Friday, 27 July 2012
The Warrior and the young woman
Once upon a time.... She was a warrior. Not like people think of warriors. Not like people don't think of warriors. Warriors are brave. She was a warrior. There was a time. There was a place. Wars were wages like any from the past. "Are you still working on that paper?" "Yeah. I think so. I am not going anywhere with it. I am trying to sound like Hemingway, but it's not working." "Why don't you try to sound like Brigid, instead of an old man who died before you were born?" " But I don't sound good. I have no stories. I fought no wars. Nothing happened to me!" and nothing will she said under her breath. "I heard that last part, Brigid! It's not true. You, my dear child, have been through more in your 16 years than most Americans will twice your age, even there whole life. Write from what you know." Brigid went back to writing. Or at least looking at her blank screen. She can hear her little sister clammering for food. from the kitchen. "Not now, eat first, dinners ready." This can wait until after mums chicken pot pie. Once upon a time..... She was named after a goddess. They expected great things from her. She never believed she could live up to them. Her mother whispered promises in her ear when she was born. She whispered she would protect her. She whispered she would give her the world. She whispered she would love her. She felt loved and protected and given the world when with her mother. Her father never promised her anything. Her brother processed her. They would forever be like two dragons with their tails tied together. Playing and fighting, but lord help the person who stand between them. After having her sister was from another man. It didn't matter no father's were in their lives. This was different that the other kids she knew. They had mothers with boyfriends and hatstands and fathers with wives and girlfriends a few of them had the girlfriends and the wives at the same time. Sometimes her mother permanent single statace on Facebook seems more stable. More poor. More stable. Her mother wishes it was different. Wanting to give them a father worthy of them. Wanting to give them any father figure worthy of them. Deeming this not possible they were surrounded with gay men who occasionally took them out to princesses on ice. Life was normal. As normal as anyone else's life she knew. She was the only one with a restraining order at a young age that she knew. That piece of paper she knew did not keep her as safe as her mother's machete. The thought of her mother and her machete drove away the monster to the other side of the country. ..... Boring... and I don't want to talk about this. This is what my mother talks about. My feelings on this is what the therapist she get thrown to every now again again, that is what they want to hear. That's not my story. That is my mother's. It's just what made me stop trusting men. ...... Once upon a time.... There was a wound woman with blue hair like the sea, she sat on the stone window sill looking out of the windows older than any she had looked out of before. She looks at the lawn and grounds around the tower. She wonders, Did Ann Boylan look out this same window as she waited for her death. Waiting for Henry to change his mind. Waiting for something to happen other than just waiting. She looks over and sees some of the Ravens. The blue haired young woman sits waiting for her life to being where so many waiting for their lives to end.All those things, Those are my past. They don't matter. All that matters is this. This moment waiting for my life to begin. Weeks later she showed her mother the photos her friend took of her when she thought no one was looking. "So you are one of the Ravens in the tower of London?" "Ahh Ma! I hate my middle name." She was a raven in the Tower of London. Guardian. Not it's prisoner. Free to go and fly. Not trapped waiting for my death. She sore above what everyone thinks I am what everyone's stories of me are. She watched them all as she headed back to the tower to stand and stare out again. ...... That moment was mine she thought. No-one else's. I was the only one there. I hope it is not to short. I will have to add in filler. There is no way I am showing it to my mother! I need my own stories.