Not exactly a story, but rather an essay that I wrote for a friend. A sisterlike friend, who wasn't doing too well at the time. I think everyone could stand to read this though. Ten thousandThere are 7 billion people on earth. More, actually. Out of those 7 billion, you will only ever meet about 10,000. That is only around 0.0001% of all living people. Ten thousand is really that small, but it’s still a lot to one person.
You’ve already met some of your ten thousand. Fallen in love, in hatred, in friendship, in family, with them. Some were handed to you, some you had to seek out, but you found them in the end, just like the Universe knew you would. It’s inevitable really. But just as everyone you’ve ever met will forever be in your ten thousand, you will be one of ten thousand for just as many people. You’re incredibly important, then, to a whole lot of people. I’m sure you have your favourites. Your best friend, your lover, a family member. Don’t worry, it’s natural. Why do you keep them around? There are plenty of other people you will meet. Plenty of other opportunities to find someone better. While you’ll meet ten thousand people you’ll only ever be close with about 100 at one time, so why do you choose the ones you choose? You don’t need these favourites to survive. So I’ll tell you why you keep them around. It’s because a part of you can’t let them go. A part of you believes there is something inescapably redeeming and good about your favourites. The people you love. You can’t tell me I’m wrong, because it happens to all of us. We all are infatuated with a lucky few. So then, why do others keep you around? There are plenty of others in their ten thousand, plenty of opportunities to meet more. Why do your friends care? It’s obvious. Simple, really. Just as you love and respect your favourites, so your friends do to you. If they truly didn’t love you, didn’t find you entertaining and kind and lovely, why would they stay around? Sure, the pressure to not stir up drama would keep them there for a while, but that would fade soon enough. Everyone you are close to finds you to be an asset to their lives. Even if they never say it, they believe it. You cross their minds every week, every day, maybe. Sometimes, for those special few, every hour. So it is impossible for you to be insignificant. There is at least one person in your ten thousand who loves you unconditionally, at least as close to it as is humanly possible. There is at least one person in your ten thousand who would die for you and would do anything for you. Even when things get impossibly difficult, and everything is falling apart, your ten-thousand-in-progress will always stay the same, and your favourites, the ones who really matter, will always be there to pick up the pieces and clean up the mess and love you and hug you and fix it all. They can’t help but rescue you when you need rescuing. And in return, you need not do anything. Of course, when their worlds come crashing down, you will be there to clean everything up and put them back together and tell them they’re alright, but you’d do that anyway. You can’t help it. All you need to do is take life one step at a time and live with your ten thousand and meet more but keep your past and current loved ones close. After all of this blows over, you will still have at least someone. Maybe even I am that someone. Maybe you’re my someone. But we all have one. And they will be with you forever.
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This piece started out as an adaptation of Beauty and the Beast, although since then it's changed quite a bit. I'd like to think it stands alone now. I put a lot of myself into Valentine, and a lot of the hope I have for my future. The foreign girl and the five eccentricsIt wasn’t so long ago (although it seems like an era to those involved) that Valentine arrived at that house. She’d seen pictures, of course, but the images in the ad hadn’t done it justice. It was stunning. It stood alone and it seemed as though it was put there a long time ago by some sort of accident. It seemed regal, and the rosebushes that surrounded it gave it an air of mystery. Valentine looked at the receipt she’d received in the mail when she rented this place for a few weeks. Key under doormat, it read. Valentine approached the large double doors. She looked down. There was no doormat. There was, however, a note scribbled on an old shopping list, taped to the front step. Doormat behind fountain. Weird. Valentine looked and sure enough, the doormat was behind the large fountain, along with the key.
When Valentine entered she almost gasped. Almost. She wasn’t one for gasping or gawking or showing any emotion really, other than frustration and, occasionally, hunger. Still, the place was beautiful. Gold shone from every corner of the room. The ceiling was painted beautifully with a mural, and to her right, Valentine saw what she could only describe as a ballroom. Best of all, though, it was empty. Blissfully, peacefully, safely empty. Valentine took in a breath just to hear her sigh echo across the vast entryway. As she made her way upstairs, she reveled in the sound her shoes made on the hardwood floor, without yelling and crying and all the other human chaos that muffles such calming sounds. Valentine was alone, and that was her goal all along. She had come to the UK to start over, and isolation was the first step. Strangely enough, this was the least lonely she’d felt in a long time. Valentine entered a few rooms before deciding on one. It wasn’t the biggest, but it had the biggest windows and a balcony that looked out into the forest, which made it the best in Valentine’s mind. She opened the curtains and began unpacking when she felt someone watching her. She turned around and screamed. There was a person. A tall, gangly, black-haired person with an honest-to-god handlebar mustache sporting a vest and top hat was standing in the doorway watching her with nothing more than polite interest. “You found the doormat,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself. Valentine didn’t respond. She was busy gawking (much to her chagrin). “The doormat,” the man repeated, as though Valentine was deaf. “They always do. Find the doormat, I mean. But I have to hide it, or else the Russians will break-in. They watch us, you know. They can’t see behind the fountain,” the man added. “I’m staying here. In this house.” Valentine said. “Well yes, I can see that. I’m not blind, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with being blind, I’m just not,” The man responded. “I’m staying here alone.” “Perhaps you, miss, are the blind one. Because if you could see, you would realize that you are in fact in the presence of another person, therefore you are not alone. Then again, who is alone, really, what with the ghosts and aliens and such. Not to mention the cameras that the government hides in fruit.” The man entered the room. “I’m Henry. Henry Manchester. Henry Alistair Montgomery Edgar Manchester,” He finished. “Well, Henry, I rented this place, so I think you should go,” Valentine said. “I will,” Henry said. “I will go back to my room in this house, just as soon as you tell me your name. See, this big old house would be quite lonely for one person, so instead there’s five of us. Well, six, now with you.” “I’m Valentine. Goodbye,” Valentine said. Henry tipped his hat and exited. Only then did Valentine notice the fine print on her receipt. Roommates to be expected. She was almost certain that that wasn’t there before. ⁂ Despite her best efforts, Valentine became acquainted with the other five of her unwelcome housemates. As she snuck down the stairs to try and find food, she met Penelope, a woman who managed to talk and talk, despite the fact that she spoke very little English. When Valentine was in the bathroom, a man called Gregory Divus walked in on her. Valentine exclaimed “Oh my god!” and Gregory responded with a dry “there isn’t any.” and left. There was the CPS social worker who introduced herself as Aimie Vanderbilt, and finally, a woman dressed almost exclusively in black athletic wear, save for her leather gun holster, who’s name was Alissandra Aveyard. Valentine was immediately put off by the lot of them and resigned to stay in her room as much as she could until she could move out. ⁂ Days passed, then weeks, and each day the five would invite Valentine on some ridiculous excursion. Each day she declined. Each morning, Gregory would knock thrice on her door and deliver her breakfast. Gregory was an excellent cook, aggressive though he was. Aside from the breakfast, though, Valentine was doing a fantastic job of avoiding them. Alissandra would ask her if she wanted to eat with them every night (they ate at European times, which meant dinner was at 8:30 at the earliest), but after Valentine declined, she wouldn’t persist. Alissandra scared Valentine. More specifically, her guns scared Valentine. Another thing Valentine was succeeding at was starting over. She had changed her phone number, and no one knew where she was. She’d been going to bars and meeting girls who she’d go on dates with (though nothing ever came of any of it), and sometimes girls would even approach her first. She cut her hair short, which she liked a lot more, and she was even happy when Penelope told her it suited her. That same day, when Alissandra came to invite her to dinner, Valentine accepted, if only because she smelled freshly baked bread and cinnamon; an irresistible combination. All night the six of them talked, and though Valentine was still slightly unnerved by the other five’s eccentric mannerisms, she grew more comfortable as the night progressed. Around midnight, she heard her phone ring from upstairs, and she excused herself. When Valentine got to her room, she picked up her phone. “Hello?” She said. At first, there was no answer. “Who is this?” She asked. “Val. Come back,” The voice was all too familiar. Valentine’s stomach dropped and she sat down, feeling faint. “No, Markus. I’m starting over. Don’t call me back,” She said quietly, shaking with fear, remembering how he’d screamed at her when she had come out to him. How, when she told him she wouldn’t try and change, he told her he’d find her, no matter where she went. “Okay. Sorry,” He said. Valentine sighed of relief. But Markus continued. “Sorry. But you’re a horrible person. You’re disgusting and manipulative, and I hope you never find love,” He started. Valentine sat there, shocked. He threatened her and called her horrendous names. Finally, Valentine started to cry. “What do you want from me?” She said quietly, through her tears. “What do you want from me, Markus?” She was yelling now. “I can’t change. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried for you, and I’ve tried for me, and I’ve tried for everyone else who tells me they love me. But I can’t Markus, and they don’t. No one loves me and I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone, because I will never be enough,” She cried louder. Markus kept yelling, and soon all five of Valentine’s housemates were in her room. First, there were queries of “what’s going on” which were ignored by all parties. But everyone could hear Markus yelling over the phone. Aimie sat next to Valentine and Gregory told her to hang up. She didn’t, though, and Markus kept talking. “I’m gonna find you,” He yelled. “And when I do I’m gonna kill you,” he was screaming. Valentine was hysterical now, and Penelope took the phone and started yelling right back at him. Although she couldn’t speak much English, she knew how to say “knock it off, jerk,” in fifty different ways, each more profane than the last. Finally, Alissandra hung up the phone and for a while Valentine just sat there, crying and shaking. Henry was the first to hug her. Henry, who thought that the government encouraged physical contact in order to brainwash their citizens into feeling cared for. Then the rest of them followed, and Gregory, the man who would talk about the irrationality of a higher power at extensive length to anyone who would (or wouldn’t) listen, asked if she was okay. When Valentine couldn’t answer because she was hiccuping, Alissandra, the gun-wielding, American flag flying, all-black wearing woman with a penchant for fancy knives, brought her a glass of water and kleenex. Aimie refused to let go of Valentine, and whenever Valentine would start crying again, Aimie would hug her tighter, because she just cared so much about the well-being of every hurt person in the world, and the kids she separated from their parents were no exception. Valentine kept apologising, and Penelope would always tell her that she was guiltless in this situation and that she was safe, and that was exactly what Valentine needed to hear. Henry changed Valentine’s phone number immediately (he knew how because he changed his weekly), and Gregory brought her cake. All five of them stayed with her all night, and once she’d calmed down, Valentine realised something. Every one of these people was a little insane, and a little broken, and a little weird. And every one of them was strong and kind and beautiful, and Valentine knew it then. She knew something had happened that she never thought would happen in a million years. “I love you,” she said. “I love all of you. So, so much. And you saved me tonight, even though I’ve been nothing but tiresome and stiff and rude. I’m so sorry. And I’m so, incredibly lucky.” And in that moment, Valentine knew she’d be okay. Maybe not fine, but she’d be safe, and happy sometimes, and loved. She’d never been loved like this before, and she’d never loved like this before, and in finding these people, she realized she’d found the most important thing of all: family. She’d never had one of those before. ⁂ Matthew Ames approached the large Tudor house, with two suitcases in hand and a receipt pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Key under doormat” it read. Matthew saw no doormat, but he did notice a Post-It on the front step that said “doormat in rosebush.” Matthew shook his head and read it again. A group of six odd people looked out the upstairs window and laughed, excited for what was to come. I wrote this piece about a year ago when I was in love with a girl who was a lot like Eddy. It's still one of my favorites. Love, EddyEddy was broken. No, not broken. Shattered. Decimated. Those were the kind of words that described her.
Eddy was beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Stunning, and radiant, and perfect in every way. That’s what I thought of her. Even a cracked vase makes for an aesthetic picture. And until that day, that’s all Eddy was. A picture. A lot of pictures, actually. And letters, too. Dating back years. I’m sure she had pictures of me in her London apartment. She told me she lived in London. I told her I would visit. I didn’t for so long. This is not a story. It can’t be a story, because if it was a story, that would mean it has an end. It can’t have in end. If it had an end, I wouldn’t know what to do myself, because if it had an end, I know exactly what it would be. No, this is not a story. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not a story. It was warm. Early August. Exactly seven years, four months, and ten days from today. I remember the sun on my face. I was in a park, I think, but there weren’t many trees. That’s odd, now that I’m looking back, because Massachusetts parks have trees. I must be misremembering. It seemed sunny. I was walking in the park, and a thought just sort of came upon me all at once. I noticed all the people in the park, and I suddenly wished I could know someone without really knowing them. So, I ran back to my apartment, and I wrote a letter. I didn’t know her name, then. I didn’t even know she was a she. I knew nothing. I just wrote a letter to a mystery person and addressed it. I didn’t know if the address was real, but I didn’t much care. I put the letter in an envelope and stuck a stamp on it. It had an apple on it. I used to have so many stamps when I wrote to her. I sent the letter and waited. I waited halfheartedly, getting on with my life, not thinking that my letter would be responded to. And then, it was. About a month later, I got her letter. The first. It was in a tan envelope. She had tied a red string around it and had made sure that the two loops were exactly the same length. I know now that that was the sort of Eddy thing that made her Eddy. I didn’t know that then. The letter was cute. Eddy was cute. I didn’t know that then, either. She wrote with such excitement. She thought my letter was so exciting. I was glad. She told me everything. Or, everything that was everything at that time. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know her. She told me of her London apartment, and her guitar songs, and her black poodle named Zebediah. She also told me about herself. She told me she had green hair. Green. I thought that was ridiculous. Perfect. She told me she had brown eyes. She told me she was alone. She had been for years. She never knew her parents. I thought that was sad. She said it was a blessing. Apparently, they were addicts. She didn’t tell me of what. Never did. I think it must’ve been meth. Her handwriting was so neat, and her words were so eloquent. She ended her letter with Love, Eddy. I thought it was odd. Perfect. I wrote back. I told her I had black hair. Normal. Boring. My eyes were ice blue. Less boring. I told her that my parents lived in Italy. I said that I thought Zebediah was a good name for a dog. I told her I trusted her, and I didn’t know why. I said I wanted to see her green hair, and I sent her a picture of me. My hair was long then. Below my butt. In the picture, it was in two braids. I ended my letter with Sincerely, Aurelia. I wasn’t ready to say love. Now I think maybe I should’ve been. In her next letter, Eddy sent me a picture. It was her, hugging her dog and smiling so wide it made me smile. And there, of course, was her green hair. It was lime green, and short. Not normal or boring at all. Perfect. On the picture, she had written in matching green gel pen Zebediah says Aurelia is a good name for a human. That made me laugh. Eddy was funny. Perfect. She ended this letter with Much love, Eddy. I held onto those words like a life raft. We talked like this for years, and we sent pictures. Eddy’s hair went from green, to purple, to blue, to red, and then green again. The green was my favorite. When I cut my hair, Eddy said it was beautiful. I ended a letter in Love, Aurelia five years after Eddy sent me her first. Eddy said that made her smile. She used to smile more. One day, her letter came, and I could tell she wasn’t as Eddy as usual. She said she was sad. She said she couldn’t stop tapping her hands and feet. She said she was anxious. She said she was crying every night. She said she hurt herself. I cried for weeks after reading that. She still ended her letter in Love, Eddy. I told her I loved her. I told her she was worth everything. I told her she didn’t deserve to hurt. I told her I’d come visit. I sent her pictures of everything that made me happy. I sent her a rose petal. I ended my letter in Love, Aurelia. She said she was scared. She was scared of herself, but also of others. She said that she was playing at a concert, and a group of men attacked her. She didn’t go into detail. I could fill in the blanks. She said she stopped going out, and she said she was going to lose her apartment. She said she didn’t care. About anything. She said she cared about me. Her handwriting wasn’t as neat as it used to be, and her pictures weren’t as happy. Love, Eddy. I kept telling her I would visit. I kept loving her. I kept writing and trying to make her feel better. I loved her so, so much. She lost her apartment. Her letters began being written on scraps of things. There was no more red string. She would stop sentences in the middle and never finish them. Sometimes, the letters would end with Love, Eddy. Sometimes, they wouldn’t end at all. I think she forgot. I only visited last year. She told me where she was staying. Her friend had given her a small apartment. When I saw her, I cried. I knew she was broken, but the girl I saw was demolished. Wrecking-balled. Her green hair had grown out and she hadn’t bothered to dye the roots. She never forgot that. Her makeup was weeks old. Her apartment was a mess. She was so, so skinny. But then I saw her room. Her carpet had blood on it. Empty pill bottles littered the floor. They weren’t necessary, she told me, but they helped. I disagreed. Her shower was clean, but only because she didn’t use it. Her entire life was broken. Except for the letters. She showed me her nightstand, and inside were the letters-- my letters-- all neatly filed away chronologically, and a photo album of all the pictures I sent her. She told me I was all she had left to live for. I said that wasn’t true. She said it was. I said what about Zebediah. She said he was taken. This made her cry again. The week I was supposed to stay turned to two, and then three. I helped her clean up. I got her to go to the hairstylist. When she saw her brand new green hair, she really smiled. She said thank you. That made her happy. She was still broken, but I was helping to put back the pieces. We hugged a lot. Then we kissed. Then we really kissed. Like two people in love. Which we were. I stayed in London for almost two months. I quit my job. She asked me to marry her. I said yes. We kissed. When I was at the airport, about to go back to Massachusetts to collect my belongings before moving in with her, she cried. She told me not to go. I told her I’d be back. I promised her. She said she’d be here when I returned. We kissed again. Then I left. Only for another two months. I got my visa. I sold my apartment. I packed up and then, I boarded a flight to London. My boarding pass said one-way. I still have that boarding pass. When I got to London, I called her. She didn’t answer, but I thought nothing of it. I made excuses for her. I waited for three hours at the London airport. I waited three hours for the only woman I had ever loved to pick me up. I waited three hours for my fiance. I didn’t cry. I should’ve, but I didn’t. After three hours, I was told to leave. I got a taxi and went to Eddy’s apartment. I had a key, so I let myself in. She kept her apartment in order. It was clean, the way I left it. She had bought a queen-sized bed. For us. Her shower wasn’t as clean. That made me happy. She was getting better, I thought. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t getting better, and she wasn’t there. Her apartment was empty. Then I knew she wasn’t just out. She was gone. I cried. I found her journal. I hate myself for doing it, but I read it. Then I could see she wasn’t getting better. She was so, so, sad. More than sad. I didn’t know the term “depressed” then, but that’s what she was. I moved into her apartment. I still live there. When she comes back, I’ll be here. I still love her. I still write her letters and put them in her mailbox. The mailbox for her apartment that I’m living in. I feel like a trespasser, but I need to be here when she returns. She will return. That’s why this isn’t a story. Because this isn’t the end. Eddy wouldn’t just leave me. She loved me. I know she loved me because she said so in her journal. I love her. We’re still engaged. I still wear her ring. She can’t just leave and never come back. I know she’ll be back. Eddy doesn’t just leave. That’s a coward’s move. Eddy’s not a coward. She has green hair. I’m waiting for her. I will wait forever if that’s what it takes. I don’t look for her because I know she’ll come back. She has to. She has to. Love, Aurelia |
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Twisted talesAll you read here is fiction, although it is prompted by what I see around me. ArchivesCategories |