This is a new little thing I started last night, I would like to have an opinion from you all about it. See if I should go somewhere with it.
The road I am on is simple, a place I have been before. Nothing changes, all remains the same. My feet carefully tucked in running shoes silently fell against the pavement. The water lapped against the sides of the river but as you got closer to the middle of the river the water got chopper and more violent. The waves were high and uncontrollable before a storm. The day was overcast, gloomy, I took it as a sign of the way my day would be when I returned home. This was my favorite place to come and escape and run. It brought me sanctuary from my life, my home. I shouldn't complain about it but like most people I do. It's an inevitable thing, it's human nature. I've observed it, experienced it, lived it.
I turned my music louder so I could drown out reality for a few more minutes. Running, the only way that the chaos that ran my world left me. As my father often says it is easier to live in a fantasy then a reality. That's how a child lives their life though, not me. My breathing was hard, I had been out for an hour. I looked at the time on my watch. Three p.m. My parents were at work and my sister and cousin at home. I turned off the trail and took a short cut to the house. It was the quickest route home. Despite it being April, it was warm. I enjoyed the heat similar to my mother. I hated it at the same time like my father.
I entered the house through the back door and through the kitchen. It was the best way to get in without being noticed by anyone. I silently opened the cupboard and fridge door to retrieve a glass of orange juice. My mother was old fashioned, all drinks were in glass pitchers and food homemade. Not an ounce of processed food ever passed my lips. I walked up the back stairway, or the secret stairway as I used to call it. In reality, they were classified as servant stairs. It wasn't the quickest nor the best way to get to my room but I found it useful, especially when you had parents who could hear a pin drop in a room full of people. As soon as I got to my room I quickly shut the door. This place was my home and place of retreat. It was white and black, a classic style with a Parisian touch. Quotes covered my walls, almost all of them written in my mothers perfect calligraphy. She was teaching me how to do this slowly. She almost never had time for me.
I at times wondered how my parents had met, they had never told me. All I had was a photo album created by someone who went by the name of Esme. I often pulled out the pictures and rearranged them to see if my mother noticed. Generally, she did and put them in their proper places. She was controlled by her OCD and I admittedly felt bad for her at times. Other times I didn't, her affliction was passed on to me and my sister. I hated her for that.
I walked toward my black gilt framed mirror and looked at my nearly perfect figure. I had curves where they were supposed to be. I gained my figure from my mother and my tallness from my father. I towered over my mother by six inches but had all of her features. Her curves, her facial features, and finally her thinness. Despite my father being tall, he wasn't thin no matter how many times he had gone to the gym. My hair was a deep chocolate brown, it had red highlights in the summer. As I pulled my hair out of it's tight bun it feel in beautiful tight curls. These curls reached my shoulder, I refused to let it go longer. My eyes were essential to my make up, they were what made me gain my nickname of the Irish Princess. My eyes were an unmistakable blue grey, I got these beautiful eyes from my father. Like my mother I had scarily pale skin. Due to this I was called gorgeous, I was called perfect. I continued to turn around and look at my body in the floor length mirror. My frame was small but not small enough to be considered anorexic. My collar bone pertruded from my skin slightly, as did the rest of the joints in my body. Another advantage that came with my build is that I could model. My mother did that too when she was seventeen but stopped. She nor my father have never told me why she stopped. To this day I believe my mother didn't look a day over twenty. I retreated to my bed and ensured my door was shut, not to mention locked.
I drew out the photo album that I hid under my bed. The pictures were mainly of my mother and father when they were younger. Pictures of them, my Aunt Colleen, Carly and Allison. There was one picture of my mother though that confused me. She was standing in front of a white background in black heels, dress pants, a grey dressy tank top that hung loosely and a sweater that reached her elbows. She looked like she was crying and her arms were showing, they were covered in scars and some of them dripping red. That red I believed was blood. At the same time though, I couldn't see my mother as a person who performed self mutilation. My mother, despite being worn from years of being in the city was always so happy and full of life. She was and has forever been in love with my father. That has never changed. They still to this day went for long walks together, walked in the door arm in arm. My mothers blue eyes filled with sincere, true love. I continued to look through the photos of my mothers youth. There was one photo I treasured the most. It was of the two of them. Snowflakes were falling around them, they were in her hair. My fathers lips gently touched her forehead. In this picture, this perfect black and white picture my mother looked like herself. Young, vulnerable and comforted in my fathers arms. Her hair was long. The longest I had ever seen. It reached her elbows in stringy, loose curls. It was half pulled up. There was a smile on her face, and finally it was taken on a bridge in the distance. I had never had the privilege to go to my parents home town. They claim I would go there and despise it. My second favourite photo had a quote below it that read: " When you love someone, you love the whole person, just as he or she is, and not as you would like them to be." That in my mind perfectly described their love and who they were. No matter how horrible of a state my mother was in my father always loved her. No matter how many times she cried, screamed or begged for his arms he loved her. He helped her through her nightmares that left her defenseless and crying for death. He just sat there, holding her and reassuring her everything would be ok. He wiped the tears away from her eyes and cradled her when she was in pain. I always, even as a young girl, yearned for someone who would love me as he loved her. I found it as if no one could match up to their relationship.
I continued to look through the pictures until I reached the time my mother was pregnant with me. There was a video of her that I couldn't help but watch. It was of my mother sitting in a rocking chair rubbing her stomach talking to my father. The video was on my fathers old iPod. She said in it, "I will always want her to know that even though she was a mistake I will always love her no matter what. You just really don't know how excited I am to have this baby. I want her to know that no matter what happens to me, her mother loved her very much. I know that she will be gorgeous no matter what. I know that despite the circumstances we're in you'll have the best life in the world. I love you baby doll. I love you Abigail. I always will." The scene ended with my father appearing and kissing her stomach. The video ended.
Last year, I found out why my mother made that video. She was told she had a slim chance of surviving labour. If she did, it would be a miracle. She is still here. I personally could not see my father without my mother. He would die without her. The one concept my father and mother had taught me is simple. Love never dies. As the photos continued they reached to the time when my sister was about to be born. My mother was sleeping on my fathers lap. The photos reached until today. With the latest one being of us posing on the Rideau Hall grounds. I had taken over the album. I had more time and patience for something like this then she ever did. I glued in a photo of my sister and I. She looked exactly like my mother, I swore they could be sisters. I will at times admit that I wanted another sister or brother for that matter. I was fortunate to have Christiana though or Chrissy as she was affectionately called. I shouldn't be asking for much more, my parents provide for me, ensure I am happiest and always at my best. They admittedly have money but tend not to spend it, they are saving up for something, someone. I was unclear of this matter. My mind was almost always quizzical like my mothers. My mind is always questioning, similar to my fathers. It seemed easy for some, living, loving. For me however, it was different, it was harder. My brain is wired to question everything naturally making love nearly impossible. Trust too is an issue, I have learned to trust none. Its like I am stuck in this rut, one I will never escape from. I usually never go to bed without a question on my mind. It was painful, I never truly rest. Even though I have been taught once you find love you will never let go and true love never dies, I fear this. I suppose I have gained this trait from my mother. I have gained much from my mother and yet only resent her for few things. I feel as if I should resent her for more but I know I love her too much. I never show it though but I feel it.
I at times feel like I am going mad but my father reassures me that I am not. He says no one is truly mad, only society sees them as such. It's a viscous circle he says. I looked at the clock on my wall, it read four o'clock, my parents would be home now. I was tempted to go downstairs, see if they notice me coming down. I, as silently as I could opened and closed my door. I tried my best to avoid the creaky step. I stayed on the step for a minute and peered into the lounge. And yes as I suspected they were home. My father was sitting on the same couch as my mother, rubbing her feet trying to convince her to not run tonight. My mother being her usual stubborn self said no. I looked at them. He lent over her body and gently kissed her lips. She smiled, laughed and was herself. Her usual, gorgeous self. Seeing her like this just reiterated her beauty and her youth. She despite being forty one never ever looked a day over 30. Her porcelain skin glowed and was flawless, not an imperfection in sight. You would never know my mother was a city girl nor lived in one. The only thing that had fine lines was her forehead. Those were from years of headaches, pain staking cases and raising two girls, often on her own. She was different now from her 29 year old self, making law her part time career and history her full time passion. It caused her less stress and gave her more happiness.
My father too always looked young, though with his beard when he didn't shave made him look worn. His skin was too like my mothers, a perfect porcelain. His skin was darker then my mothers though, she was always paler then him. Her eyes always a deeper, darker blue then his. I continued down the stairs and towards the Kitchen.
Unfortunately, my sister noticed me. She looked up at the completely wrong time. She opened her mouth to tell my parents I was here. "Shut your face you little brat!" I whispered yet growled. I gained one tactic from my mother I thoroughly enjoyed though. The art of the death glare. I heard my mother slowly get off the couch, she had heard me. My cover was completely blown. Her approach was slow, I knew it was now wise not to moves. "Going somewhere Miss Abigail