Dark and Gloomy. Weeping Willow
They say your only as important as the people willing to die just to protect you. It isn't just saying you will, but to actually do it is something different. I never would have imagined that someone would... would die for me. And though she may not seem Important to you... she was sure important to him. And that's all that mattered to me.
I remember that night. Cold, yet windless. Busy, yet quiet. I merely sat there and cried at what lied in front of me. There she lied, my angel, my savior, my Guinevere. Or my father's to be exact. See what made me cry even harder, was thoughts of how my father would feel when he realized his true love Guin died, died defending me.
Her brown skin all but perfect. Her hair, an odd misty black that seemed to shine in the light of the full moon. Her eyes a bloody red. She laid there, arms stretched out, like some crucifix that hung perfectly from the ground. I think of its Irony, because up till now, her name and the word Harlot seemed to make up the sentence of her life. At least that's what everyone kept drilling in my head. But not my father. No he.
Well aren't I getting ahead of myself.
#
I was born Christopher, which was weird enough considering that it is a boy's name, and I'm, in fact, a girl. I was born to Douglas Christopher Wells and Annabelle Tao Ming. They called my birth a miracle. Two very powerful families in the world giving birth to a child who would one day inherit all of it. Talk about holding all of the cards.But I digress.
Most people called me Kimera, due to the fact that, well for lack of a better word, I am inter. Inter. Inter? Well I was from two cultures. This fact made my younger years in Britain lonely ones.
I remember the first day of class, when all the other kids threw my lunch box over the fence, where a homeless man stayed. He was old and shabby, smelling of sea salt and a powerful second smell that seemed indistinguishable. Liqueur? Piss? I couldn't put a name to it, but it made me choose death over hunger. Or hunger over the smell? Yes, that's it.
Well anyways, I had left class early and ran home, tail between my legs, and eyes full of tears. I spent the remainder of the day, crying in my mother's lap, waiting to grow up so I wouldn't have to go back ever again. I prayed, with all my heart, that I would never have to go back. My mother brushed my silky brown hair as she handed me another tissue.
"Don't worry my little Kimera," She whispered (like repeating it would make it hurt less) "They just don't understand. Your unique."
"But I don't want to be unique" I cried back. "I just want to be like everyone else. Why can't I be like everyone else?" And I wept in her lap. Like a low hanging willow? A weeping willow. And no matter how long my mother tried to soothe my little, aching (metaphorically and strangely physically speaking) heart, the worst it got. Finally she gave a sigh, for she knew she could never do it. Not like my father.
"Come on. Lets tell your father about it" She smiled, as though to cover up her failure. "I'm sure he'll be able to help."
I always found it strange. She had the beautiful sea blue kind eyes. Gentle black hair with vanilla skin that reminded me of ice cream. She never wore make up and wasn't the most pretty, but. She had a kind heart and soft pink lips. I liked the fact that I saw her everyday. Doing what mother's do best. But even though I rarely saw my father, she could never calm me like he does.
#
Maybe it was because I rarely saw him. He was always gone. Working. He was. How should I describe it? A cortege or guard for other people. From other important and powerful families from other places. Other places. But not here.#
It used to make my heart sink into my stomach whenever we got visitors at our house. They never came to just "visit", but they always wanted something.
"Guard me while I visit [blank]"
"Aid me in [blank]"
"Protect me as I [blank]"
It was always the same, every one of them. But in truth it wasn't the act of him leaving that saddened me. It was the look on his face whenever he agreed. It was always the same. He would slowly push his brunette hair behind his ears, and then put his cigarette out in his cup of brandy. Then he would sigh.
"Alright. I'll do it," He would say in a way that would drain the life out of every person in the room. Everyone but the person asking. They would thank him over and over as though they had just won some sort of award. It made me sick. The nerve of those ungrateful bastards.
Sorry, I got a little carried away there.
But it was because of him I love the smell of clovers. When ever he returned he would stick to the routine. He would walk in the door, light up a clover cigarette, and then kick off his white buckled platform shoes. He would then take of his black trench coat, and hang it on the coat rack.
He would make his way to my mother, who waited patiently like a dog at the door for him. She would kiss him on his cheek, then watch as he drifted pass her. He would then pat me on the head and make his way to his office. Not to be seen until the next meal.
It was strange to me. I never once saw them do anything. Together. My mother would always tell me stories of how when she was younger growing up in China, he would make things. She said he once took a bottle of pink and purple dust, and threw a lit match into it. It exploded into a heart shaped cloud. She said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Yet I don't think she is talking about the same person. Now it seems he spends more time in his office than with her.
#
But I loved his office. It was different. Like me. The rest of the house was a light brown, wood with a brown, green, orange earth ensemble going on. Which I liked (I hate pastels). We had a glass roof which was the most beautiful, most free spirited, most warming. It was long and, and short, like a bungalow.
But my father's office was different. The main hall seemed to creep up to his door. His door was a dark blood cherry oak, with a large burned silver knocker. He had red plush carpet, and bookshelves lined up, like some sort of library. It was strangely tall, and had a fireplace.
I used to come in every time my mother went shopping or when she slept in her large yet lonesome bed, and read a book or two by fire before I slept. Stories about things that happened on his trips. Not so much stories, but journals and records of how things played out. But of all the stories he had, nothing caught me more than the stories in the black books. Those few forbidden ones locked in the dark corner of my father's office.
Invoking.
Necromancy.
Star gazing.
Abjuring.
Neopaganism
Entrapment.
These black books made my eyes twinkle. Something about them made me wonder. They made me twinkle simple because my father took great care of them. There condition was near mint, not at all like the other books in his narcissistic library. They looked down upon these black books like one would look down upon a germ. They shunned them. Feared them. I loved that.
I became so engulfed in these books that I began to take them everywhere. I remember my fourth week of summer classes I began to take the books with me. My teacher bored me. She would sit there and go on and on about shapes and ridiculous mathematics. I don't think she realized that it was a private school. To sit here and waste our time and money was down right.
But I'm getting off topic here.
I would read the recipes and techniques in each and every book. I marveled at there complex nature and wondered at the level of brilliance that would be required just to write them. My obsession and grown to the point where it no longer satisfied me to just read. I had to practice. I must practice. The curiosity filled my bones. But just when I found what I was looking for, my book suddenly disappeared from under me. I looked down then looked up. Kimberly Ann Reynolds.
#
She had a tendency to come at me for no reason. Daughter of some CEO and an Actress from some show I could care less about. This incomprehensible little. Little. Bitch. Found her entertain by coming over to my desk and taking something off. It was strange. Never anything important. A pen. A piece of paper. A copy of a worksheet she already had completed. Just the most ridiculous things. But what made it worst is not only would I not get it back, but also what ever she took would always come to bite me in the ass later on.
For example. The fifth. No. Sixth week of the summer class, this annoying little girl had passed by my desk. Casually picks up my pencil and in one chomp. She bit off the eraser on the end. All of it. She chews on it and smiles.
"Well Kimera!" she said with her slurish, choppy. Incomplete , and hard to understand accent. "Same time tomorrow?" and she skipped away from my desk. The other students watching her like she had loss her mind.
At the end of the summer class, we had a test to decide what first grade class we would be placed into. I had rushed through the test with ease. I decided to double-check my work and I had run into mistake. I had misread the exam question. A ridiculous one it was. (There are four apples. And one orange. How many total vegetables are there?) So I laugh at the easiness of the question, and the fact that I had missed it. I turn my pencil over and. No eraser.
Because of that answer I had passed the test. But failed the Exam. And I ended up being placed in the same class as her.
"Aren't you glad." She said with a mocking (maybe not, I could never tell with her) joy. "We get to see each other for another year. I'm utterly giddy with excitement!" Then she skips away, with my ruler. It was like she had planned this out from the beginning. Always me. Never anyone else.
So now she stands over me. Pawing through my book. As she reads it, she gives a yawn, as though she was trying to upset me. She closes the book, and stares at me. I know what is about to happen. But I can't do anything about it.
I..................
Necromancy.
Star gazing.
Abjuring.
Neopaganism.
Entrapment.
#
I made my way home after class. My heart racing for I knew that my father would be upset if he discovered what had happened. When I made it home. The moment I walked in the door, I took a big breath and sighed in relief. He wasn't here.
Later that night I continued my nightly ritual. This time I began to read Entrapment. This book was probably my favorite. It was simple. Not all that complex and had very fun stories. One specific story that I found fascinating was called. Butterfly in the Invisible Jar.
December 13, 1973: It Guinevere's birthday in a week. She always seems to shine around this time. But she's always complaining about how she can't wait for spring. Like yesterday when we sat around the fireplace. She goes on and on about how cold it is and how she wishes she could leave Chicago and live in Los Angeles, like when we were younger. So I've decided. I'm going to call Frank and ask him to send me 17 butterflies.
December 17, 1973: So I receive the butterflies in priority shipping however, 10 of them died on the way here. The company that delivered them isn't going to refund them. They say that I should have known the risk and that there not responsible for damaged goods. Bullshit. But regardless, I still thank Frank for going out of his way. He says it was no trouble. Apparently he was put in charge of the church's youth program and was able to work it into the schedule (I hope he didn't use those poor kids.)
December 20, 1973: This is terrible. Guin's mother accidentally let the butterflies loose. Apparently she went to the attic to get the Christmas decorations and accidentally grabbed the box with the butterflies inside. She opened it and was so shocked that she killed all but one that managed to fly out the window. Later (after being scolded), I went out and searched for it. I found it perched on a tree. I decided to use the invisible jar Guin and I made in July. Once entrapped, the butterfly should, if as expected, never die.
December 21, 1973: Guin was so excited when she got the butterfly. She cried for hours. No matter how sassy and angry she acts, she always does something to remind me how much I love her...
Up till now, I could never imagine my father going out in the snow to get a butterfly. But from the writing. The passion. The emotion in other wise simple piece of work. He was truly happy. This Guinevere must be some person. But for some reason I knew my mother might not wish to talk to me about it.
But eventually she would have to.
I spent the next few days. In a mimic mood as one would say. I kept reading that story, trying to understand not just the words, but the pictures. I knew it had to be the pictures. But what. What does it mean? Because I'm young, will I not understand?
I sat in my fall class, the book in front of me. Going over it like it was some sort of riddle. With the time I wasted, I broke it down to a simple equation. I picked an excellent time to do it as well, because Kim was no where to be found. Or so I thought.
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