The Life of Her

A Prose Piece about a girl who is drifting around the edges.

It’s true what they said about her imagination. She looked in the mirror some days and saw something completely different. She looked at the hazel in her eyes, the brown in her hair, but she saw them differently. She looked in her eyes and didn’t notice the color, but the feeling. Whenever joy struck her, she imagined the way her eyes would light up. She wondered if they would shine in the darkness. When she felt sad, she wondered if her eyes could cry without shedding a tear. When she looked at her hair, she didn’t see tangles and brambles. She saw the hair of a wild girl, living in the forest, brambles and burrs in her hair a crown telling her that she was the one who ruled here.

 

She was seven years old.

 

It’s true what they said about the way she took her time. She was always stopping to smell the roses and dance in the rain, even if those roses were just chive flowers, even if the rain was just sprinkles. Where other people saw a field, she saw endless fun, endless adventure. She would come home and her mother would fuss over the state of her clothes, the scratches on her legs and face. She saw the clothes as rugged, she was a dangerous outlaw and she was on the run. The scratches were battle wounds, but she wouldn’t dress them. “Oh, they’ll look more grisly if they scar, then no one will mess with the baddest outlaw in the west!” She would screech and cackle and run from her poor mother.

 

She was nine years old.

 

It’s true what they said about her not paying attention. When people would call her name, she wouldn’t respond; lost in a dream world that no one else could see. She would stare endlessly at the wall, finally coming out of her reverie just to mention that she was a little bit hungry. On countless days, her mother worried that she was lost because she didn’t come when she called. On countless days, her mother would look out the bathroom window, and there she would be, tirelessly spinning in circles and meticulously plucking every single petal off of the dandelions that grew everywhere.

 

She was eleven years old.

 

It’s true what they said about her love of books. She would lay for hours in the sun or in her bed, reading book after book. When disrupted, she acted as if she had been woken from a good dream, pulled from her own personal world. She would become slightly agitated and not listen when her mother gave her a list of chores. Yes, those chores would go by the wayside more often than not, or get done in not quite the right way. Once, when she was reading a book, her mother asked her to mow the lawn, and she instead cleaned the house. It was a step in the right direction, her mother supposed, and she let it be.

 

She was thirteen years old.

 

It’s true what they said about her sense of direction. They had never seen her get lost. Once or twice, they played a game with her, and dropped her off in the city, a mile or two from anywhere she knew, but on those occasions, she would always end up right where they told her to be. One of these times, a friend accompanied her to make sure she wasn’t cheating. On the trip, she raced through alleys with no apparent knowledge of where she was or what she was doing. But somehow, she would always end up in the right place. Her mother shook her head and thought: That girl will always know where she’s supposed to be.

 

She was fifteen.

 

It’s true what they whispered about her drifting around the edges. She sometimes would close her eyes, allowing tears to fall. No one knew where the tears came from. When asked, she would reply: There’s a secret place inside of me that felt sad. No one knew what she meant. She liked to sit in trees and sing. She liked to dance under the stars and feel the heat of a pavement road beneath her bare feet. But sometimes, the smile that everyone loved wouldn’t come to her lips. Sometimes, she was forgotten amongst the colors and sounds of teenage life. On those occasions, she would pretend that she was heard. She would still sit with those people who had forgotten her. She would still love them just the same. But at night, when the nightmares of past horrors came to play, she would want to scream. She would stare at the open sky and wish she could jump off the roof that she sat on every night before slipping into restless sleep. She was so angry. She was so tired.

 

She was almost seventeen.

 

It’s true what they said about her being strong and fierce. She looked in the mirror and painted on battle marks. She put brambles in her hair and wore a yellow dress that was tattered at the ends. She looked into the eyes of the ones that had forgotten her and she forgave them. She apologized for not listening, and she hugged her mother.

 

Then, in the dark of the night, she slipped away, dancing through the fields to the sounds of the coyotes yipping and the owls hooting. She danced on bare feet, but paid no heed to the sharpness of the grass. The heat of the night left sweat on her brow, but she carried on.

 

Sometimes, she would pretend there were terrors after her, and there truly were. Her insides were spilling out of her and she didn’t know how to stop them. No matter how many times she ran, they always stayed right on her heels.

 

“Go away!” She would scream at the sky, at the moon. “Go away!”

 

But they didn’t go away, so she had to turn and face them.

 

Ugly they were, and many of them. She was so scared, scared for what would happen if they consumed her.

 

Then she remembered something from a long time ago, something that everyone else may have forgotten. She remembered her hazel eyes and her crown of wild hair. She remembered how she could imagine bright lights coming from her joyful eyes.

 

Now, she closed her eyes, and remembered all of the things she swore she had forgotten. She left the words ‘responsibility’ and ‘maturity’ on the ground for a moment as she laughed at the colors dancing before her.

 

Finally she opened her eyes, smiling, joyful…and they were gone. She felt them still floating inside of her, but no longer did they chase her into the night.

 

Dawn came, and she awoke in her bed in that little shack she called her own. She climbed the rails and sat on the hot tin roof, looking at the sky; remembering how just the night before the stars had been there.

 

She wondered where the stars went during the day, then laughed at the curiosity of the subject.

 

It was true what they said about her drifting around the edges…

No more.

Author's Note

Did you feel the same way about your childhood?

Reviews

[mary green]

sounds like your childhood is haunting you like a beautiful ghost. in my experience, however, the things i believed in as a child stuck with me for way too long, and in order to get rid of *my* terrors i had to get rid of my childhood.

i also have a couple of comments about the text; i hope you don't mind:

1) 'she imagined the way her eyes would like up' — i believe this is a typo or a spellcheck blooper; you probably wanted to write 'light up'

2) in the very end, you describe the girl waking up in her shack, and the next moment she is sitting on the roof. it's a bit confusing; i'd add a bit more text in between, or maybe add that she climbed onto the roof after getting out of bed—something to avoid being misunderstood.

of course, it's totally up to you as to whether to do anything about these things or not. thank you for sharing!

[Mylifeinheartbeats]

Thank you! I usually don't miss typos and so I'm glad you caught that! Also, for your second comment, I guess I can see how that would be confusing. It's a memory for me, so I guess I didn't put enough in there. Your review was wonderfully helpful!

[mary green]

i'm glad to have been of help! i look forward to reading more stuff of yours.

[Mylifeinheartbeats]

And thank you for that! It's people like you who take interest in my work that really gives me that extra inspiration to keep writing. I really appreciate it.

[sithlordjp]

I like how the text become more complex with deeper emotions as the years pass. Thank you for sharing!