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 Posted: Thu Jan 17, 2013 5:51 pm
↱A GREAT PERHAPS↲
and then something invisible
snapped insider her
and that which had
come together
commenced to fall apart
-John Green "Looking for Alaska"
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Posted: Thu Jan 17, 2013 5:52 pm
She doesn’t look like it, but Alaska loves fairytales.
She loves climbing into bed and sinking into the squishy mattress as she wiggles beneath the covers, her short arms wrapped around a thin, hardcover book. Lips are set in a thin line, but the child’s eyes glow with mute anticipation as she presents the book to her mother. Her twin has long since fallen asleep. Alaska can even hear Nevada’s soft breathing, see the steady rising and lowering of her sister’s shoulders. She realizes her sister is asleep, so her voice is quiet when she hands the book to the older woman. “Mama, read this one.”
Written across the cover in fancy lettering was “Sleeping Beauty.” Alaska’s favorite story is Sleeping Beauty because sometimes she wishes she could fall asleep for a hundred years. The cover has an old paper pattern, with jewels of multiple colors and shapes drawn into a simple border.
“Of course.” Her mother smiles, her hand brushing against the smooth cover before she reaches for the book’s edge and turns the page. A smile adorns her lips when she leans forward toward the older twin. She stops for a beat before she finally begins with Alaska’s favorite phrase, “Once upon a time…”
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Posted: Thu Jan 17, 2013 5:52 pm
Sunset is her favorite time of day. When the sun falls below the horizon and when the sky bleeds red and purple, she stares out the window with wide eyes. She admires the deep colors that blend together seamlessly. The colors are beautiful, mesmerizing. Alaska tries to capture the sunset on paper with her crayons, but they don’t mix well and she hates the tiny specks of white that the crayons leave behind. She always frowns, scrutinizes her work for a moment before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the trashcan in a fit of frustration. Instead she tries watercolor, but the water runs everywhere and the colors are pale, muted. The paper crinkles. Still wet and dripping, Alaska tosses it into the trash too. She always tries to paint the sunset with her mediocre mediums. Alaska stays cooped up in her room, hunched over her tiny table as her tongue sticks out. Despite her failures, she still paints the sky.
But that is before night falls at last. It always comes to Alaska suddenly, like a balloon popping. She never sees it coming, never suspects much, but then there is the loud pop as the balloon bursts and the rubber pieces fall helplessly. The sound startles her, sometimes even throws her into a bawling fit. The dark descends silently, gradually, but Alaska does not realize. She is always too focused on her art, too intent on trying to mimic the colors of the sky—just as how she sees it in her memories. Then she looks up. There is no reason for looking up. Maybe her eyes are tired or her neck aches, but the child looks up. That is when she notices the time, sees the pitch black painted in her glass windows.
Sunsets are beautiful, but nighttime terrifies Alaska. She cannot see through the darkness. The little girl doesn’t know what is hiding in the shadows, but she knows something is lurking within. She tries to tell her father, who smiles good-naturedly. He laughs, bending down to caress her face before pressing a kiss to her forehead. The man says little, but reassures there is nothing there, that it is only her imagination. He bends down further to wrap Alaska in a warm hug. She closes her eyes, gives into the embrace and for a moment she believes him. There are no such things as monsters.
Something laughs in her ear and she knows it’s not her father. Eyes flutter open, peering into the shadows to stare straight at the murky outlines of a smile. Alaska clutches her father tighter.
When it’s dark, Alaska makes a point to pull the window drapes closed. She can’t see anything outside, but there is still the fear that something is right out her window, peering into her and her sister’s room without them realizing. She feels calm when she snuggles under the covers and listens to her mother’s quiet voice as she reads aloud, rocking the twins into a drowsy sleep.
Yet, Alaska always manages to wake up during the middle of the night. She’s unsure why. Maybe it’s the perpetual uneasiness settling in her stomach because she knows something is out there. It’s not a very nice something. The room is dark, but she can see the glimmer of moonlight creeping through the crack of the two drapes. Two tiny hands clutch the edge of the comforter, pulling it up until it covers her head completely. She can feel the warmth of her twin, but it’s not enough. She needs to suffocate in the warm air underneath the bed sheets. The bed covers are an iron defense against the dark.
She squeezes her eyes shut. This is the moment when she wishes she could be like Sleeping Beauty and sleep forever. She wants to close her eyes and never open them again. Alaska wants to rest, to never have to worry about the big bad monster eating her at night. And when her Prince Charming swoops in to defeat all the monsters, he’ll kiss her awake. She’ll never have to fret about the dark again.
But she’s not a princess. Prince Charming won’t be coming.
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Posted: Thu Jan 17, 2013 5:53 pm
She isn’t sure why she draws roses so often.
Piano fingers lightly grip a charcoal pencil. Alaska doesn’t grip it like a writing utensil. She holds it just the way her art teacher told her—sort of like a magic wand, except this wand requires more than just the flick of a wrist and a few magic words. This wand needs careful dedication and time. Her hair falls like a closing curtain as she leans over the table. It’s a strain to force her eyes away from the paper, but somehow she manages. She keeps her intent gaze on the vase of roses placed in front of her. Alaska catches the outline of the vase in simple strokes. The dark lines overlap each other, but she doesn’t bother for an eraser. She keeps going instead. Briefly, twelve-year-old Alaska looks down at her paper, adjusts the position of her pencil just so, and then returns her attention back to the flowers.
She can hear the quiet scrit-scratching of charcoal rubbing against thick paper as she moves her hand in a circular motion, trying to capture the basic swirl of a rose’s center before she moves in to add the curled edges of the smooth petals. The blooming buds are not the classic red, which pleases her for some reason.
Red is love. Red is passion. Red is beauty.
Her pencil moves in wobbly circles, outlining each flower. Sometimes, Alaska can sense her hand move down to draw out a thin stem. She can even feel the charcoal mark the tiny thorns adorning each stem. The child can see the prickly edges of the leaves that match the thorns, but her strokes are smooth.
She begins to shade.
White is innocence, purity, secrecy, humility. She has all of the colors and meanings engraved into her heart even though she can’t explain why. Alaska doesn’t love roses, not particularly.
Her pencil moves back and forth to form the soft shadow the vase and flowers are casting onto the table. Behind her she can hear footsteps and the familiar voice of her twin murmuring, yawning just before falling back asleep again. Alaska forms a small smile as she continues to fill in her drawing with blocks of black and varying shades of grey.
Pink is appreciation and grace. Yellow is friendship and joy. Orange is for desire and enthusiasm. Red and white mean unity. Peach is sincerity and gratitude. Coral is desire. Lavender means love at first sight. Blue is the unattainable.
She cocks her head, tilts the paper slightly before she fills in the petals.
Maybe it’s because deep in her heart she still loves Sleeping Beauty. She can still imagine the castle covered in thorns. She can remember in one version the story is called Little Briar Rose.
When she looks up from her drawing she imagines the flowers differently for a moment. The roses are not the comforting shades of pale pink and white. They are pitch black, wilting. A dark petal even falls, melting into the shadows.
When she blinks, the black roses are gone and children’s laughter echo in her ears.
Black is for death and farewell.
Alaska begins to hum a song she heard on the radio once upon a time.
Farewell to fairytales and innocence. True love and happy endings don't exist, not for Alaska.
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Posted: Thu Jan 17, 2013 5:53 pm
There is something about twins that people find fascinating. Everywhere little Alaska goes, Nevada is undoubtedly trailing along with her tiny hand clasping her sister’s. Whenever someone deigns to pick on her little sister, Alaska is ready to chase them away and wildly pull at their hair until she is sent to the corner by the teacher for a time out, but Nevada always lingers by. They are inseparable, one half of one whole. They like the same books, possess the same weak and strong subjects in school, play the piano just like the other.
Photo frames of Alaska and her twin line the fireplace and entryway stands. They are always clothed in matching clothes—identical dresses, same flowing brunette hair tied up in buns and bows. Her mother has always loved to dress up her two babies and the cliché sets follow the twins throughout elementary. Her father purchases the prettiest dresses and the finest toys for his darlings. He wants only the best for his children, but expects them to grow into successful women leading prosperous lives because isn’t that what all parents wish for?
Middle school is the time Alaska can pick out her own clothes, different from her twin’s. She starts out with comfortable clothes like loose shirts, simple jeans, and lots of hoodies. She pursues her own interests, devoting most of her time to drawing and singing softly to herself all the while, but she is still with Nevada. They still cling to each other like a comfort blanket still only a few can tell the twins apart. But middle school is when her father realizes Alaska does better in school than Nevada. He sees the way Alaska can sit at the desk diligently for hours on end while her counterpart begins to lag behind until she falls asleep completely. He notices how Alaska can rattle out more facts off the top of her head and how she seems to excel at anything she puts her mind to.
When Alaska hands him her report card—straight A’s—he smiles warmly, genuinely. She can’t recall the last time she saw such a caring look from her father, but she wants to see it more. She wants to make him happy. She wants praise. She doesn’t want him to look at her funny when her eyes glaze over as she stares into the dark neighborhood or when she steps away from the black closet for no reason. So Alaska spends her time studying instead. When her father suggests for her to do sports, she joins the basketball team and finds herself to be a natural despite her average height.
It used to be Nevada and Alaska were Daddy’s Little Girls, but now it is just Alaska who is Daddy’s Little Girl.
She breezes through middle school with flawless grades and admiration for her prowess on the court, and high school mimics her past three years. The next three years are spent following father’s orders. Alaska becomes the president of the volunteering club and manages to worm her way into student council as vice-president. She becomes one of the top varsity players on the basketball team. She stays up late every night to review her notes and scribble her way through difficult problem sets while her sketchpad is off to the side, abandoned. Alaska doesn’t know the last time she actually picked up her charcoal and drew, not even a haphazard sketch. She continues to fill her head with numbers, chemicals, and formulas while the sceneries and sights ingrained in her head from so many years of drawing begin to die off one by one, but she doesn’t care as long as she can get the top grade in the class. Anything to make her father happy.
Everything changes when she is assigned to Kira Avens for a partner project in AP Literature. Because she knows her father could never tear his gaze away from the sight of a boy in his domain, she takes Kira to the library where they begin to plan out their presentation. Things go according to plan until the librarian politely asks for the two to leave; the library is about to close. Alaska clings to her books as she reluctantly steps beneath the streetlight and peers down the pitch-black streets. She manages to fake a calm façade as he walks her home; it’s only a fifteen-minute walk away.
Alaska tries to tell herself nothing is lurking in the dark. All her fears and wild imaginations from childhood weren’t real, just the product of a girl with an overactive mind. But when something tall and distinctly scaley brushes the back of her leg she yells and backs away. Her things fall to the ground in a white flurry of papers. She feels a tug on her arm, and when she looks back she can see her own fear mirrored in Kira’s pale blue eyes. She knows. She understands.
She begins to spend her lunches with him in the art room because he also loves to draw. For the first time in what seems like months, Alaska picks up a charcoal pencil and presses it against paper. The boy with blue eyes pulls her out of a world of numbers and achievement and into a world filled with color and wonder. Life glimmers in her eyes and her smiles become genuine. She’s in love, all at the cost of everything she’s worked for. Grades begin to waver. Meetings are skipped. Alaska only wants to draw with Kira by her side. Maybe she’s found Prince Charming at last.
One day when she comes home late, she finds her father in the kitchen with a grim frown. It’s not surprising when the conversation begins coolly formal yet awkward, but it doesn’t take much for voices to escalate and he yells for her to go to her room. Alaska screams curses before she storms up the stairs.
Every trip down the stairs is like walking through a minefield. She will never know if her father will be there, ready to throw snide remarks, or if he’s already at work or coming home late. Junior year ends in shambles and a ball of fire. It burns until there is only ash. She has fallen from her podium, but Alaska doesn’t care. There is nothing left for her here anyways.
As the clock strikes midnight the day before her birthday, she gathers her things and creeps into her sister’s bedroom. She places a kiss to Nevada’s forehead before she leaves a note by her bedside. With only her bag on her back, Alaska pushes the window open and slides down the tree next to her room. She considers visiting Kira with the vain hope he may join her, but she knows he has more to lose than she does. She supposes she never actually found her prince and happily ever after.
Beaten sneakers walk along the pavement as she doesn’t dare to look back at her house of nearly-eighteen years. Alaska disappears; her parents will never see her again.
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