Brigit's Flame Entry- Week 1 November
Hey: to friends. Do not read this. I have been having a terrible writing week, and this is a piece I am submitting only to say that I made the deadline. It is just... awful, and hopefully I can recover from the slump of crapiness that seems to have descended upon me. So, please, shield your eyes, and keep on scrolling down past this entry. Thanks, and now to return you to your regular lives.
Shattered
We were different, as sisters often were. Even back then, Elizabeth was the radiant one, as bright and enthralling as the sun. She held you in her orbit; you wanted to bask in the glow of her smile. However, like the sun, she was capricious and would just as often burn you as not. Still, you took the chance just to be near her, because she was worth the chance of pain.
If Elizabeth was the sun, then I was a little nutbrown hare basking in what shade I could find. We were not a matched pair; I was not the moon to her sun. To be the moon I would have to be an opposite but equal force, and it was just not so. I was not a force of nature, a satellite in the sky. I was a drab little thing, hanging on her word, tagging along. It had always been thus, it would always be so.
Elizabeth was just a few years older than me, and she could be friend or foe, her moods changing as quickly as the Northern wind blew and ruffled the lacy bedroom curtains. One night after school she might invite me into the sanctuary of her bedroom, that most holy of places, and offer to paint my toenails. The next, I could pound fruitlessly at her door with no hope of even an answer. It was hard to explain her universal appeal, and yet it was there, as intangible yet real as the rays of the sun.
One afternoon she invited me into her room and allowed me to sit on her bed. I brought my doll, Betsy, and tried not to look around too obviously as Elizabeth took out the rubber band and began brushing my long hair. I didn't want to break the spell and be punished, cast out from this paradise for a wrongdoing.
“Jill, you have the best hair. It's so long. I'm going to do it into a long French braid, okay? I just learned how today, so sit still.”
I enjoyed the feel of my sister's long fingers carding through my hair. I closed my eyes and reveled in the sensation, the sharp tugging almost on the edge of pain, but not quite. It was true, my hair was longer, but hers was jet black and so shiny that you couldn't help but want to reach out and touch it as she went by. Mine was a dull brown in comparison, with fuzz and flyaways that would never lay flat. Another thing for me to envy. Somehow I didn't begrudge her her beauty, though. I loved her all the more for it, and I was proud of her, as if I might stand in her reflected glory and it would cast a little shine on me, too.
I cracked my eyelids and chanced a glance around her room. She had decorated it in a style that matched her personality. Items vied for attention with no seeming order, the colors and shapes in no discernible pattern, yet what might have looked like too much junk somehow arranged itself into a comfortable mix of things that leaped to catch your attention. Elizabeth had things from her childhood on shelves, teddy bears missing eyes and busting their seams, blue ribbons and trophies alongside photos of her with her friends, mugging for the camera. Everywhere you looked you could see something of hers, something she loved. I looked at cutouts from a magazine with a picture of her favorite movie star, an article on how to find the best color lipstick for your skin tone, and her three last books that she was reading piled in a stack on her nightside table. I let my eyes wander around each item and bauble until my gaze finally found what it sought.
I swallowed as I looked at what was my favorite possession of hers. She owed a perfume bottle made of the most delicate china. Our father had gone on a trip overseas, and he had gotten me Betsy, and gotten her that bottle. It held her signature scent, roses. The bottle was so thin that it looked like an eggshell. It was made of delicate pink, and there was a secret to it that made me shiver. If you tilted it up to the light, through the bottom you could see the cameo of a real lady, a Gibson girl with a feathered hat, a big puffy bun and a half smile. If you looked at it from any normal angle, you would not see the lady. She could only be revealed when the bottle was empty and held to the light. It was a treasure that always delighted me to behold, but Elizabeth was whimsical with her generosity.
I stared at the bottle for a few moments before gathering my courage. I had to weigh the benefits against the risks. I took a breath and took my chance. “Elizabeth?”
She had been humming. “What?”
“Can I hold your bottle when you are done braiding my hair? Maybe try some perfume?” I tried not to sound like I was begging. She hated that. I wanted to be casual, like we were friends. I didn't want to overstep my bounds, though. “Please,” I added hastily.
Her hands stilled in my hair. I could feel her letting go of the strands, all of the careful work she had done unwinding, coming out. The hair slid around itself out of it's carefully worked bonds, just like that. One minute a marvel, the next a mess. I knew her answer before I heard it. “Just get out,” she said flatly.
I went, my head bowed. I remembered to grab Betsy and hugged her to my chest, but she brought little comfort.
In retrospect, I could see where everything went wrong, but at the time I was not thinking ahead. I waited a few days until Elizabeth was studying after school at a friend's house, when I knew I would not be disturbed. I had never gotten the courage to do anything like this before, but I was stung by her constant dismissal, and I just wanted to see that bottle, to hold it. I padded silently to her room and turned the doorknob.
When I stepped over the threshold, I felt a shiver of foreboding. I knew that I shouldn't be there, and the tension was palpable, but I could no sooner change course now than I could change who I was. I was going to see that bottle. I wouldn't touch anything else. She would never know I had been there.
I tried not to look at anything, as if by keeping my eyes to myself I could lessen the intrusion. I walked slowly, with determination, to the shelf that held the bottle. My hand reached out to take it.
My breath caught, as it always did, no matter how many times I saw it. It was simply the most beautifully crafted thing I had seen. Elizabeth was so lucky! I couldn't see the lady, because the bottle was full of perfume, but I turned the tiny decanter around and around in my fingers, hardly feeling it. I lifted the long, slender dropper and inhaled attar of roses. I closed my eyes as images of Elizabeth leaped into my mind. I so desperately wanted to be like her!
I didn't see the drop of oil dangling on the end of the applicator, and it fell on my fingers, making them slick. It only took a second for the bottle to become slippery in my clumsy fingers. Almost before I understood what had happened, the bottle had slipped from my grasp. The thin eggshell of the bottle didn't stand a chance, even on the plush carpet of Elizabeth's bedroom floor. I could only watch in horror as the inevitable happened. It shattered into a thousand pieces in a few seconds. My regret would echo for a lot longer.
I stared, frozen in disbelief at the tableaux before me. My mind would not absorb what it knew to be true. I had come in, nay; sneaked into my sister's room and broken her favorite thing. My heart jumped into my throat and I felt as if I couldn't breathe around it. The moment seemed to pause for the enormity of the error I had made. My eyes would not blink. I think the memory of those shards will be burned upon my brain forever. In truth, I wish it had made a bigger mess, a more glorious ruin. The bottle had been so small and fragile, though, that when it shattered it quietly went to pieces in the way it was wrought: with a delicacy that was as impressive as it's whole. The pieces were, in fact, barely discernible in the weave of the carpet, the fine shards already settling in and gone.
When I finally breathed in, I felt tears rush to my eyes. I backed away, not willing or able to do anything more than bear witness. I stared a little stupidly at the intact dropper still in my hand, the grace of the line it presented now out of place and absurd. It mocked me in my shame and I placed it carefully on the dresser top before I turned to leave.
I spent the rest of the day in self imposed exile in my own room, jittery and attuned to the moment of my impending doom. I could not concentrate on any small task; neither my homework nor anything more pleasurable held my interest. The waiting was excruciating and it wasn't until after I went to bed that my keen ears picked up the sounds of Elizabeth returning. I waited with bated breath for the storm I knew was coming. In fact, by this time, I was ready for it and I needed to do my penance. I was just too scared to face my sister on my own terms. I could let her wrath wash over me, and then we would both feel better.
I waited in vain. I heard nothing from her room.
I was puzzled. I was sure that she had noticed the destruction, probably almost immediately. She was sure to have traced it to me, as well. Where were the fireworks? Her legendary temper?
I ended up falling asleep that night waiting for some sort of spark of anger from her. It never came. The next morning at breakfast, I hesitantly searched her face for signs of upset, but saw none. Could it be that I had gotten off Scot free? My heart lightened. Perhaps I dodged a bullet after all!
It wasn't until later that evening I felt the full force of her vengeance. I came home from school and slung my backpack onto my bed. My heart stopped when I saw what lay before me. There was Betsy, her face crushed in. My stomach dropped into my feet, and I felt sick, but I couldn't stop the tears from welling up. I hated myself, but I gathered up her broken remains and cried loudly, like the baby I was.
“Hurts, doesn't it?”
I turned and saw my sister leaning casually against the door frame.
My face was a swollen blotch of tears and snot. “Why did you do it? That was from Dad!”
“Why did you?” she hissed back, her eyes slits. She didn't look pretty like this, only dangerous.
“I just wanted to see it. It was an accident. I didn't do it on purpose,” I wailed. “Now I have nothing left!”
“Oh, quit your whining. You had nothing left, anyway. You are always carrying that stupid doll that he gave you. He's with his new family now, don't you know?” she taunted cruelly. “I did you a favor, Jill. Stay out of my room next time.” She turned on her heel and left, her black hair whipping out behind her like a flag.
I sat down on the bed, tears still swimming in my eyes. Betsy looked back at me, her broken face mirroring mine. I tried to see her eyes, but they were too smashed in. I smoothed out her dress, but there was nothing left to save. I couldn't bear to throw her out, so I went into the hallway and came back with a pillowcase. I wrapped up her broken body and tucked her under my bed. She was still together in one place, even if I couldn't fix her. Maybe if Dad came back he could glue her back together for me. I tried not to think about how hard that might be, with all of those tiny pieces, that no one could do that. I pushed the thought away and began humming the song I heard Elizabeth singing yesterday. If I concentrated hard enough, I thought I could smell the scent of roses in the air.
I
Shattered
We were different, as sisters often were. Even back then, Elizabeth was the radiant one, as bright and enthralling as the sun. She held you in her orbit; you wanted to bask in the glow of her smile. However, like the sun, she was capricious and would just as often burn you as not. Still, you took the chance just to be near her, because she was worth the chance of pain.
If Elizabeth was the sun, then I was a little nutbrown hare basking in what shade I could find. We were not a matched pair; I was not the moon to her sun. To be the moon I would have to be an opposite but equal force, and it was just not so. I was not a force of nature, a satellite in the sky. I was a drab little thing, hanging on her word, tagging along. It had always been thus, it would always be so.
Elizabeth was just a few years older than me, and she could be friend or foe, her moods changing as quickly as the Northern wind blew and ruffled the lacy bedroom curtains. One night after school she might invite me into the sanctuary of her bedroom, that most holy of places, and offer to paint my toenails. The next, I could pound fruitlessly at her door with no hope of even an answer. It was hard to explain her universal appeal, and yet it was there, as intangible yet real as the rays of the sun.
One afternoon she invited me into her room and allowed me to sit on her bed. I brought my doll, Betsy, and tried not to look around too obviously as Elizabeth took out the rubber band and began brushing my long hair. I didn't want to break the spell and be punished, cast out from this paradise for a wrongdoing.
“Jill, you have the best hair. It's so long. I'm going to do it into a long French braid, okay? I just learned how today, so sit still.”
I enjoyed the feel of my sister's long fingers carding through my hair. I closed my eyes and reveled in the sensation, the sharp tugging almost on the edge of pain, but not quite. It was true, my hair was longer, but hers was jet black and so shiny that you couldn't help but want to reach out and touch it as she went by. Mine was a dull brown in comparison, with fuzz and flyaways that would never lay flat. Another thing for me to envy. Somehow I didn't begrudge her her beauty, though. I loved her all the more for it, and I was proud of her, as if I might stand in her reflected glory and it would cast a little shine on me, too.
I cracked my eyelids and chanced a glance around her room. She had decorated it in a style that matched her personality. Items vied for attention with no seeming order, the colors and shapes in no discernible pattern, yet what might have looked like too much junk somehow arranged itself into a comfortable mix of things that leaped to catch your attention. Elizabeth had things from her childhood on shelves, teddy bears missing eyes and busting their seams, blue ribbons and trophies alongside photos of her with her friends, mugging for the camera. Everywhere you looked you could see something of hers, something she loved. I looked at cutouts from a magazine with a picture of her favorite movie star, an article on how to find the best color lipstick for your skin tone, and her three last books that she was reading piled in a stack on her nightside table. I let my eyes wander around each item and bauble until my gaze finally found what it sought.
I swallowed as I looked at what was my favorite possession of hers. She owed a perfume bottle made of the most delicate china. Our father had gone on a trip overseas, and he had gotten me Betsy, and gotten her that bottle. It held her signature scent, roses. The bottle was so thin that it looked like an eggshell. It was made of delicate pink, and there was a secret to it that made me shiver. If you tilted it up to the light, through the bottom you could see the cameo of a real lady, a Gibson girl with a feathered hat, a big puffy bun and a half smile. If you looked at it from any normal angle, you would not see the lady. She could only be revealed when the bottle was empty and held to the light. It was a treasure that always delighted me to behold, but Elizabeth was whimsical with her generosity.
I stared at the bottle for a few moments before gathering my courage. I had to weigh the benefits against the risks. I took a breath and took my chance. “Elizabeth?”
She had been humming. “What?”
“Can I hold your bottle when you are done braiding my hair? Maybe try some perfume?” I tried not to sound like I was begging. She hated that. I wanted to be casual, like we were friends. I didn't want to overstep my bounds, though. “Please,” I added hastily.
Her hands stilled in my hair. I could feel her letting go of the strands, all of the careful work she had done unwinding, coming out. The hair slid around itself out of it's carefully worked bonds, just like that. One minute a marvel, the next a mess. I knew her answer before I heard it. “Just get out,” she said flatly.
I went, my head bowed. I remembered to grab Betsy and hugged her to my chest, but she brought little comfort.
In retrospect, I could see where everything went wrong, but at the time I was not thinking ahead. I waited a few days until Elizabeth was studying after school at a friend's house, when I knew I would not be disturbed. I had never gotten the courage to do anything like this before, but I was stung by her constant dismissal, and I just wanted to see that bottle, to hold it. I padded silently to her room and turned the doorknob.
When I stepped over the threshold, I felt a shiver of foreboding. I knew that I shouldn't be there, and the tension was palpable, but I could no sooner change course now than I could change who I was. I was going to see that bottle. I wouldn't touch anything else. She would never know I had been there.
I tried not to look at anything, as if by keeping my eyes to myself I could lessen the intrusion. I walked slowly, with determination, to the shelf that held the bottle. My hand reached out to take it.
My breath caught, as it always did, no matter how many times I saw it. It was simply the most beautifully crafted thing I had seen. Elizabeth was so lucky! I couldn't see the lady, because the bottle was full of perfume, but I turned the tiny decanter around and around in my fingers, hardly feeling it. I lifted the long, slender dropper and inhaled attar of roses. I closed my eyes as images of Elizabeth leaped into my mind. I so desperately wanted to be like her!
I didn't see the drop of oil dangling on the end of the applicator, and it fell on my fingers, making them slick. It only took a second for the bottle to become slippery in my clumsy fingers. Almost before I understood what had happened, the bottle had slipped from my grasp. The thin eggshell of the bottle didn't stand a chance, even on the plush carpet of Elizabeth's bedroom floor. I could only watch in horror as the inevitable happened. It shattered into a thousand pieces in a few seconds. My regret would echo for a lot longer.
I stared, frozen in disbelief at the tableaux before me. My mind would not absorb what it knew to be true. I had come in, nay; sneaked into my sister's room and broken her favorite thing. My heart jumped into my throat and I felt as if I couldn't breathe around it. The moment seemed to pause for the enormity of the error I had made. My eyes would not blink. I think the memory of those shards will be burned upon my brain forever. In truth, I wish it had made a bigger mess, a more glorious ruin. The bottle had been so small and fragile, though, that when it shattered it quietly went to pieces in the way it was wrought: with a delicacy that was as impressive as it's whole. The pieces were, in fact, barely discernible in the weave of the carpet, the fine shards already settling in and gone.
When I finally breathed in, I felt tears rush to my eyes. I backed away, not willing or able to do anything more than bear witness. I stared a little stupidly at the intact dropper still in my hand, the grace of the line it presented now out of place and absurd. It mocked me in my shame and I placed it carefully on the dresser top before I turned to leave.
I spent the rest of the day in self imposed exile in my own room, jittery and attuned to the moment of my impending doom. I could not concentrate on any small task; neither my homework nor anything more pleasurable held my interest. The waiting was excruciating and it wasn't until after I went to bed that my keen ears picked up the sounds of Elizabeth returning. I waited with bated breath for the storm I knew was coming. In fact, by this time, I was ready for it and I needed to do my penance. I was just too scared to face my sister on my own terms. I could let her wrath wash over me, and then we would both feel better.
I waited in vain. I heard nothing from her room.
I was puzzled. I was sure that she had noticed the destruction, probably almost immediately. She was sure to have traced it to me, as well. Where were the fireworks? Her legendary temper?
I ended up falling asleep that night waiting for some sort of spark of anger from her. It never came. The next morning at breakfast, I hesitantly searched her face for signs of upset, but saw none. Could it be that I had gotten off Scot free? My heart lightened. Perhaps I dodged a bullet after all!
It wasn't until later that evening I felt the full force of her vengeance. I came home from school and slung my backpack onto my bed. My heart stopped when I saw what lay before me. There was Betsy, her face crushed in. My stomach dropped into my feet, and I felt sick, but I couldn't stop the tears from welling up. I hated myself, but I gathered up her broken remains and cried loudly, like the baby I was.
“Hurts, doesn't it?”
I turned and saw my sister leaning casually against the door frame.
My face was a swollen blotch of tears and snot. “Why did you do it? That was from Dad!”
“Why did you?” she hissed back, her eyes slits. She didn't look pretty like this, only dangerous.
“I just wanted to see it. It was an accident. I didn't do it on purpose,” I wailed. “Now I have nothing left!”
“Oh, quit your whining. You had nothing left, anyway. You are always carrying that stupid doll that he gave you. He's with his new family now, don't you know?” she taunted cruelly. “I did you a favor, Jill. Stay out of my room next time.” She turned on her heel and left, her black hair whipping out behind her like a flag.
I sat down on the bed, tears still swimming in my eyes. Betsy looked back at me, her broken face mirroring mine. I tried to see her eyes, but they were too smashed in. I smoothed out her dress, but there was nothing left to save. I couldn't bear to throw her out, so I went into the hallway and came back with a pillowcase. I wrapped up her broken body and tucked her under my bed. She was still together in one place, even if I couldn't fix her. Maybe if Dad came back he could glue her back together for me. I tried not to think about how hard that might be, with all of those tiny pieces, that no one could do that. I pushed the thought away and began humming the song I heard Elizabeth singing yesterday. If I concentrated hard enough, I thought I could smell the scent of roses in the air.
I