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 Posted: Sun Feb 26, 2012 9:38 am
2001
"No. It's wrong. All wrong, Sasha. You are not using the whole canvas. The whole canvas, Sasha."
The girl, at the tender age of nine, did not so much as flinch when her beloved papa rapped her knuckles with the shaft of the paintbrush he'd been using. No, flinching would only give cause for another hard tap of the wooden handle against her already stinging knuckles. Instead the girl merely rubbed her knuckles with the palm of her opposite hand as she peered thoughtfully at the canvas before her. She'd been doing well, or so she'd thought.
"But papa, I --"
"Sasha."
That voice. That voice had the power to strike fear in Sasha's heart, and she knew she'd pushed him almost too far. She tried so hard to please him in all she did, and when he took that tone... Sasha's heart sank. He sounded sad and upset at the same time, and it was strange that such a thing could even happen. How could someone be angry and sad at the same time? It was the same question that came into her mind when he cuffed her for speaking out, or when she missed a note on the flute or when her voice was a little off-tune as she sang. He always said he was doing it because he loved her, that he wanted the best for her, and Sasha believed him. She only needed to focus, to pay attention, to do better. He loved her, always and forever.
Even when he drank.
When he drank, he was a force to be reckoned with. When he drank, Sasha hid herself away. When he drank... he called out for his wife. Her mother. Sasha had never met her mother; the woman had died not long after Sasha's birth. Papa never spoke of it, of her, unless he was drunk - which was happening more and more often. It was rare that he was sober these days, and so more and more often Sasha would find herself cleaning up after him, wiping the vomit from his chin and cheeks. When he roused from his drunken stupor, it would be back to schooling: song, art, instruments.
"Yes, papa. I will do better."
"Good. And no more of these shadows, hmm? These voices? You know how much these things upset your papa, my sweetest dove."
Sasha watched him take a long pull from the flask he kept near at all times. "Yes, papa."
"Very good. Now paint. Papa would have you sing for him later, perhaps after supper."
"Yes, papa."
----------
Janurary 2012
Two days.
It had been two days, five hours, twenty-four minutes and ....eight, nine, ten seconds since Sasha had come home from painting in the park to find her papa dead. They'd carted him away in a bag - a bag that was more suited for rubbish than it was for her beloved papa's body. Two days of quiet, silent solitude that roared in her ears like the rushing waves at the beach. Two days that she'd sat in the small hovel-like home that they'd resorted to living in. Painting didn't pay much, and papa hadn't been working - what little money they did have had gone to paying for papa's vices. Alcohol did not come cheap, and many days Sasha had forgone food in order to make sure that her papa had what he needed to keep his withered, deteriorating body going.
Suddenly everything had come to a swift, screeching halt.
The first day had not been too bad. Sasha had spent most of the day out of the house, her paintings echoing the fear and pain in her heart. She'd made a little bit of cash, bought a little bit of food. Sasha had forced herself to eat before she allowed herself to curl up in bed with the cool blankets pulled up to her chin. She slept fitfully, waking up periodically throughout the night when she thought she heard her papa's voice, or his footsteps or even that bright, brusque laugh that seemed to come so unwillingly.
The second day, Sasha was forced to handle the harsh reality that her papa was gone, and she was alone. Most of the day was spent listlessly peering out of windows. What should she do? What could she do? There was nothing more to accomplish - she'd painted because papa had wished it of her, she'd sang because papa had taught her how, she'd played her little instruments because papa had demanded it. Sasha had always had a taskmaster and now, living without one? There was no rush of freedom or the thrilling realization that she could do whatever she wanted because there was nobody around to tell her that she could not. Simply put, Sasha was lost.
Purposeless.
Late on the evening of the second night, the voices returned. Burning and evil, hollow and chilling. Those voices remained with her until she was approached by a mysterious man who offered her an opportunity. It was an opportunity that Sasha could not turn down - a chance to actually explore the voices and visions she'd had... but more importantly, an opportunity for a purpose once more.
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Posted: Sat Mar 24, 2012 1:22 am
January 1991
A warm, sterile room. Comfortably pristine. The push and press of bodies move like worker ants, busily shuffling around the room. The sudden squeak of a shoe, rattling of metal against metal. A man's voice, soothing and filled with a quiet emotion that could only be called love - a deep, unbridled love. A softer, exhausted voice replies. Sheets rustle against skin - every sound punctuated by a steady, unobtrusive beeping and a quiet whooshing; repetitive, soothing.
The door swings open. A man, clad in white, clasps a clipboard to his chest. Glasses are perched on his nose - he looks concerned, his pale hair mussed.
"There's.. a complication." His voice is low and strained.
A loud silence yawns for what feels like eternity until that soft, feminine voice rings out, "What?" Worried blue eyes meet rich brown ones until both pairs look to the pale-haired man.
He gives them a hurried smile, an attempt to soothe them - it fails.
"Anne, you've been struggling at this for nearly ten hours. She's getting tired. You're getting tired." He shifts his eyes between the man and the woman, Anne, before trying to talk some sense into the man.
"Anne's getting tired, Cam; I know she's too damn stubborn to listen to me," the doctor said fondly of the woman, "but maybe she'll listen to you. A decision will have to come soon. I'll.. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you again.. but if things don't progress, we have to get her out of there."
The man, Cameron, gives the doctor a nod. With a pinched look, the doctor gives Anne a look before taking his leave.
"Cam.."
"Anne. You heard Joey. He's right, my sweetest. I can't bear to see you uncomfortable any longer." He lifts a broad hand, moving it to gently rest across Anne's abdomen. Cam smiles as he feels movement beneath the tautly stretched skin. Their child.
Anne lifts her hands to brush against his. She marvels at the difference in size between her small, slender hands and his own bigger, more capable ones. "I'm scared."
Cam chuckles in response, lifting her hands to press them to his lips before he reaches down to run his thumb along her jaw. "I am too, Anne. I'm terrified. I can't lose you - you keep me sane, my love.. but I will make the decision if you don't." His voice drops harshly. His next words are ugly and yet they echo the unspoken thoughts that had filled the space between them.
"If I have to choose between you and this baby, Anne."
"Don't say it, Cam."
"I'll choose you."
"Don't."
She drops her chin, eyes closing. Her face is taut.
"Then don't make me, Anne."
The door swings open again. The doctor, Joey, crosses his arms over his chest. His hair is tousled as if he'd driven his fingers through the pale stuff entirely too many times. His eyes immediately move to Cam, brows lifted in an unspoken question.
Anne does not look pleased. She immediately crosses her pale arms over her chest.
Joey can't help but chuckle. Anne immediately shoots him a disgusted look before her head falls back, eyes locked on the ceiling.
"Bring them both back to me alive, Joey," Cameron says softly, "or I'll kill you."
Joey snorts. "You know how well I work under pressure, brother."
Cam remains silent, rich warm eyes locked on Anne's face. She refuses to look at him. He crouches, forcing her to face him.
"You are everything in this world to me. You are, Anne. You are everything I crave, everything I need. You are my tie to all of the good in the world." His voice is desperate as if her grasp on his words borders on life or death. "You can't blame me for wanting to keep the most sacred thing to me in this world safe, can you?" If she only knew.
Joey clears his throat; he mumbles something about prepping the operating room and quickly shuffles from the room.
Anne lolls her head to the side, blue eyes glistening with a warmness that is almost tangible. Her lips draw up in a small half-smile as she lifts a hand to tangle in Cam's thick raven hair. The beeping on the monitor skips a beat, the whooshing sound seizes for brief moment before it picks up its comforting rhythm.
Anne sighs. Cam chuckles. Anne sighs again. Cam leans down to kiss her nose.
"I'll be here waiting."
"I know."
Of course she does. Out of all the uncertainties in the world, there's always been Cam.
"You could come with me?"
Cam clicks his tongue, shakes his head. "I can handle a lot of things, Anne. This? This isn't one of them." He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her skin is salty, damp. He loves her all the more for it. Proof of her exertions, the salty tang of her sweat on her forehead. She's worked hard. She deserves a rest. "It'll all be over soon."
As they push his wife from the room, Cam lifts his eyes to the ceiling. He stares into the harsh incandescent light. A man speaking to his maker, if such an entity exists. Cam's never been one to believe in God - he's seen too much pain in his life to believe that such a benevolent thing exists. Anne, though. Anne's always believed. Her innocent candor has always been one of the most charming things about her, at least to Cam.
So he prays. For her. For the life of their unborn child.
An hour later, Joey appears. He's smiling. Cam looks at his friend, his partner in crime, the man who'd had his back for such a long time that Cam can't remember a life without Joey.
"A daughter."
"Anne?"
"As right as rain."
Cam exhales loudly. He draws a broad hand down his face. A nervous bark of laughter rings out as he crosses his arms over his chest.
"Sasha. Anne's mother had the name. Sasha Antoinette."
Joey laughs loudly before he claps Cameron on the shoulder. "You did it."
Cameron shakes his head, tears welling in his eyes as a laugh threatens.
"Anne did it. I was just along for the ride."
And what a crazy ******** ride it'd been.
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Posted: Sun Mar 25, 2012 8:13 pm
2000
3 a.m.
Soft, gentle snores erupted every so often from the young, dark-haired girl who slept on a ratty-looking couch. Her raven hair, secured tightly into a long, thick braid, was wrapped haphazardly around her slender neck - she'd always been a rather active sleeper. Oblivious to the world but constantly tossing and turning.
Sasha Antoinette Belrose, at that point in her life, was almost nine years old. Her home, a small cottage located deep in the rolling green hills of France, had electricity but no running water, and no source of heat aside from a well-aged potbelly stove nestled in the corner of a modestly sized stone farmhouse. A well behind the house was fed by the coldest, sweetest water. The house, while no grand estate by any means, was cozy.
He hated it.
There had been a time in his life where he'd meant something. He'd had many accomplishments. He'd had a woman he loved, a job he couldn't live without. Now he was living in some hovel caring for a daughter he'd never really wanted - one he'd certainly never asked for - living a life that seemed more like a living hell than anything else. The alcohol helped. It helped him cope with the lack of any real civilization, any real life. The alcohol was a means to help him cope with the destiny he'd been dealt.
They'd been there for almost a year.
He wasn't a farmer. He didn't even like animals. This certainly wasn't a life he'd have ever chosen for himself. Yet here he was in some shitty little cave living this shitty little life, cocked back in his shitty little chair next to the shitty little potbelly stove. Sleep hadn't come easy for him for quite some time now, and there was no doubt that it wouldn't come easy again tonight.
As his eyes slipped closed, a thought that no father should have; how easy would it be to press that silken midnight braid against the throat of the girl who slept not feet from his reclining form? To squelch the very last breath from her?
Too easy. It would be too easy. They would never know.
--------------------
"Papa, why do chickens have eggs?"
"It is how they have babies, Sasha. They are also another thing for us to eat."
"Nannygoat doesn't have eggs."
The dark-eyed man sighed, a sound borne of annoyance. He tried to cover it with a thin sheen of exasperation, but there was a cruel look in his eyes.
"Nannygoat is a chicken, then? Nannygoat is not a goat? Is that what you are saying, Sasha?"
There was a small silence as Sasha collected a few more eggs, placing them in the pinafore she wore over a soft cotton dress. She carried both lower corners in one hand, the eggs resting in the hammock formed by the apron.
"No, Nannygoat is a goat, papa," she said quietly, recognizing the tone of voice he'd taken on. It would be best for her to simply be silent from here on out. He'd already started drinking this morning, and as he milked Nannygoat so that they could make cheese later in the day, Sasha knew by the set of his mouth that he was not pleased with her. At all.
Maybe she could make him smile.
"Papa," she whispered, moving closer to him with every intent on giving him a little hug. He rose abruptly, towering over the small, spindly girl. The action surprised Sasha and she lost the grip on a corner of her apron. Two eggs fell to the ground, cracking immediately upon impact. The rich yolk within oozed out as Sasha watched helplessly. The man remained silent before he shot out a hand, gripping her earlobe with two rough fingers.
"You just cannot do anything right. It is not such a difficult task, Sasha, to keep the eggs safe. Now you will have no breakfast, hmm? I will eat the eggs. Would you like to watch?"
"I'm sorry papa, I --" She was interrupted by a broad hand slashing through the air.
"Take the rest of the eggs into the house. If you are able, place them in the icebox. You will then spend the rest of the afternoon practicing your flute, hmm?" The last words were hissed out from behind clenched teeth. Such a farcical joke. He hated it, he hated all of it.
"Yes, papa." Sasha would not cry. She had made a mess of things - she was the only one to blame. Her papa had every right to be upset with her. She had dropped the eggs - and she would be punished because of it. Punished.
That thought brought a small smile to Sasha's lips. She despised keeping secrets from her papa, but she could never tell him how much she loved that flute. Each song she coaxed from the brilliantly crafted instrument was an escape from everything in her life. She could lose herself with each lilting melody that trilled forth from her flute.
He saw the smile. He knew exactly what she was thinking.
He hated his life just a little bit more.
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Posted: Mon Mar 26, 2012 4:51 pm
1994
"Send someone else."
The other voice on the line was low, scratchy and authoritative.
"You have no choice in the matter. I'm sorry that you.. seem to think you do." The clatter of ice and liquid rang dully over the phone line. Probably a Macallan - on the rocks, of course. Just the thought made his teeth ache. He glanced at the sleeping girl, groaning slightly when he caught the drool puddled beneath her cheek. Luckily for him she was a hard sleeper even at this young age - it made these early morning telephone conversations easier to come by.
"Besides, it's only been a year. Not even a year, if I remember correctly - and I always remember correctly." Another musical tinkle of ice against glass whispered through the cell he clutched in his hand. A siren's call, one he wanted desperately to follow. He could almost taste the rich drink on his tongue. A harsh breath pressed past clenched teeth.
The call ended abruptly, disconnected from the other end just like it usually was. He snapped his cell phone shut with a growl and fought the urge to throw it against the wall.
--------------
Spring 2008
She'd had the flute for nine years.
Sasha slept with it tucked alongside her pillow, carefully kept latched up in the case it came in. The flute itself, a warm and lively gold color, had been engraved with her first and middle name. The case was branded with a single word - Muramatsu.
Being an innocent youth, Sasha had never questioned how her papa had been able to afford such a thing. She had no idea the worth of the piece she played so lovingly, but to look at the young lady one would think that she knew exactly how much the exquisite piece had cost. The way she cleaned it, polished it and tucked it away after each use - the actions spoke of someone who realized how expensive the flute was.
One might also think that she'd been playing the flute for most of her life, not just the nine years she'd had it. She had an innate grace that lent itself to the way she coaxed each miraculous note from the instrument. Sasha loved to play; nothing else could bring her the sort of peace and serenity that her flute could. Even if her only audience was the clouds above and the rich earth below, it didn't matter. She didn't play for fame or for money. She played because it felt wrong not to.
When her papa was asleep Sasha would make her escape from the house. He'd been sleeping more and more - his health had taken a downward spiral over the past two years. His mood had, as well, and his attitude towards her had grown harsher and harsher. Sasha blamed it on his health and remained as sweet as she could. She loved him dearly, and it hurt her to see him in such a way. He was still able to hobble around and tend to his duties, but Sasha had been forced to pick up a few of the lighter tasks. A young man from town would come to help with any heavier jobs; he'd be paid with fresh eggs, vegetables or milk. If Sasha was a bit world wise, she'd have understood his idle conversation and silly jokes for what they truly were.
Sasha much preferred the company of her flute over sandy-haired boys with dark, dark eyes and easy smiles, no matter how friendly they were. How nice.
Oh, the freedom. She'd cut through the fence that bordered the back yard and weave through the small grove of trees that buffered their home from the fallow land beyond. A small creek cut through the overgrown field; sweet and crystal-clear, the water was cool and welcoming against her skin. Sasha's favorite spot was a small rock that sank low enough into the water that she could dip her toes into the rich silt that shimmered placidly beneath the bubbling curls and whorls of the small stream.
Only then would she lift her flute to her lips, the golden metal gleaming in the sun. It seemed to glow from within with a soft resplendence. Bright notes were capably drawn forth from the instrument, ringing out with a gentle resonance.
Hours would pass this way, each and every day. A girl and her best friend. Her escape from reality. Perhaps even a coping mechanism when it came to dealing with her papa, especially lately. When the air chilled and the sky darkened, Sasha would carefully wipe down her beloved flute before snapping it back in the case. Only then would she return home; tucking the case next to her pillow. Sleep would always come easy soon after, brought on by the harmonious sound of her flute singing in her ears.
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Posted: Thu May 31, 2012 7:05 pm
November 1991
If you've gotten this letter, I'm already dead.
I love you.
You always were my tether to everything good and pure in the world, Pickle. I'm just sorry that it had to end like this, you know? We had a good run of it, didn't we? We made the best of it while it lasted. I couldn't have asked for more. I never was the type of person to wish for what I couldn't have - because I had everything in you. You were everything I ever needed. Ever.
Life has curious twists and turns, but the best moments of my life were the ones I spent with you. Thick and thin, you were always there for me. I can promise that my last thought was of your beautiful face - that way you always pushed your lip out when you pouted - and the way I could always get it to melt away with a silly joke. I was never afraid to look like a jackass in front of you.
That's love, isn't it?
I wouldn't change anything. Everything I've done, I've done to make the world a better place for us to live in. There's no shame in that, is there? I could have been around more, I know. I could have done better in that respect. I didn't. Even still, I have no regrets, Pickle.
I hope you forgive me. I only wanted to do right. That's all I ever wanted.
Don't do anything foolish. My dying wish is for you to stay safe. I'm sending our poem - the one you gave me when you asked me to marry you. I'll never forgive you for that, Pickle. Then again, I was never really surprised. You always were too stubborn for your own good. I'm also sending my wedding ring, and my necklace.
I love you, always, Pickle. You were the best of me.
The first page of the letter was set aside.
The second page was ripped from a book. The edges, yellowed and frayed. Obviously well-loved.Quote: Will You Be My Friend?a poem by James KavanaughWill you be my friend? There are so many reasons why you never should: I’m sometimes sullen, often shy, acutely sensitive, My fear erupts as anger, I find it hard to give, I talk about myself when I’m afraid And often spend a day without anything to say. But I will make you laugh And love you quite a bit And hold you when you’re sad. I cry a little almost every day Because I’m more caring than the strangers ever know, And, if at times, I show my tender side (The soft and warmer part I hide) I wonder, will you be my friend? A friend who far beyond the feebleness of any vow or tie Will touch the secret place where I am really I, To know the pain of lips that plead and eyes that weep, Who will not run away when you find me in the street Alone and lying mangled by my quota of defeats But will stop and stay-to tell me of another day When I was beautiful. Will you be my friend? There are so many reasons why you never should: Often I’m too serious, seldom predictably the same, Sometimes cold and distant, probably I’ll always change. I bluster and brag, seek attention like a child, I brood and pout, my anger can be wild, But I will make you laugh and love you quite a bit And be near you when you’re afraid. I shake a little almost every day Because I’m more frightened than the strangers ever know And if at times I show my trembling side (The anxious, fearful part I hide) I wonder, will you be my friend? A friend who, when I feel your closeness, feels me push away And stubbornly will stay to share what’s left on such a day, Who, when no one knows my name or calls me on the phone, When there’s no concern for me – what I have or haven’t done- And those I’ve helped and counted on have oh, so deftly, run, Who, when there’s nothing left but me, stripped of charm and Subtlety, will nonetheless remain. Will you be my friend? For no reason that I know, except I want you so.
As they were set aside, a low, keening cry rang out before heavy, heartfelt sobs broke the silence in the room.
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