Vices and Virtues {Puppy}

[Deleted]

Abbie Blackmore

The snow that has so defiantly refused to melt for the past few months is finally starting to give way to signs of weakness. Weakness. I would have never thought that the sun that shined above would ever signify something so undesirable. My weakness is not the sun, nor the snow that crunches ever so annoyingly under my feet. In fact, I do not know if I have a weakness. At least it’s not my family, because I don’t think anything could be worse than being held back by my own blood. They didn’t care much about what each of us did, for we really kept it to ourselves. We would sit around the table at dinner and give no more of an explanation rather than the very vague and murky details. Not to say that we look down upon the violent and outrageous things, because we most certainly do not. In fact, it’s just about the opposite. I have never felt close to any of them, except for a few, and really, everyone was fine with that. We all had those we trusted with significant details, and those we did not.

The dinner conversations held the night before had been a prime example of this. Usually, as was tradition, we would go around and say something we did that day, but we always had the option of saying nothing. Except for a few, most of us were more than willing to share at least the outlines of what had taken place in the day’s actions. Usually I was bursting with pride, more than willing to spill out the adventures of my day, from the moment I woke up all the way to the present, where I sat with my legs daintily crossed and my hands neatly folded on the table. However, that was not last night. Last night had been a whirlwind of hiding behind my dark hair and slouching over my chair. No one had asked what had caused this sudden change in mood, and for that I was thankful. They didn’t need to know, and better yet, they didn’t want to. They wanted nothing more than to enjoy another dinner filled with promises and lies, for the Blackmore’s are nothing more than that; nothing more than a family full of words.

I am not my family. I am my own person not connected to them in any ways other than blood. People say family doesn’t end with blood, but I don’t always believe it starts there either. I believe it’s built on trust and hope, two things my family does not have. We have wealth and fancy clothes and almost any physical thing that we could want, but we do not have what we need. I think we could come to possess these things if we tried hard enough, but no one (including myself,) is willing to try. I will not stick my neck out for the sake of my family, and they won’t do the same for me. We’re in this consistent gridlock where everyone’s talking about things they want different but no one actually doing anything.

I have always believe I am right, and I have never had anyone to contradict my theory. My family continues to smother me with affection and kind words about strength and honor and pride, and I do nothing but soak them up. I adore the words that they fill my cup with, each one adding another drop to the golden goblet emblazoned with jewels. But lately, that cup had been running dry. The blade of the knife was dulling, and as I twirled it around in my hand, I realized that it was even losing its metallic shine. If I wanted, I could just go ask my parents for a new one, and they would simply ask which kind I desired next. But I had never wanted a new one, for I didn’t want to learn the cuts and scratches of a certain blade ever again. I had become accustomed to this one, from the way its handle fit in my hand to the way it stuck in my bedroom wall in extreme fits of anger. I stood in the sunlight doing my best to recall where I had set down the piece of metal I had been using for sharpening it lately, but I simply could not remember where I had laid it. Even if I had remembered where it was, that would mean winding my way up the many steps to my room, and frankly, that was too much work. I scanned my gaze around to the area around me for anything that I could use to bring the dull edge back to its original point. My eyes fell on the little pond of rocks that surrounded the front of our house, and I only spent a minute deciding upon one of a decent size before retiring to the shade of a tree to do my work. My hands found a certain rhythm, the slick noise cutting smoothly across the jagged edges of the rock that fit squarely in the palm of my hand. This was my definition of peaceful, the only sounds to be heard being my own breathing and the whir of metal on stone.