There is a certain calmness in my room that I am not accustomed to. The silence is creeping into my ears and deceiving my brain with soothing thoughts of reassurance. Everything is okay.
You’re able of facing what this day has to offer, you’re quite able of going to school; wake up.
The calm is heavy, pressing me into my bed and preventing me from getting up and confronting this Thursday morning. The vintage alarm clock balanced on my bedside table tick-tick-ticks, each tick reminding me I have five minutes left of enduring the calm before I can rise and get ready for my day.
The reason I like the clock is because it gives me a sense of time. A mute advisor isn’t worth much, advice is best given through speech and my alarm clock does just that.
Four minutes. My being is uneasy and my stomach churns, very slowly.
Maybe I should be accustom to this calm, after all I face it every morning; but when my bed smells of sweet perfumes and fabric softener and feels like a patch of feather-pedalled flowers, the calm isn’t convincing enough to make me rise.
I know I have to begin this day in two minutes, thirty-five seconds, but I can’t bring myself to trust the calm, it surrounds me like an army and I know I’m defenceless to it.
There is a scream, an order, but it does not startle me, I hear it every day. The final feat is made by my alarm clock, shouting sounds of bells and buzzers; the translation, wake up you don’t have a choice. And like every other morning I lose the silent battle and heave myself out of comfort and warmth and set my feet down on the cold unwelcoming floorboards.

I gently set my hand down on my clock, putting a stop to its commands, assuring it that it had emerged the victor of this early morning mêlée.
I move tentatively towards the bathroom, trying to accept defeat. I’m already feeling very uncomfortable; I’m a soldier and I’m on enemy territory, and I’m sure that things will only get worse as the day progresses.
Even the bathroom is a hostile environment; cold white tile and sterile countertops. I almost welcome the warm water of the shower but it does not provide the same warmth as my lovely bed. This is a scorching warmth, a violent warmth, and it’s just as persistent as the calm in trying to wake me up.
I wipe the steam away from the mirror with my hand and look intently into my eyes, I study them. They’re pale blue, a hazy whitish blue but I can still see what’s behind them by the ill at ease manner by which they stare back at me. There’s a lot of discomfort and malcontent, they tell me what I’m really feeling and what I really want; I want to get out of here. I want to sink back into my bed and close my eyes and go someplace else. But I remind myself I can’t and that I have to be at school in an hour and that I don’t have a choice.
I make my way back into my bedroom and can feel the invisible subconscious forces in my mind drawing me back to my bed, but I resist and instead I put on a grey corduroy jacket and a big black knit scarf; they seem to bring back to me some of the warmth from about half an hour ago that now seems so distant.
I finally open my bedroom door and observe the vast high-ceilinged hallway before me. It has extravagant, creamy white walls with golden detailed trim, and the walls are lined with paintings of all sizes of my mother’s mother’s mother and father’s father and so on as well as various other pieces whose origins I know nothing about.
I dread the sound of my footsteps echoing down the endless corridor, but I know I have to face them as well. My bare feet stick to the hardwood floors as I walk slowly though hurriedly. The eyes of my ancestors gaze down upon me and scrutinize my every step. They ask me why, why are you not like us?
I don’t know what to say to them.
I take a sharp left before I reach the grand stained glass entrance of my home and enter the cleanly stainless steel kitchen which my mother works so hard to keep spotless. I take a look in the pantry and wonder to myself what I’m going to eat for breakfast.
I tend to grab the first thing I see, which is exactly what I decided to do this Thursday morning. My hand found me a fruit garnished granola bar which was satisfactory. I put it inside my book bag.
I peer back out into the hall feeling as if I’m about to be ambushed, but I give myself that final push towards the front door. I’m almost in a frenzy now, fiddling with my chain of keys to get the door open, all the while dozens of acrylic and oil based painted eyes staring at my back, closing in.
I almost forget to lock the door, so focused on getting out. So I turn around to face the manor for what I hope, but know will never be the last time, and lock the door.

I turn around and faced the early winter, it was mid-November but the snow already covered most of the yellowed and very dead ground. The air was crisp and the wind was bitter and dry, dead leaves whirled around my head and I rubbed my bare hands together in an effort to heat up on my way to the bus stop.
The sounds of the outdoors are bliss to my ears, cars, the few birds that had yet to have flown south, the rustling of the trees; the clamour was a suburban orchestra and I cherished its disorderly melodies.
Then I heard my bus, it came to a screeching halt and provided the shortly awaited solo in the song of the street.
I give little acknowledgement to the driver as I supply him with my bus fare, and I give little acknowledgement to the passengers of my bus. Some faces I recognize from bus rides prior, and some I’ve never seen before. Regardless of recognition, I sit down and ignore my company as well as my surroundings; it is not because I’m a cold person, one could argue that we as a society have lost our sociability, maybe because we have fear distilled in us every day, maybe because we no longer feel there is a need to socialize; but no. I’m not ignorant because of fear, but because of envy.
I envy their average lives.
A wealthy woman marries a wealthy man, because it is in her best interest to marry within her social class. They have a child together. That child is me.
Ever since I can remember I’ve had everything handed to me on a silver platter. I wanted a toy, I received it. Sometimes I wonder if I even have the ability to appreciate. Do I value my belongings; do I value my own life?
Ordinary people always have something to look forward to, something to dream for. What do I dream for? I wonder to myself and my contemplations go unanswered.
The wheels of the bus move slowly and the engine lets out short coughs.
I clutch my book bag and gaze upon the people walking the streets. My heart feels like it’s sinking in my chest, my eyes burn with jealousy and resentment.
I wish I was back in bed, I wish I was immersed in the comfort and warmth of my soft downy blankets. Maybe if I fell asleep I could wake up someone else.
What do I dream for? Maybe I just want to have hope; I covet these ordinary people not because of their way of life, but their ability to dream. What they posses is the desire to live, what motivates them is what they are lacking in.
Maybe it’s the desire for money. Maybe its power they’re craving for. Maybe they just want some appreciation.
I need motivation.

-

The bus comes to a halt and I try to shake bad thoughts out of my head but they never seem to want to leave me completely.
I make my way across the street towards a bulky intimidating structure; a large brown building, stack upon stack of massive cubes of brick, towering glass windows which cover floors at a time with their impressive length. This is my school, just another variation of the cold corporate world that I’m trapped in.
I look it up and down and my stomach churns once more.
I take a glance at the giant clock perched about the school entrance as flakes of snow begin to fall from the grey autumn sky and I have no choice but to go inside. Class is due to begin in seven minutes.
Inside is warm, but once again not the same warmth as that of my bed. The soaring ceilings and unforgiving emptiness overwhelm me, and I don’t want to see my friends. They are a reminder of everything I hate. Privileged, spoiled, not a care in the world.
My locker is ten paces away, and I can see them waiting for me. They wave and smile and I wave and smile back. I wonder if my eyes are just as revealing to them as they are to me. Can they see what’s behind them, or are they just blissfully ignorant, focused on the outside, the appearance of things?
“Good morning Paige, how are you today?” Dakota sings, “Are you ready for the science exam?” she adds, not giving me the chance to answer her first question; and I’m glad for it.
“Oh I think so, I’m trying not to worry too much about science I have a few other things on my mind right now.”
“Like what?” she takes a stride towards me, her coiled hair bouncing as she does.
“Like finding my winter hat.” I lie, shaking my head slightly so as to let them see the flakes of snow fall from my hair.
Dakota laughs and puts a hand on my shoulder; I resent it, “Well as long as you think you’re prepared. Aubrey and I are going to the library today at lunch to study; I assume you want to come with us?”
“Why not,” I force another small smile before the bell announcing the start of the school day rings, allowing me some privacy.
“We’ll see you later then Paige,” says Aubrey, and the two wave to me one last time before they make their way to their own lockers to gather their things for class.
I sign inwardly before I open my locker and organize my belongings.
Staring for a moment at my books I once again feel the urge to flee. Just close your locker and leave, no harm done. But I have thirty seconds before class starts and the unwavering obligation presses on.
I retrieve my pencil case and binder, and I shut my locker.

I’m in class but I’m somewhere else altogether. My mind wanders continuously and I know that I have no control over it.
I watch intently as lines of chalk, form letter, form words, on the blackboard. They form words without me reading them, and I am intently focused on nothing in particular.
My pencil glides along paper, glides in circles, swirls and shapes and I watch the convoluted performance of lead on loose-leaf.
I’m so focused on nothing that I fail to notice Mr. Bennett’s first attempt at reaching me. But the second time he manages to break through my fixation, “Ms. Hurst, could you please answer question six for us?”
For a second panic, then I observe the question. It takes me twenty seconds to answer, but I ultimately get the right answer.
“Very good,” states Mr. Bennett, “But next time I’d like for you to be paying a little more attention to the lesson.”
I nod and my eyes immediately return to the cartoon ballet taking place on my sheet.

It is lunch and I return to my locker. I feel the same sinking feeling in my stomach and I decide that I want to fill it. My eyes drift to my book bag and I remember the granola bar I managed to pack during my escape from the house. I pick it out and open it then proceed to consume it whole.
Before I know it I feel familiar presences standing behind me and turn to greet them.
“Hi guys.” I welcome them, curving my lips into a smile but not being able to rid of what I know is the same sadness in my eyes.
Without hesitation Dakota replies with a hardy, “Hi,” But it’s Aubrey who squints at me and asks, “Are you okay Paige?”
My whole being becomes stiff, the question awakes the malaise in my stomach and I have to lift my shoulders to relieve the tension in my back, “I think so, but... I don’t know really,” I look back and forth and my companions look at me with some anxiety, “I’m just having an off day. Yes, I think that’s it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that but I’m glad it’s nothing serious. I’ve been thinking that maybe something awful had happened.” Aubrey raises her eyebrows with a small smile, “Go to sleep early tonight, every time I’m feeling down I try to get some extra rest and I’ll feel exceptional the next day.”
Aubrey doesn’t quite understand.
“I find the best thing for it is to talk about whatever’s bothering you.” Adds Dakota.
Nice try, but I don’t think Dakota quite understands either. How can I possibly tell them what’s wrong? How could two individuals that are in an identical situation to my own be able to help me? They can’t possibly help me confront my issues when they have yet to realize their own.
Why can’t they see, why can’t anyone see? How are they able to enjoy a life with no hope?
“Thanks, but there isn’t anything wrong. I’m just tired maybe, I think that’s it. I appreciate the concern though.” I smile once again as my stomach sinks even further down into my chest cavity.
There is a short silence before Dakota suggests we get some pizza from the cafeteria; I take up her offer.

They’re serving Hawaiian pizza on this Thursday afternoon, and though the enormous dining halls with its rich red walls bears the constant reminder of a high class standard of living I manage to gain some pleasure in eating something that isn’t recommended by my mother’s health advisor.
After feeding the three of us make our way over to the library, a stunning space where every wall is lined with book after book, and endless amounts of knowledge and wisdom line it’s shelves.
With our textbooks in hand, we all sit down and study. Well, maybe not me.
I can see the words and diagrams but nothing seems to register, the calmness in the library is much too reminiscent of that in my room; it’s thick and heavy and it does not allow me to concentrate.
My mind and being try to fight off the silence that is weighing so heavily on my chest but I’m once again surrounded by this all powerful force.
How can I study when I’m fighting a battle, and how can I manage to go on with my life when I’m constantly fighting this battle?
My mind wanders, but my eyes are fixated to my textbook. To the untrained eye I am in fact studying.
Aubrey and Dakota partake in petty chatter about physics, and I fail to be able to listen. Am I worried about the science test? Of course not, I’ve heard it all before, maybe not directly through my science teacher, but I’ve heard it all.
Some people tell me I have an amazing memory, and I tend to believe them. My mind takes in everything and refuses to let go. This is why I do well in school.
My escapist mindset is quite demanding, and when I’m not immersed in this world in which I don’t belong, I’m immersing myself in some other world. Maybe it’s the world of literature or the world of film, and when I’m in these fantastic other worlds I take in everything with great appreciation; this is why I know as much as I do. Of course I know everything about energy, work and power, I’ve read about it, I’ve seen it on the television.
By this time the bell rings. It is one o’clock.
“I’m so nervous; I can’t help but feel that I forgot to study something...” Aubrey cringes.
“It’s fine, everyone feels that way before an exam.” I assure her, though my thoughts conflict with my statement.
“Paige is completely right. I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Dakota adds.

The silence in the room is unbearable, but I understand that my grades are largely based on exams and I systematically answer each question from last to first. Tackle the hardest problem then work my way down to the easy questions.
I finish my exam before the rest of the class, and after I hand in my test I take my time observing my peers. This distracts me from the silence. I monitor their expressions and by that try to determine what question they’re answering and I make a game out of it even though it’s almost impossible to tell.
One by one the rest of the class finishes their exams and I get the familiar sinking feeling, knowing now that I have to return home.

-

The bus ride home is long, but not long enough.
I can see my house looming down the street as the bus approaches my stop and I almost forget to stand up and get off. Once outside the snow begins to fall harder and I clutch my book bag to my chest. The wind picks up and my limbs go ridged, and I know I have to go inside.
The fresh snow crunches under my feet and as I reach the grand double doors and before I can fumble for my keys they swing open.
“Paige, come in, come in, you’ll catch cold if you stand out here much longer.” My mother takes me by the arm and pulls me inside.
I stand behind her as she closes the doors and speculate as to why she had been waiting at the door for me. She turns to me and stares. I stare back. She’s wearing a knee-length red dress and black stilettos; I know there must be an occasion for this.
“Well don’t look at me like that, you have to get ready. I already told you we would be having guests over tonight, some of your father’s associates, and that you are not to hide in your room, not this time, no. I want you to be able to be involved in your father’s work, so that one day if the opportunity arises you can carry on with his work.” I recoil slightly at the thought of this. “Oh it’s just a suggestion; don’t look at me like that. Now go get changed, they will be arriving within the hour!” Her voice is not angry but anxious; I know how important making a good impression on others in to her.
I cock my head to the side. Was that really tonight? It seemed as if it had already gone by, this rendezvous, a distant memory.
“Are you waiting for something?” She asks.
“No... But what am I to wear?”
“Something appropriate to the occasion please.”

I’m in my room and I’m biding my time. I’m wearing a black dress and lying back on my bed.
I know I only have about fifteen minutes before our guests arrive and I can hear my mother calling for me to hurry, but I continue to lie on my bed. Painted on my ceiling are constellations and a deep blue sky, they seem so far away from me. Heavy snow flakes knock-knock-knock against my window and as my mind continues to drift, my eyelids begin to close.
I’m somewhere else, somewhere wonderful. Feathery clouds of white and grey, and bright beaming stars surround me; I’m floating though lovely nothingness and in the distance I see a pair of dark eyes. They radiate warmth and I’m immediately drawn and devoted to them. I feel as if they can see my insides, into my soul, as if they understand my all my thoughts and apprehensions.
I begin to make my way towards them, the fascinating eyes. They’re staring deeply, very deeply into my eyes and they see everything that lies beneath them and I stare back with a burning enthusiasm, wanting to know everything that lies beneath theirs.
Then there are icy hands, pushing me backwards. My eyes flutter open. The hands belong to my mother.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She asks.
“Sorry, I’m just tired.”
“Come help me get the table set.”
My mother and I set the table with cloth napkins and silverware. The candles that line the lengthy dining table accompany the light of the chandelier, and things like steaks and salmons and assorted vegetables are placed precisely along the center of the table.
By the looks of it we’re to be having four visitors, excluding my parents and myself.
My mother stands before the dining table, inspecting our work. Before she can settle on whether or not it is satisfactory the doorbell rings, and she sprints towards the entrance to greet our company.
“Come Paige, come.”
I follow her hesitantly with a bit of unease.
Before my mother has a chance to open the door my father lets himself, as well as four other men in suits, into the house.
“Welcome, welcome!” Chirps my mother, “I’m Cheryl, Howard’s wife, and this is our daughter Paige; it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Cheryl, Paige, these are some of my co-workers: Mr. Reed, Mr. McLeod, Mr. Bryant and Mr. Redmond.” Announced my father, grinning, “Mr. Bryant and Mr. Reed own two of our sister corporations. Mr. Redmond and Mr. McLeod are my second and third in command at Lumen Electric Works.”
My father owns a flourishing electronics company that was passed down to him by my grandfather. The industry used to produce commodities such as radios and televisions, but with all the advancements in technology they can now manufacture a multitude of products. My parents would like for me to work there someday but I’ve already expressed to them my disinterest.
There are a series of hellos and plenty of handshakes between the associates and myself.
“Come in and have a seat, we have dinner set.” My mother proclaims.
The crowd follows us into the dining room and I take a seat at the end of the dining table, studying the subtle patterns carved into the candle wax as they are slowly melted away.
My mother pours our guests glasses of red wine and the meal is set in motion.

After insignificant prattle and small talk during dinner my father and his co-workers begin to talk business. Usually I have completely no interest in such things but Mr. Redmond brings up something interesting.
“We’re throwing a party for you Howard.” He booms, “To celebrate our success! It’ll be a dinner function, this Saturday. Employees will be there, other executives, families of employees and executives,” he announces.
“It’s sort of a thank you for all of your hard work, everything you put into Lumen.” States Mr. Bryant.
“Yes,” continues Mr. Redmond, “We’ve booked the Helios Hotel ballroom, it should be a spectacular evening.”
“Isn’t that splendid,” my mother beams, “Aren’t you just thrilled Howard?”
I father leans back in his chair with a smile spread across his face, “Of course I am. What a remarkable surprise, really. I can’t thank you gentlemen enough.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” Mr. McLeod insists, “It’s the least we could do.”
“And of course you can bring as many others as you’d like, bring family, bring friends. I’m sure your daughter would benefit from meeting some new and distinguished faces.” Mr. Reed declares.
My stomach lurches. If there’s one thing I absolutely loathe it’s parties. I don’t hold parties, I don’t go to parties and I don’t associate myself with parties in any way whatsoever. And there I would be, I can just picture myself, the daughter of the celebrated individual, being approached by person after person, being endlessly told how incredible my father is. Sitting adjacent to him at one of the Helios Hotel’s grand golden dining tables, having pictures taken, surrounded by everything I hate.
Thoughts and emotions race through my head and I begin to feel dizzy.
“I’m sure Paige would love that,” my mother replies, “It’s not like she really has a choice, being the daughter of the guest of honour.” She makes sure to put emphasis on words that I would rather not hear.
The four executives shift their eyes in my direction, eager to evoke some excitement from yours truly. I feel nauseous, but I make an effort to smile and nod.

-

It is six in the morning and I can no longer sleep.
I’m reading a magazine article about color psychology; it talks about the ancient art of chromotherapy, using colors to heal people of their maladies. I’m reading a magazine article but I’m not really reading. The fact is that I’ve already read this article before and though my eyes are fixated on dark font describing color therapy in my thoughts I’m fixated on dark eyes.
Though anxiety about my father’s up and coming banquet rattles my brain and the same calm that torments me every morning persists, the glistening dark brown eyes from my dream tell me to relax.
I decide to get ready for school early today. Why not get these next two days over with? School and a social gathering; my heart races just thinking of these things. Just get them over with.

Dakota and Aubrey seem to be tolerable today, either that or I’m just less irritable today. I find it hard to listen in and partake in conversation with them, but on this Friday afternoon I try to put in the extra effort to socialize with my friends. They talk about tedious little things like school-grades and material objects, I don’t really care for the things they chat about but I play along, just for today. I put on a smile and agree with what they say.
I try my hardest to pay attention in my classes; in science class we continue our lesson on energy, work and power as well as having our exams returned to us. I receive the mark ninety-three percent, it’s been jotted down in messy blue ink and there’s a sticker next to it; but I take hardly any notice of it and instead I repeat to myself, one more hour, one more hour left of excruciating boredom, of feeling utterly out of place.
When the final bell rings I’m up and out of the lab before anyone else even has the chance to stand up. I reach my locker, feeling frantic. I just need some breathing space. Before students begin to flood the halls I hastily gather my belongings and make a dash for the building’s exit. I can feel that my face is flushed as I take the first step out into the crisp wintery outdoors, I know that I’m craving escape, all that I subjected myself to today must have been putting quite some strain on my emotions.
I have to remind myself not to tolerate what I cannot handle.
The thought strikes me that maybe someday I will be immune to this lifestyle completely indifferent, maybe appreciative of it, and though this thought sickens me right to my very core there’s a notion tickling the back of my mind telling me it might just be true.
Maybe attending my father’s dinner party is in a way my initiation into this life, maybe things will become easier. I wish I could saw open my skull and pick these thoughts out. I wish I could pick them out and put them somewhere far away.
Should I give in? The idea of assimilation is tempting. Maybe through exposure I could slowly conform to the lifestyle everyone so strongly wants me to be part of. Maybe someday I could be happy living the way I do.
I shiver. I know it’s possible, but my will still orders me to fight on.

I’m on the bus and I don’t want to go home. I’ll go anywhere but home.
I decide it would be in the best interest of everyone if I get off a stop early and go to the public library.
As soon as I’ve confirmed my decision I can feel my whole being relax. My stomach is no longer in a knot and my muscles are no longer tense. I understand that it would probably be best for me not to feed my need to escape, but I also understand that this need has the ability to control me completely.
The air in the library is warm, the same comforting warmth as that of my bed and the people surrounding me no longer manage to agitate me. The smell of aged paper floods my senses, I enjoy it tremendously.
I have no idea what I’d like to read, but I know that whatever it may be I will enjoy it. The idea of spending hours searching the plentiful library shelves fills me with happiness, the kind that makes me never want to return home.
I pick out three books, even though I know I won’t have the time to finish them.
I find my place on the seat of an old floral print couch, it is a love seat and I remove my black ballet flats and rest my legs upon the second cushion. I feel entirely at home.
As I read I am completely present; the little details of my being flood my mind; the soft yet crisp swish of the pages as I turn them, one after the other, the slight creaking of the book binding as I hold the pages open, the small breeze that accompanies each turn of a page, and the aging scent that come with it.
My mind is at peace, and minutes, hours, maybe days pass. There is no way of knowing.
The lighting shifts and I know the time is closing in on eight o’clock. I should have been home for supper, but I already know what I’m going to tell my mother. I was invited to Dakota’s house to do a research project. I know my mother won’t be opposed to that.
I managed to read portions of each novel, but none in their entirety, I would never be capable of that.
I stand up and stretch and then proceed to put my shoed back on. The library is empty excluding two very sad looking librarians and a man with an aged ravaged face asleep on another sofa.
I make my way towards the checkout desk and set the three books down on it in a pile. I begin to walk towards the door but am interrupted.
“You wouldn’t like to take these books out Miss? You seemed pretty interested in them.” Asks the sad librarian, a very pretty middle aged woman with dark circles and wavy chestnut hair.
“No thank you, I’ve read them all before.” I reply to her with a smile whose sadness rivals that of her own.
The air outside is frosty and the idea of returning home weighs heavily on my chest. It is very dark out and I see the headlights of the approaching bus in the distance
On the bus I predict the events which will follow at my home. They are nothing short of accurate.
My mother awaits me in the living room with a look of sombreness plastered on her face. I explain to her my lie and she asks me why I didn’t call. I tell her that I was occupied by school work. She tells me that’s no excuse.
“Now why don’t you go prepare an outfit for tomorrow? It’s going to be a very big day for us you know.”
“What shall I wear- a dress?” I inquire.
“A dress sounds fitting,” my mother replies, “How about something blue, to bring out your beautiful eyes?”

I choose a purple knee length dress for myself and lay it out on my bed; it is very much pleated with a ribbon placed beneath the bust. I stare at it with resentment. In my mind I have already labelled it my initiation dress and I cannot stand the thought of putting it on.
Maybe tomorrow will never come, I tell myself, but I can already feel Saturday creeping up behind me. When I’m under my blankets I can still feel it, the cold hands of tomorrow holding onto my wrists, waiting to yank me out from under the covers and shove me into a pair of black suede heels.
It’s very hard for me to fall asleep, and I toss and turn throughout the night. The ticking of my alarm clock seems to be faster than usual and I mentally beg it to slow down, I tell it to give me more time.
Such a merciless object it is.

-

I’m staring into my eyes, searching the deepest parts within them. The room is damp and filled with steam from a violently hot shower and the mirror repeatedly fogs up, and I repeatedly wipe the fog away. My hair is in loose curlers and my face is covered in light foundation which conceals the few freckles which usually decorate my cheeks and the bridge of my nose.
My eyes are rimmed with dark eyeliner and lavender eye shadow, and my eyelashes are coated in black mascara. They’re paler than usual, my eyes, maybe it’s an effect of the makeup but I imagine it’s because they reflect my fear. Like someone who’s just seen a ghost they’re deathly pale.
I’m so scared. I’m scared of becoming like my mother, and my father, and my grandparents and my great grandparents.
“Paige! You have thirty minutes and then we’re on our way!” I hear my mother calling.
I tell myself to relax. I tell myself not to disclose my fear.
Without hesitation I leave the bathroom and untangle the curlers from my hair. I slip into my dress with some discomfort and step into my shoes. I take a very deep breath and crack my fingers, and I tell myself I’m ready.
Before I leave my bedroom I catch my reflection in the mirror, it surprises me, a large improvement to my usual appearance but I’d be lying if I said I preferred this look over the other.
My mother and father are waiting for me in the vast hallway.
“Oh, Paige,” she gazes at me with a look of nostalgia, “You look so beautiful.” There is a shimmer in her bright green eyes that I’ve never seen before, and as soon as I notice it it’s gone again.
My mother clasps her hands together and with a glance at my father states, “Let’s go.”

When we arrive at the Helios Hotel ballroom at six o’clock pm, my family as well as my father’s associates, the organizers of this occasion are the first present. The room is gold with sparkling white tiles and chandeliers hanging, evenly spaced out, on the ceiling. White and silver balloons and streamers line the walls
There are many a dining table lined up in rows, with silverware and utensils already set up for the guests that have yet to arrive. At the end of the very first table is a chair which stands out from the others, a large padded chair of gold; this is for my father, and the two chairs beside it I know are reserved for my mother and I.
I take my seat.
My stomach is dancing circles in my stomach cavity and my head spins without end as the guests begin to arrive, one after the other they enter the ballroom without stopping for a moment. Some stand in groups and discuss the event, while others immediately take their seats.
Within the first half hour the ballroom is packed and I’m completely distraught. At the moment I’m caught in a circle of introductions and compliments to my father and of course his family, meaning me; and I accept them all with false smiles and excruciating small talk.
“Adelaide Lennox, nice to meet you.”
“Paige Hurst, nice to meet you too.”
“Your fathers a very great man you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She laughs.
“What a wonderful party, wouldn’t you agree? Quite grand.”
“Very.”
All the commotion makes me feel as if I’m going to be sick, and I mention to my mother that I’m not feeling well once I manage to get her attention.
She tells me to take a breather and spend a few minutes outside, but then immediately adds, “But be back in no less than five minutes, I won’t have you hiding, not at such an occasion.”
“Thank you,” I huff as I squeeze my way through my new acquaintances.
Once outside the circle of communiqué I find myself to be in an area not unlike it. There are people standing, sitting, conversing everywhere.
I make my way to the golden double doors which mark the entrance to the ballroom, and as I do my ailment strengthens. I don’t want to draw attention to myself; that would only worsen the situation.
The doors seem miles away and the room stretches out before me. My eyes try to convince me that I’m trapped and that I will never leave.
My strides become extended and I quicken my pace. I tell myself I’m almost there.
I reach the door with a strong sense of relief quickly flooding my being; I turn around to find the ballroom isn’t half as lengthy as I presumed. But I don’t waste any more time standing in the unbearable environment, I twist the silver door handle and push on the door.

The cold air hits me like a sledge hammer; I welcome it. I almost immediately find some release in the outdoors but the hazy unease of knowing that I only have five minutes outside drowns my brain.
I rest my arms on the stone railing of the balcony and close my eyes. Few people are standing about with cigarettes and others are chatting in padded jackets, maybe outside for some privacy but I ignore them. I listen to the sounds of cars, their tires crushing fresh snow and I listen to the soft thump of snowflakes on the awning over my head; I only have three minutes left.
I take in some deep breaths, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth; trying to prepare myself for my re-entrance. I listen to the voices behind me, but not to what they are saying and the soft murmurs comfort me.
It isn’t long before I feel a presence beside me. For a moment I wonder if I should address it or not.
“You’re Paige Hurst?” A melodious voice addresses me first.
“Mmhm.” I reply without, at first, looking up.
“If you are Paige Hurst then why aren’t you inside celebrating? They’re making toasts to your father in there you know.” The voice informs me.
A little aggravated, a turn my head to reply but am stopped before I can. A young man stands beside me, arms propped up on the stone balcony railing, peering at me with the same dark eyes that have been burned in my mind for the past days; the same warmth radiating dark brown eyes. They stare into my pale blues and I know that they can see right through them, just as they had in my dream. I feel completely naked.

-

“I said, why aren’t you inside celebrating?” The young man repeats himself, his eyes magnetic, and I have to focus on what he’s saying with all the power I have.
“Um, I-I’m just taking a breather.” I say, diverting my eyes to his bow tie, “I really can’t handle big festivities like these.”
As I manage to take my attention off of his eyes I realize that he is relatively handsome. He has creamy beige skin and a pointed chin, with both defined eyebrows and bone structure. His hair is parted at the side and is cut shorter near his neck than on the top of his head; it is made up of tones of dark mahogany and falls over his face as he leans over the ledge to view passersby.
“I’m sure your father would appreciate your being there on his important night.”
“I’m sure he hasn’t even noticed my absence. It’s my mother that wants me there.” I explain with ease.
Seeing as though his eyes already know my story, there’s no use in lying to him.
“You’re not happy for your father?” He inquires.
“Of course I’m happy for my father. It isn’t my father I dislike, it’s the party. It’s the fact that my parents want me engaged in the event, in the lifestyle.” I elaborate.
“I see. You’re spiting your parents because of something they were born into. Something they couldn’t control.” He says, grinning a half smile, showing some of his teeth.
I take in a deep breath, “I’m not spiting them. I’m just- Well, the least they could do is not force me into this whole situation.” I exhale.
“You’re spiteful of the fact that they’re happy and you aren’t.” He states, still grinning.
“Well good going seeing right through me, because now I’m spiteful of you too.” I frown and stare blankly at flakes of snow making their journey towards the ground.
It’s quite for a moment and then, “I’m just teasing you, you know.” He is no longer grinning.
“Well you’re not very good at it.” I respond.
The young man stares at the snowflakes along with me for some short time. I almost wish he would leave, but at the same time I want to talk some more. I wonder for a moment about what I could say as a follow up on my rude comment, but I fear I’ve already doomed myself in trying to make the conversation less awkward and stay quiet.
“You know I don’t like parties either.” He declares, “Too much noise. I’d much rather be at home reading. Do you enjoy reading?”
“Yes.” I say, subconsciously smiling but still staring into the distance, “It’s my favourite pastime.”
“Which books are your favourites?” I can feel his eyes searching for mine but I can’t bear to look at his again.
“All of them, for the simple fact that they can take me someplace else.” I make clear, watching the tiny flakes disappear into mounds of snow.
It’s silent again as if he is contemplating my statement.
“I see. Tell me something else about yourself.”
The statement takes me a little off guard but I reply quickly, knowing exactly what to say, “My head is constantly filled with thought. I wish I could manually open it and empty some of the nonsense; it makes it hard for me to concentrate.”
“You’re concentrating right now.”
I once again turn to look at him, our eyes focus on each other, “Maybe that’s because I’m talking to someone I can identify with.”
“How do you know we can identify with each other when we’ve just recently met?” He asks, once again grinning.
“I don’t know.” This is a lie.
It’s your eyes, I think to myself. They hold me captive with an iron grip, they would never allow me to slip into my thoughts; I know we can relate because we see eye to eye, no pun intended.
I feel bad that I have to lie to him, but I tell myself that someday he will know if he can’t already see through my lie and I concentrate on his words.
“I think you might.” He smirks and I feel like hiding, “But we won’t get into that. I’m Parker Fielding.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Parker.” This is not a lie.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”
“If I’m not mistaken you’re the son of Roger and Marietta Fielding?”
“Correct.”
The Fielding’s own a specialty retailer of consumer electronics; it is one of the largest electronics businesses in the country.
“Your parents are here tonight?”
“Correct. I did tell you I don’t enjoy parties didn’t I? I wouldn’t come here on my own free will.” He chuckles.
“Well, only about an hour to go.” I sigh.
“Now that I think about it, maybe we could both not enjoy this party together.”
My heart flutters for a moment before I realize that my stay on the balcony has outlasted my time limit. My mother will be furious. Or maybe she hasn’t noticed. Either way I don’t want to take my chances.
His dark eyes stare into mine and he frowns slightly, “What’s wrong?”
“Um I- Well I have to go.” My words trip over each other. I desperately don’t want to leave.
“And where is that?”
“Indoors. I hadn’t actually planned to stay outside this long.” I state.
“Well then by all means.” He holds a hand up in the direction of the doorway.
I stand there beside him for a moment, awkwardly, knowing I have to leave but terribly not wanting to.
“It was nice talking to you.” I declare, feet still glued to the spot.
“To you as well.” He adds, “We’ll see each other again. Soon.”
His final words to me are comforting, but not comforting enough. As I make my way towards the grand doors I feel the same unsettling sensation as being torn away from the warmth of my bed every morning.
Upon my arrival back at the table I get a stern talking to from my mother, but not stern enough to cause a scene, that will have to wait for when we arrive back home.

-

As orders of specialty foods continue to be passed out my father stands up and begins his speech.
“Good evening and welcome. As you all know I’m Howard Hurst and tonight is a very special night for not only myself, but for everyone present. To start I’d like to express my gratitude to all of my workers, associates and supportive family, my exquisite wife Cheryl and beautiful daughter Paige,” He looks down at my mother then at me, “I couldn’t have accomplished as much as I have without any of you here tonight. And I’m not just being modest when I say that. Before we indulge ourselves in this lovely meal, compliments to the chef, I’d like to thank you all from the bottom of my heart, especially Martin Bryant, Abram McLeod, Roger Redmond and Gilbert Reed; both great friends and associates of mine who’ve organized this event down to the last detail.” He pauses, “Well I guess that about sums it up. I hope all of you greatly enjoy your meal and time spent at the party, and, well, let’s eat.”
As my father concludes his announcement I’m preoccupied by the dark eyes of the handsome character examining me from the other end of the dining table, so far away, yet so close; both sets of eyes locked in place. As all glasses are raised in a final toast he continues to stare and so do I. It almost seems that our conversation has not quite yet ended.

Most of the guests have finished their meals and are once again scattered throughout the ballroom, some have also chosen to return to their home. There is slow classical music playing softly for those who wish to make use of the dance floor; my parents are two of those people. They leave me to sit alone for the sole reason that I have not yet finished my dinner.
I use my fork to draw patterns into leftover Alfredo sauce after the remainder of my noodles have been pushed to the side. I begin to trace a flower, but the sauce retreats back into the crevices of the design before I can manage to complete it.
For the past ten minutes I’ve been doing this and I am almost certain that Parker has left, but I am proved wrong when I suddenly feel the same presence sitting in the once empty seat beside me.
I turn to meet his eyes.
“Did you enjoy your meal?” He inquires.
“Yes.” I respond instinctively.
“Not by the looks of it.” He glances down at my half eaten dish with a grin.
“I guess not.”
“Listen,” He starts abruptly, “When I said we would see each other again soon, I didn’t mean now.” The grin again. “I meant tomorrow. Would you like to come visit me tomorrow, one o’clock?”
I can feel the words ‘I don’t know’ tingling on my lips but a definite answer emerges victorious. “Yes.”
He grins, a wide tooth bearing grin, “Excellent.” He picks up my unused cloth napkin and pulls out a pen. Slowly in lanky cursive letters he writes down an address. “Here,” He places the cloth in my hand, “I’m sure the party planners won’t mind you taking home a souvenir.”
I smile, “Of course they won’t.”
For a moment the smile lingers on my face as Parker stands us, breaks our eye contact and walks away, but then quickly fades. I take a look at the white satin napkin and process the information written upon it.
89 Orchard ave.
There is a strong sense of regret that rises somewhere inside me as I reconsider my situation. It isn’t even common for me to visit people I’ve known for the majority of my life, let alone those I’ve known for about half an hour. Would my parents approve? Of course they would; Parker Fielding, a well respected son from a well respected family with an excellent chance of taking over Fielding & Co. sometime in the future. That doesn’t mean I would tell them about my plans to see him.
I take a look over at my mother and father, clinging to each other, slow dancing, happy. How excited they would be to find out about my new friend. Just the thought of them makes me miserable.
I fold the cloth three times then conceal it, with no plans of ever showing it to anyone else.
When I turn quickly to see if Parker is still visible somewhere in the ballroom, he is nowhere to be found and though I feel some relief in this a sadness begins to grow and well up inside of me; that I am utterly alone. I can already see that this whole situation is going to be one big problem for me; of course I had been alone most of my life but very rarely had I felt lonely, and never to this magnitude either. Sure I’d had the occasional friend and still do, and sure I was living with my family and still am, but I was never one of them. Being alone was, more often than not, enjoyable to me; I mean, since I didn’t want to associate myself with those around me I preferred being alone.
I could feel now, that things were about to change, and quickly. The sense of loneliness that now weighed heavily inside of me came from the fact that I liked being around Parker. And I wish I didn’t.
I bring myself to my feet and walk away from the dining table, away from the dance floor, away from the ballroom and the forty-some guests remaining within it.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 28.02.2011

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