They must be found.”
“My Lord,” Pino replied. “My Lord, they should indeed be found-”
“And when they are found,” Pino’s twin brother Orazio interrupted, “they should be disposed of.”
“Exactly, brothers. Here, I give you both knives. Use these for the sole purpose of disposing of these abominations. You will find them in a small village, just outside the royal city. Go now, and fulfill your duties.”
“Hark, Pino, do you hear a footfall?”
“Yes, Orazio, I do. Do you, my Lord?”
The three men look to their author.
“There is a child here! Orazio, Pino!”
“I did not know, my Lord!”
“Nor did I, my liege, nor did I!”
“Well, dispose of her!”
The door to her bedroom opened. There she stood, frozen by the realization that the characters she created had seen her even though she had not written herself into the story. The three imagined men vanished.
“What are you staring at!” Pop yelled. It was not a question.
She turned her eyes towards him. Pop stood at the threshold of her room.
“Gram has gone to the store and I am going out too. Try not to mess anything up.” Pop turned, leaving the door open.
Observant eyes watched him go, noticing his uneven steps. Judging by his gait how many beers he had ingested that morning. She waited, counted, listened.
The front door banged shut. The old car roared to life in the driveway. He was gone.
A gleam came into her eyes. She grabbed her notebook and a pen and nearly flew down the stairs. She turned left down the hallway towards the kitchen, but turned again before three feet had passed. Here was a door. Open the door and there was her hideaway.
She carefully and quietly seated herself in the closet underneath the stairs, in the old brown house. Her hand reached up and pulled the cold metal chain. A dull light bulb flickered to yellow life. This tiny space smelled of mildew and old house. The air was thick with these scents.
She huddled in the corner by the stooping ceiling, notepad on her lap, scribbling out her words. Before her appeared the three friendly figures she had seen earlier. Elise was pacing the floor, Prince Friedrich was sitting at a rough table in Mary’s kitchen. Mary was busy cooking a meal on the hearth of an open fire.
“Don’t worry, Elise. You and Friedrich are safe here with me,” Mary reassured.
The author’s mind’s eye scurried to watch Antonio’s henchmen riding through the forest towards Mary’s house. How wrong Mary was! How very, very wrong.
Her heart quickened. If she were to save Elise and Friedrich, she had only one option. She must write herself into the story. She was the only one to overhear Antonio’s plans.
She ran up to Mary’s door and knocked.
“Yes, child?” Mary answered.
“I know you have the prince here along with his love.” Mary looked at the author in astonishment. “They are not safe. Antonio’s men are riding here even as we speak. Their mission is to kill Friedrich and Elise.”
Friedrich appeared behind Mary.
“I wrote to my father when we arrived here. I am sure he will send soldiers.”
“They will not arrive in time. You must flee. Flee into the woods!”
Elise joined the two adults at the door.
“Listen to the child. Friedrich, we must flee.”
“Yes, my love. Thank you, my dear child. You likely have saved our lives.”
“Hurry off, you two! Be safe,” Marry bade them a fond goodbye as they gathered their few belongings.
“Mary, you must go as well. If the men find you here, they will kill you, too.”
Fear showed itself in Mary’s eyes.
“But where will you go?”
“I will be fine. I know my way around.”
“Thank you, child. I pray we will meet again someday.”
The three adults rushed out the back door of Mary’s house.
Behind the young author, Antonio’s men were arriving. She gasped and hurriedly left.
She sat sweating in the little cavern under the stairway in the old brown house. The front door banged shut. How many hours had passed? She did not know. But she had saved Elise, Mary and Friedrich. She had written herself into the story.
She poked her head out of the door.
“What are you doing in there?”
She ignored Gram and Pop and flew up the stairs again.
She again stood with her back facing the mirror in her room.
Standing in her room once more was Antonio, Pino and Orazio.
“You imbeciles! What do you mean they were gone! Didn’t you search the village?”
“Yes my Lord, but they were nowhere to be found,” explained Pino.
“We believe, my liege that they have fled into the next kingdom.”
“Fools! You have failed me!” Antonio stopped in his admonishment of his henchmen, attention once again directed to the author. “You!”
She backed away from the men in fear
“The child, sir?” asked Pino.
“Yes the child! She warned them! When she disappeared after overhearing our plans. We should have killed her immediately. She is the child of a witch. What dark magic did you use to warn my daughter?” Antonio lurked closer.
The author’s feet continued to move backwards until she bumped into the dresser, knocking over the picture of Nana and her parents. The sound of shattering glass spilt the air. Antonio and his henchmen looked at her. She froze.
Then they evaporated, just as her characters did when reality broke into her mind.
“What was that!” Pop yelled from the kitchen.
“It’s that dumb girl again.”
Gram’s uneven steps could be heard ascending the stairs.
A quivering hand set the picture upright, grabbed the waste basket and gingerly swept the broken glass into it.
“What did you break now, you scheming crow?
Gram’s presence dominated the room like a storm darkens the earth.
“What did you break, you little idiot?”
Gram’s foot crossed the threshold of the room.
The room was a safe haven from Gram, and Pop, and her parents, and her past, and her loneliness. Gram had defiled it with her footstep.
Observant eyes lifted from the broken picture to Gram’s face. She watched as Gram shuffled into the center of the room.
“The window is not broken,” she croaked, her voice harsh from years of smoking. “The mirror is not cracked any worse than it was before. Therefore, it must have been that stupid picture you keep on the dresser.”
Fury boiled behind the observant eyes.
“It is not a stupid picture!” The words exposed themselves from her lips before she could stop them. But there was no turning back. Gram was astonished that she had spoken. She had Gram on the retreat. “It is not a stupid picture. That is not a stupid quilt. I am not a stupid girl and my writing is not stupid.” Her eleven year old frame shook with passion. Years of silence had lead to this. “Get out.”
The venom in these simple words shocked her.
“Excuse me?”
Pop stood behind Gram, beer bottle in hand.
“You will not speak to us like that again. Ever.” His hand reached out and slapped her across the face. She fell to the floor, hand holding her cheek. Gram and Pop stalked unevenly out of her room.
Observant eyes looked up from the floor. There was the unmistakable sound of the door being locked from the outside. She felt the forbidden tears falling.
“There, there, darling,” a kind voice soothed from behind her.
She sat up. There standing behind her was the kind housewife, Mary.
“Dry your eyes, dear. I have made a bed for you.” Mary gestured to the bed with the faded quilt. “It’s not much, but it is something.”
“Mary, is this her?” a soft voice came from somewhere beside her.
“Yes, Elise, it is.”
“Then we owe you a huge debt, small one. Because you told us of my father’s plans, we were able to escape and be married.”
“And now,” Friedrich continued, “Antonio has been imprisoned by my father and we can return home in safety.”
“You see?” Mary asked. “Because you warned us, Elise, Friedrich and I are safe. Now, darling, you look weary.”
“You do,” Elise wrapped her arm around the shaking girl. “Come to bed now, dear one. Friedrich, will you go stoke the fire?”
Friedrich left the room, and let the women care for the child.
“Now, my sweet. Let’s get you ready for bed.”
Mary and Elise helped the tired child into her nightclothes and then into bed. There she laid, Elise on one side of her, playing with her sand colored hair, and Mary on the other, holding and stroking her hand.
Sleep came quickly with such comforting company. And as she drifted off to sleep the angelic figures faded, as they always did, back into her stories. The notebook rested on the pillow by her head.
Smoke.
She sat up in bed.
She smelled smoke.
She kicked the covers off, knocking her notebook to the floor. She ran to the door and tried to open it, but it was still locked.
The window.
She flung the large window open. The drop was not too far, she tried to convince herself she could make it.
She sat with her legs out the window.
three
two
one
She pushed herself off.
Time slowed as she fell. She imagined she were a bird taking off. A phoenix. A dove. Her white nightgown fluttered around her. She hit the ground. It gave her a jolt, but she was unharmed.
The old brown house was on fire, there was no mistaking it.
She gazed back up at her bedroom window.
Horror.
There at the window was Elise. Panic showed all on her face.
“Don’t worry, Elise, I’ll save you!” the author yelled.
She stumbled her way blindly in the front door.
Smoke choked her. The heat was unbearable. She heard sirens wail.
She ran up the stairs and to her bedroom door. Without hesitation she shoved her weight against it, forcing it open.
There was her story.
Flames licked the walls. Smoke filled the room. The house was engulfed. She ran blindly through the smoke, hands reaching, grasping at nothing. She coughs and stumbles, falling on the floor.
But she was not there, laying amongst the flames. She was a phoenix, rising from the embers. She was a crown being forged in the fire. She was a diamond-beauty in its purest- being formed in flames. The fire could not overcome such a magnificent being. She was clothed in a white garment, long and flowing. She was flying away from the brown house, the messes, the yelling, the agony, the lies, the loneliness. She was journeying to meet her friends, the people she had written for so long. A creature of grace, of a gentle spirit was not engulfed by fire.
The flames licked at her body. She felt no pain. Held close to her heart was her notebook. No stories sang themselves in her head. Her stories were complete, done. She had written her last.
