Short Story -- Left Behind
So I asked talonkarrde88 for a writing prompt, yesterday. First he gave me "Forgotten Earrings." Then he amended it, gave me "The earrings I left behind," instead. THEN he compromised with "Intentionally forgotten earrings." At which point I staked a claim on "The earrings I left behind," because I liked that prompt best. Though this kind of hits on all three, in a way. :)
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
But then again, when does anything ever go the way you planned it? Almost never, right? Those rare, fleeting moments when things go without a hitch -- they never last long. They can’t. And even if they do...
It’s not human nature to remember them. Instead, we remember what went wrong. Instead, we figure out what we could have done differently -- what we should have done, differently.
And maybe this was one of them. Maybe this -- this commitment we made to one another was one that never should have happened. Maybe we should have avoided it. Maybe you should have stayed away. Maybe I should have said no.
But it’s too late now, isn’t it? Seven years too late, really. We made a choice. Or rather, you made the decision to ask. I chose what I thought was the only acceptable answer.
Because marriage proposals only really have one correct answer, don’t they?
***
A simple pair of earrings. She gave them to me, long ago. And really, they’re kind of pointless. I don’t wear jewelry. Not even these -- cute, little gold studs in the shape of ladybugs. A splash of red, just to take the image home.
I would have worn them, if I could do so without causing myself pain. The holes in my ears have been partially closed for years before she ever bought me these little earrings. Probably would have worn them in spite of said pain, just to please her, if she had ever asked why I never wore them.
But she never asked. And so, I never did. I kept them hidden, shoved inside a lockbox filled with other, small, inconsequential treasure.
My rings and the one necklace she bought me -- those won’t ever make it in the lockbox. They were actually worn, you see. They’ve become a part of me that I still struggle with the idea of letting go of. But these earrings...
She bought them for me because she knew how much I liked ladybugs. And she knew I would never wear showy, expensive jewelry, even then. So these small studs were her compromise -- something she thought I might wear, just because they were cute, because they were in the image of my favorite kind of bug, because they reminded her of me.
And maybe that should have been enough reason to wear them.
And really, how often did she really think of me, when doing anything that was meant for us? How often did she really stop and think about what I wanted -- or even asked what I wanted, what I thought?
I never intended to get married at nineteen. Saying yes only a month before my 19th birthday, maybe. But I had wanted to go to college, first. Wanted to live on my own for a bit. Support her from a distance. Military life, I knew, wasn’t ever going to be for me. And yet...
And yet, when she said she wanted to get married in May, when she was on leave and between assignments, I couldn’t find it in me to say no.
But I wanted to. And really, shouldn’t that have been all the more reason to say it?
***
Marriage was a convenient way out. A way to escape the poverty I had grown so accustomed to. To avoid watching my mother and my step-father tear each other apart as their own marriage collapsed underneath them.
And maybe it was a way out for her, too. After all, she was only doing what others expected of her -- or so she tells me years later, as we sit side by side, the silent stretches longer than those moments where one of us speaks. She thought she was supposed to ask me back out. To ask me to marry her. To marry me.
I want to cry bullshit. I want to tell her no, she did these things because she didn’t want to be alone. Because she’s terrified of being alone, and always has been. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t feel so alone now if she had just waited, if she had given us more time to grow and mature without wrapping ourselves around the other, depending on the other for our own happiness.
Except all I can do is slowly remove my rings and toy with them between shaking fingers. Rings she had custom made, just for me. As I stare at them, she continues speaking, her words empty and falling on deaf ears.
She doesn’t love me. She probably never has.
Anger fills me then. And it keeps me full, for a long time.
***
Those earrings still sit inside that lockbox. My anger’s fading, but not completely gone -- it flares on occasion, with the errant word or action, waiting for something larger to fuel it.
I try not to stoke the fire. Not worth it, being angry all the time. I’ve seen the damage it’s done to me, and now it’s time to focus on repairing, not destroying -- myself, or anyone else around me.
My rings and the necklace sit inside my wallet. I only see them when I use it -- which isn’t often, as I’m not in the habit of carrying it, instead taking only what I need when I go somewhere. But they’re there, waiting to be seen again, never truly forgotten.
I had forgotten about the earrings, you see. It’s been years since I’ve last opened up the box and looked at them, years since I last studied the intricate little details. And then a friend gave me a writing prompt, upon my request, and -- well, I now hold them in my hand. There’s more red on them than I thought -- less gold than I thought, used only for the outline of the bug -- and for the spots that make the ladybug so distinctive. And the heads are painted black, too, outlined in gold just like the rest of the beetle.
I’ve never worn them. I never will.
I’ll be leaving them here, with her.
-
AN: I don't normally feel the need to clarify a few things, but -- in this case, I do. The earrings mentioned in the above piece do exist, but my mother was the one who gave them to me, not Evelyn. Every other detail is correct.
I will also note that this isn't...exactly what I thought about writing, when Sean initially gave me the prompt, yesterday. I had an idea of making it more fiction than non, of a woman who had left earrings behind for much the same reasons as I detail above, but y'know, I don't always control the words. Sometimes they do their own thing, and this came out, instead. The joys of just putting fingers to keys. =p
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
But then again, when does anything ever go the way you planned it? Almost never, right? Those rare, fleeting moments when things go without a hitch -- they never last long. They can’t. And even if they do...
It’s not human nature to remember them. Instead, we remember what went wrong. Instead, we figure out what we could have done differently -- what we should have done, differently.
And maybe this was one of them. Maybe this -- this commitment we made to one another was one that never should have happened. Maybe we should have avoided it. Maybe you should have stayed away. Maybe I should have said no.
But it’s too late now, isn’t it? Seven years too late, really. We made a choice. Or rather, you made the decision to ask. I chose what I thought was the only acceptable answer.
Because marriage proposals only really have one correct answer, don’t they?
***
A simple pair of earrings. She gave them to me, long ago. And really, they’re kind of pointless. I don’t wear jewelry. Not even these -- cute, little gold studs in the shape of ladybugs. A splash of red, just to take the image home.
I would have worn them, if I could do so without causing myself pain. The holes in my ears have been partially closed for years before she ever bought me these little earrings. Probably would have worn them in spite of said pain, just to please her, if she had ever asked why I never wore them.
But she never asked. And so, I never did. I kept them hidden, shoved inside a lockbox filled with other, small, inconsequential treasure.
My rings and the one necklace she bought me -- those won’t ever make it in the lockbox. They were actually worn, you see. They’ve become a part of me that I still struggle with the idea of letting go of. But these earrings...
She bought them for me because she knew how much I liked ladybugs. And she knew I would never wear showy, expensive jewelry, even then. So these small studs were her compromise -- something she thought I might wear, just because they were cute, because they were in the image of my favorite kind of bug, because they reminded her of me.
And maybe that should have been enough reason to wear them.
And really, how often did she really think of me, when doing anything that was meant for us? How often did she really stop and think about what I wanted -- or even asked what I wanted, what I thought?
I never intended to get married at nineteen. Saying yes only a month before my 19th birthday, maybe. But I had wanted to go to college, first. Wanted to live on my own for a bit. Support her from a distance. Military life, I knew, wasn’t ever going to be for me. And yet...
And yet, when she said she wanted to get married in May, when she was on leave and between assignments, I couldn’t find it in me to say no.
But I wanted to. And really, shouldn’t that have been all the more reason to say it?
***
Marriage was a convenient way out. A way to escape the poverty I had grown so accustomed to. To avoid watching my mother and my step-father tear each other apart as their own marriage collapsed underneath them.
And maybe it was a way out for her, too. After all, she was only doing what others expected of her -- or so she tells me years later, as we sit side by side, the silent stretches longer than those moments where one of us speaks. She thought she was supposed to ask me back out. To ask me to marry her. To marry me.
I want to cry bullshit. I want to tell her no, she did these things because she didn’t want to be alone. Because she’s terrified of being alone, and always has been. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t feel so alone now if she had just waited, if she had given us more time to grow and mature without wrapping ourselves around the other, depending on the other for our own happiness.
Except all I can do is slowly remove my rings and toy with them between shaking fingers. Rings she had custom made, just for me. As I stare at them, she continues speaking, her words empty and falling on deaf ears.
She doesn’t love me. She probably never has.
Anger fills me then. And it keeps me full, for a long time.
***
Those earrings still sit inside that lockbox. My anger’s fading, but not completely gone -- it flares on occasion, with the errant word or action, waiting for something larger to fuel it.
I try not to stoke the fire. Not worth it, being angry all the time. I’ve seen the damage it’s done to me, and now it’s time to focus on repairing, not destroying -- myself, or anyone else around me.
My rings and the necklace sit inside my wallet. I only see them when I use it -- which isn’t often, as I’m not in the habit of carrying it, instead taking only what I need when I go somewhere. But they’re there, waiting to be seen again, never truly forgotten.
I had forgotten about the earrings, you see. It’s been years since I’ve last opened up the box and looked at them, years since I last studied the intricate little details. And then a friend gave me a writing prompt, upon my request, and -- well, I now hold them in my hand. There’s more red on them than I thought -- less gold than I thought, used only for the outline of the bug -- and for the spots that make the ladybug so distinctive. And the heads are painted black, too, outlined in gold just like the rest of the beetle.
I’ve never worn them. I never will.
I’ll be leaving them here, with her.
-
AN: I don't normally feel the need to clarify a few things, but -- in this case, I do. The earrings mentioned in the above piece do exist, but my mother was the one who gave them to me, not Evelyn. Every other detail is correct.
I will also note that this isn't...exactly what I thought about writing, when Sean initially gave me the prompt, yesterday. I had an idea of making it more fiction than non, of a woman who had left earrings behind for much the same reasons as I detail above, but y'know, I don't always control the words. Sometimes they do their own thing, and this came out, instead. The joys of just putting fingers to keys. =p