The Things She Carried

English assignment based off of the first vignette of the Vietnam war book.

She carried a purse on her shoulder. Leather. She bought it at the shoe repair shop that was downstairs from the ice cream parlor near her house, not a home. She carried it everywhere, whether she needed it or not. It held all she had. It weighed around four pounds, heavy for a purse. A bandana tied around a part was reminiscent of a night she shared with a friend. The one next to it, purple, a token from a weekend of little sleep and fast moving conversations. She had other keychains, barely worth a thing. Half of a disco ball, the bottom lost when she dropped the bag as she always did. A flashlight, out of pure convenience, for she hated the darkness she so often experienced. The Incredible Hulk dangled from the corner, a Christmas present from someone who she was closer to than most. A house key rested beside him, for those nights when she came home past midnight, exhausted but with a little more money to put away for college. If she went. Pins were stuck to the outside of the leather, nestled like ugly jems caught in bed of rocks. She never bought any of these. They came to her.
Inside the bag was chaos. Cough drops roamed free as caged lip colours smashed into the fabric of the sides. A metal tin held her livelihood, petite white disks to calm her in perilous times. They were hidden in the tin under false pretenses. Her friends wouldn’t understand the need of the security, so she didn’t tell them. They didn’t know any better. She carried a leather wallet, containing various movie stubs and identification cards. No money. A few lucky coins in the pocket, ten pence from Ireland and a single peso. The worn brown leather nestled the smooth surface of the cell phone, almost useless. It was bought out of necessity, not desire. She disliked it, but it was what she had. It typically rested within the empty space between the arms and frame of her polka dotted sunglasses that was one of three owned within her outer circle of friends. Maybe not a circle. More like an erratic, abstract shape, hurtling around a cluttered room at light speed, following Murphy’s law. It often meringues with lone package of chewing gum she carries at times, if she has the resources to do so. The decrepit box of playing cards sits alone in the corner at 3.22 ounces, the thin slices of hardened paper inside begging to be pulled out and touched with a loving, dangerous hand. It itches to be part of a game, a risky game that lives depend on. With all of the wear it has taken, it could be tossed aside, a newer deck purchased. She doesn’t want a new set. The remainder of the contents of the large bag is a mixture of old receipts, scraps of paper, memories of times of the past, mixing with sweet aromas of packets of delicate herbs to later be added to the rolling bubbles of liquid. That was what she carried everywhere she went.
All together, her clothes weighed three pounds. Her woven sweater, long and purple, enveloped her body with a heavy existence, repelling most of the frost but allowing bits to come in through the small holes that littered it. Undergarments were a necessity, though her typical fare of clothing didn’t look like it differed so much from the underthings. Today, she wore coral cloth around her chest, peaking out from underneath the dress she had purchased a weekend previous. The top was dark as a rural night, the bottom louder than the city streets at dinner. The patterns ran down the cloth in jagged lines, leaving blood, ink, tears in their path. Creating colours. Creating designs. The sweater hid these designs per her request. She wore leggings beneath, for she was shivering from the cold as usual. No matter how many layers she put, she still shivered. So, she didn’t layer, not normally. Not unless she was hiding.
Her shoes were ripped, allowing her calloused flesh to be splashed by the rain puddles she walked through. Graffiti was on the once smooth and dark surface, lightened and rough now from years and years of continual use, through rain, snow, mud, reminiscent of what the postal service used to be. She rarely wore socks, hating the feel. She would go barefoot if she could, relishing the rough gravel between her toes, or the bite of the bark when she climbed her tree. The sensation of the pendant biting her skin as she moved, from the necklaces she always wore, was a grounding touch. The cool metal reassured her that she had luck on her side, not only luck, but love at times, depending on what encircled her neck. Rarely a heavy thing encircled her wrists, as she didn’t want to feel trapped by the metal ovals so many had worn before her. Ink typically encircled them instead, cluttering the pale skin on her arms and hands, mimicking the desires of more permanent designs that she was prohibited from obtaining. She wasn’t one for keeping rules. Rings, she always lost. Her ears were typically adorned with two sets of earrings, smaller in the second piercing and larger in the first. They didn’t even weigh an ounce. They hid within the processed colour of her hair, peeking out with a jingle every so often to see what the fuss was about. It hid other things too, her hair. It hid the hopes and desires that seeped from her mind, being caught in the tendrils that hung haphazardly from her face. Music climbed the ladders hidden in the locks, floating in and out of her ears. Her leaded soul was caught like a fish in a net, giving a flick with its tail every so often to remind her that it was alive. Desperation nestled heavily behind her ear, whispering to her in her darkest times.

Nothing of what she carried was out of necessity. Not physical necessity. But she needed everything, as security. As a reminder. As information to stab at her brain, to tell her what she already knows. What she thinks she already knows but can’t admit. Everything she carried felt heavy. Even the light that sometimes swam around, the light that called itself joy, put the weight of the world on her shoulders. She wasn’t strong.