Hypatia Anning | District 3 | FIN
Mar 18, 2015 9:41:42 GMT -5
Post by ali on Mar 18, 2015 9:41:42 GMT -5
[googlefont="Satisfy:400"]
Hypatia
Anning
eighteen | district 3 | odair
You inhale, exhale and then drag the bow across the strings of the violin to make a gentle beautiful note which echoes around your bedroom. You continue to play a melody, one that relaxes your muscles which feel taught with stress. School has been frustrating, the teachers aren't giving you the grade you deserve and its really getting under your skin. You draw the bow across the strings again and the note is off, it is sour and you hiss. Failure is not something you enjoy.
You were born a failure- well it did not begin that way. You were born, a perfectly normal babe who seemed healthy which was a blessing to both your parents who had lost 3 other babies on the first day; your mother tells you they wilted in her arms like dying flowers. Your parents were content with you, they did not mind waking in the long nights to feed you and make sure you were alright when you wailed. They were happy and you suppose you were too- you were too small to remember much but according to your parents you were a smiley baby so that must of meant you were happy.
Then when you reached the age of one and a half, and you had not spoken a word, your parents became concerned. You were not death, you could hear the sounds of peoples voices and you were interested in all types of music but you still had not uttered one word. They don't tell you this but during this time in your life, you were their disappointment. They thought you were dumb, incompetent- they believed you would be far behind the other children and that you would never accomplish anything. When you reached the age of two, they gave up with trying to make you talk and accepted that you were stupid.
Oh how they were wrong. Your mother read to you often as a small child and so when she stopped- feeling disgusted that their daughter was defective- you took it upon yourself to read for yourself. You were only 3, most children can barely form full sentences themselves let along read a small book in a few hours. Soon you ran out of the baby books, so moved onto the only things left in the house- the adult novels. They were a challenge but you got through your first novel in exactly 1 month and six days. Your parents had begun to notice too, and were shocked that you were reading. Not just staring at the pages but following the letters across the page.
They began to love you again, they accept you as a human again despite you can't speak. So you grow up with knowing nothing over than your parents undying love for their prodigal daughter. You do know how when you fall ill with the pox, a disease that scars your skin, covering your arms in white marks that never go away and are particularly stark in the cold, they take you to the Doctor they can barely afford because they dare not lose such a gift to their world.
You grow both in body and in mind. By age 4, you are writing in cursive, something your mother could barely do herself, using the words you learn from your father. He teaches you on sundays, when he is not at work, and you write every word and remember them too; you soak up the knowledge your father feeds you. Your mother teaches you things too- while your father is at works she teaches you how to play the violin and then the piano. Your are a natural, your hands dance across the keys faster and faster the more you learn.
By age 6, you have exceeded many people expectations. You can read books in a matter of days, and you could probably right stories too if you were interested in such nonsense. You enjoy reading factual books rather than fiction- you often find your fathers books from his school days around the house and read them. Your parents have found you on more than one occasion, under your quilt, face pressed against the pages of such books as you snore softly in your sleep. They do not scold you but eventually you eye sight begins to deteriorate from reading in the dark so you stop reading in secret.
School comes and you are excited to learn more. You cannot wait to start and the night before your first day, you barely sleep at all. Excitement bubbles through you because tomorrow real teachers will teach you things you probably don't know, or perhaps they will teach you things you do know and so you'll get all the answers right. You smile to you little self at the thought of it.
You do not smile when you get home the next day. Your lack of voice inhibits you, the teachers call you dumb, idiot, thick... the list goes on but the kids catch on too. They torment you in the school ground until you cry. You go hide in the toilets for the last period- they don't seem to notice your absence from class. Your dreams are crushed, but your mum tells you that maybe tomorrow will be better.
So you wait. Tomorrow is not better, so you believe the next day will better. When thats not you wait to see if it will be the next day...and the next day...and then the next day. On and on the waiting goes but it never seems to get any better, only worse. One day- when you are 13 years old, the bullies at school break your arm when you punch one of them in the face for calling you a 'dumb whore'. They didn't know the meaning of whore- but you did. You didn't even like boys...you didn't like anyone.
So now you stand in your room, a woman though your strong jaw makes you look like a guy with your golden brown hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of your neck. Your arms are long, the left one sometimes aches after a long practice of playing the violin but you continue to play, ignoring the sour note. The 'prudish' dress you wear is unrevealing, but when you glance in the mirror and see yourself, you can feel your hips poking through your skin and you remember how you can see your rib cage- it looks like a set of piano keys to you- but you're not starving.
You never are- you are just tall and gangley and skinny and the food you eat doesn't let you put on weight. Just like your mother- who is just about as much as a twig as you are. You get your eyes from her too, your dark brown eyes, whereas you get your skin- pale and ghostly- from you father. There are so many things though that set you apart from them, from the rest of the world.
And that's alright.
You were born a failure- well it did not begin that way. You were born, a perfectly normal babe who seemed healthy which was a blessing to both your parents who had lost 3 other babies on the first day; your mother tells you they wilted in her arms like dying flowers. Your parents were content with you, they did not mind waking in the long nights to feed you and make sure you were alright when you wailed. They were happy and you suppose you were too- you were too small to remember much but according to your parents you were a smiley baby so that must of meant you were happy.
Then when you reached the age of one and a half, and you had not spoken a word, your parents became concerned. You were not death, you could hear the sounds of peoples voices and you were interested in all types of music but you still had not uttered one word. They don't tell you this but during this time in your life, you were their disappointment. They thought you were dumb, incompetent- they believed you would be far behind the other children and that you would never accomplish anything. When you reached the age of two, they gave up with trying to make you talk and accepted that you were stupid.
Oh how they were wrong. Your mother read to you often as a small child and so when she stopped- feeling disgusted that their daughter was defective- you took it upon yourself to read for yourself. You were only 3, most children can barely form full sentences themselves let along read a small book in a few hours. Soon you ran out of the baby books, so moved onto the only things left in the house- the adult novels. They were a challenge but you got through your first novel in exactly 1 month and six days. Your parents had begun to notice too, and were shocked that you were reading. Not just staring at the pages but following the letters across the page.
They began to love you again, they accept you as a human again despite you can't speak. So you grow up with knowing nothing over than your parents undying love for their prodigal daughter. You do know how when you fall ill with the pox, a disease that scars your skin, covering your arms in white marks that never go away and are particularly stark in the cold, they take you to the Doctor they can barely afford because they dare not lose such a gift to their world.
You grow both in body and in mind. By age 4, you are writing in cursive, something your mother could barely do herself, using the words you learn from your father. He teaches you on sundays, when he is not at work, and you write every word and remember them too; you soak up the knowledge your father feeds you. Your mother teaches you things too- while your father is at works she teaches you how to play the violin and then the piano. Your are a natural, your hands dance across the keys faster and faster the more you learn.
By age 6, you have exceeded many people expectations. You can read books in a matter of days, and you could probably right stories too if you were interested in such nonsense. You enjoy reading factual books rather than fiction- you often find your fathers books from his school days around the house and read them. Your parents have found you on more than one occasion, under your quilt, face pressed against the pages of such books as you snore softly in your sleep. They do not scold you but eventually you eye sight begins to deteriorate from reading in the dark so you stop reading in secret.
School comes and you are excited to learn more. You cannot wait to start and the night before your first day, you barely sleep at all. Excitement bubbles through you because tomorrow real teachers will teach you things you probably don't know, or perhaps they will teach you things you do know and so you'll get all the answers right. You smile to you little self at the thought of it.
You do not smile when you get home the next day. Your lack of voice inhibits you, the teachers call you dumb, idiot, thick... the list goes on but the kids catch on too. They torment you in the school ground until you cry. You go hide in the toilets for the last period- they don't seem to notice your absence from class. Your dreams are crushed, but your mum tells you that maybe tomorrow will be better.
So you wait. Tomorrow is not better, so you believe the next day will better. When thats not you wait to see if it will be the next day...and the next day...and then the next day. On and on the waiting goes but it never seems to get any better, only worse. One day- when you are 13 years old, the bullies at school break your arm when you punch one of them in the face for calling you a 'dumb whore'. They didn't know the meaning of whore- but you did. You didn't even like boys...you didn't like anyone.
So now you stand in your room, a woman though your strong jaw makes you look like a guy with your golden brown hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of your neck. Your arms are long, the left one sometimes aches after a long practice of playing the violin but you continue to play, ignoring the sour note. The 'prudish' dress you wear is unrevealing, but when you glance in the mirror and see yourself, you can feel your hips poking through your skin and you remember how you can see your rib cage- it looks like a set of piano keys to you- but you're not starving.
You never are- you are just tall and gangley and skinny and the food you eat doesn't let you put on weight. Just like your mother- who is just about as much as a twig as you are. You get your eyes from her too, your dark brown eyes, whereas you get your skin- pale and ghostly- from you father. There are so many things though that set you apart from them, from the rest of the world.
And that's alright.
table by ali
