Growing Up

JournalWord: Rain boots.

::

He takes one look at her and shakes his head. She continues to tug her rain boots on her socked feet, unbeknownst to the expression of disapproval on his face.

He sighs and decides to make his opinion known. "You're going to get sick."

She turns her head to see him leaning on the banister of the staircase. Still bent over, she tugs her foot completely into the boot and straightens up, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Eventually," she agrees. "It's inevitable."

He shakes his head again and points his mug, half-full of cooling coffee, at her light purple hoodie and frayed, cut-off shorts. "Wear something a little warmer," he demands. "It's pouring outside and you're going to be soaked halfway down the street."

"I have rain boots," she defends, kicking her feet out to indicate her point.

"Not good enough," he states, pushing off from the banister and walking down the stairs. He walks around her and heads to the closet, rifling through the selections of coats with one hand while deftly sipping coffee thoughtfully with the other.

He finds what he is looking for and strips the coat off the hanger, tossing it in her direction over his shoulder. "Wear that and no complaints," he commands, closing the closet doors and heading up the stairs. "Put up the hood and come home before dinner," he finishes, disappearing into the upper recesses of the house.

She looks down at the coat and slips it on. The coat hangs down to her knees and she struggles with the zipper as the sleeves are too long and refuse any effort to be pushed up her arms or folded over. Pulling on the hood, she finds her vision cut off by the oversized bill.

She wants to shake her head at the ridiculousness of wearing such a big coat, but decides against complaining when she whiffs the light musky scent of his cologne on the inside of his collar. She smiles, opening the door and stepping out into the rain, feeling warm.

::

Something sweet to get through the day.

I am at a loss at the moment, deciding my reaction to an invitation to the program interview at BCIT. I wasn't hopeful of actually being invited as the bulk of my application was received just on the date of the deadline, and my university transcript was received well afterwards.

So now I'm in a state of shock and disbelief.

And now I know what I'll be doing tomorrow, haha :) Studying for the interview in a few weeks!

Keeping cheery,

Mera.

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Through The Chest

JournalWord: Listening to a heart.

::

"You have a heartbeat?"

"You can hear it really well if you press your ear against her chest."

"You let him touch you?!"

"No, I didn't!"

"You promised that I could listen again."

"No, I did not." 

"That's not fair! I want to listen too!"

"Get off me! Let go-"

"I want to listen too. It's only fair."

"Wow. That's quite aggressive."

"Stop him! It's your fault that this is happening!"

"That looks fun. Can I join in?"

"No!"

"Please?"

"Of course not! It's my turn!"

"How about I hold her down for you and then we can switch-"

"Hello! I've got a message for my pretty princess-what is the meaning of this?"

"Oh."

"Help!"

"Get your filthy hands off her!"

"Calm down. We were just trying to touch her chest."

"Well than, you deserve an execution!"

"That guy was doing it too."

"Hey! You sell-out!"

"I see. But you'll go first and then I'll kill him!"

"You guys, enough!"

::

A dialogue between 4 people. Could you follow?

~Mera.

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Gifting

JournalWord: Protect me from what I want.

***

3 hours ago, I felt the most excruciating pain of my life. Physically, that is. Emotionally, I felt it an hour ago. I should never have agreed to hold her. I should have turned down the nurse’s offer the moment she entered the room. Now, I can’t pull my arms away from my body. 

Her body is so small; so much more human than what I had been believing for the last nine months. She has a tiny mouth, and a nose that looks like his. I could see the tips of her tiny fingers peeking out of the folds of her pink blanket, and something fluttered in me when I saw all ten, itty-bitty digits. Is that what a mother should feel? The flutter and joy of a newborn? 

I would think so when Margaret and Jerry rushed in. They were beyond happy and Margaret was bright red in the face, exhilarated as if she were the one who had just given birth. They’re going to take my baby away from me. I remember wishing, back when I had first met her and her husband, that she would be the one to go through with this; to go through the pain of labor, to go through with the decision, and to finally have her own child. 

Oh, how I wished it could have been her instead of me. But when they came through that door, anxious to see the person I was giving to them, every dreadful wish of never having this moment became a shattered mess. I don’t want to give my baby up. I am being irrational, I know, but at this moment, all of my concrete decisions blows up into dust. 

I was so scared to give her to them and I squeezed my little girl too hard. She screamed and I panicked, ashamed of how terrible a mother I would have been. Margaret picked her up and cooed to her, like a mother should, and I could only watch as she stopped the crying. Jerry thanked me over and over, and I couldn't even look at him. I felt like I was betraying him for thinking such ludicrous thoughts. 

I couldn't keep her. There isn't any logical reason why a homeless teen like me should be given the gift of a child. I say that but I can’t stop thinking about her tiny hands, curled around Margaret’s ring finger. They thanked me countless times and cried over their new baby for the next fifteen minutes. I couldn't bring myself to look at them, for fear I would crush their dream, crush their chance at a family with a couple words. 

This is for the best, I repeated to myself. This is the best for her. Finally they were ushered out of the room by the same deceitful nurse who scrambled my rationality. However, before they left, they asked me for a name, and although I had continuously spoken of my need to disconnect all ties, my lips moved to form one hurtful word: Allison. 

They seemed taken aback at the mention of my mother, knowing the hate I had for her, for her abandonment. Sitting in my hospital bed, arms still holding my rib cage up, I feel lighter. It might be the loss of six pounds, and it may not be because I've finally forgiven my mother. I can’t tell, but I hope this feeling will leave, because now I've got nothing to fill in the space.    

***

Wanting what we can't have, even if it was our decision to not want it in the first place.

~mera.

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Where Our Demons Reside

JournalWord: An immortal who carries around a pocket watch as a reference.

***

"A demon.."

The first accusation floats through the gathering crowd. I keep my head up, boots kicking up dirt as I march through the parting crowds. 

"We are goners. This town is done for. We're all going to be eaten.."

The air around me hums with the whispers and tension of my presence. Parents grasp their children and push them behind themselves like I would snatch them right there. Old men scowl and glare, muttering curses and prayers all in the same breath.

This has become a familiar scenario now so I don't stop my march, face impassive and cold as they stare at the mark burned over the skin of my left eye. My dark travelers cloak and long scarf whip around me, snapping at the knees of the people, encouraging them to jump back and out of my path. The only part of me visible is my face, especially my mark which glows metallic black against my pale skin in sharp curves and surrounds the highlighted strike down the center of my eyelid. 

I muse how stricken their expressions are; too scared to run and hide. I continue to follow the path they have made, regarding the buildings the town supports. I regard a trinket shop when a cry calls for me to stop and a sound collision causes the people to gasp and shout. 

The people plead for the child to get up and run away for disturbing the demon. I turn around and look down at the child laying face down in the dirt road, arms outstretched towards my cloak. Much to the crowd's horror, I bend down and extend my hands to lift the child out of the dirt.

"You-you left me behind," the little girl wails when she is settled on her feet. Fat tears start to roll down her cheeks, running trails through the layer of dirt on her face.

The crowd's screams of terror only frighten the little girl more and I have had enough of their ridiculous behavior. 

"She's my goddamn sister," I shout over their howls, effectively silencing them. "Now shut up. She's scared of you lot enough as it is," I finish, lifting the girl into my arms and wiping her tears away with my sleeve. 

I turn away from their gaping mouths and wide eyes, cooing to the girl in my arms in the hope of quelling her fright and apologizing for swearing in her presence. 

I follow the break in the crowd to a large building where I glare at the stares of the guards and let myself in. Ignoring the sputtering of those that see me pass through the guards, I make my way up the stairs, following my own instinct in finding the mayor of this town. 

I find a door heavily guarded and conclude that this is where I will find the mayor. I peck the little girl with a kiss on her mop of soft brown hair and apologize in advance for my rough behavior. I wait for her to nod and place her hands over her ears before heading towards the guards, barking that I want to speak with their mayor. 

There is a moment of hesitation and the shaking of their hands as they point their guns encourage me to step forward. The guards disperse out of my way, dropping their guns on the marble floor as they take cover under their arms. I sneer at their cowardly act, deeming the civilians have more gall than the guards.

I step into the large, luxuriously decorated room of the mayor. My sister pops a small gasp at the bright, gold chandelier overhead and I fight a smile at her adoration of shiny objects. The mayor is seated in one of the plush red couches in the center of the room, so I make my way to the adjacent couch, dropping myself down into the cushion.

The mayor is sweating profusely, stark white like he is on the verge of having a heart attack. I regard the tea set in front of me on the low table, ignoring the terrorized eyes of the mayor, and pluck a honey biscuit from the overflowing platter of cookies. I coax my sister to drop her hands from her ears and offer her favorite biscuit as a reward for being on her best behavior. 

The mayor looks like he's about to faint when she mews in delight. Guards are peeking their heads from the open door and I cough, sending them scrabbling from the doorway. 

Back to business, I speak, causing the mayor to crawl further into the crack between the cushions. "We need lodgings and food," I demand. 

The mayor sputters and finally begs, "You can't ask me to send you my people for your appetite-"

I stop him with a sneer. "I don't want your people," I glower, and his fear is overshadowed by his confusion. "I want bread, dried meat, and milk-" Her little hand tugs at my cloak and I lean down to hear her shy whisper. "And honey biscuits and tarts," I conclude, reaching to hand her another honey biscuit.

I raise my eyebrow at his silence and lean back. He starts to sputter again, horrified to service a demon in his own town. I drop my heavy boots down onto the low table, rattling the silverware and porcelain dishes. The tower of cookies tumbles and crumbles onto the carpet. 

The mayor regains his voice just long enough to call for his adviser to meet my demands and find me a place to stay.  A guard walks in a few moments later, face hardened and without a weapon. I note this and regard he is either aware that a weapon is useless against an immortal or he is a glorified idiot to fight me bare-handed.

Lifting my sister up onto my shoulders, I follow this guard, curious by his unwavering march as he leads me to a small cottage a few blocks from the town hall. He opens the door and leads me in, lighting candles, and I notice that the sun has started it's descent. I pluck my pocket watch out of my vest and peek at the time.

"Why would an immortal carry around a pocket watch?" the guard asks. His question is not accusing, instead, curious and unguarded. I regard his leaning figure beside the door, tucking the pocket watch back into my vest.

Lifting my sister from my shoulders, I unstrap her backpack and toss it onto the bed before ruffling her hair, much to her delight. "As a reference," I answer, peeling my cloak off and tossing it onto the bed as well. 

I take my sister by the hand when I spot a tub in the corner of the room, steaming from just being filled with hot water. The guard watches from his perch as I settle my sister in for a much needed bath before dinner arrives. The guard doesn't speak again until after my sister falls asleep during a story picked from the book in her back pack.

***

Children can settle the soul of even the most demonic. 

Though in this case, the demon isn't very demonic.

I love writing about children, they make my heart soar by being so goddamn cute! Many of my stories center around them :) their reactions are so interesting (and comical!).

I plan on having a son named Hexane and another named Volta >.<!!! Guess where those names are from ;P

I'd love to know what you think about this story, and this character. (Didn't realize how long this one is..)

I swear I'm trying to get better as a writer! 

Just believe in me :)

~mera

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