Spring, Winter, Fall, Summer
Hey guys:) feel free to read this original short story, or explore the rest of my journal for more stories. Or both, Whatevs. Anonymous comments are allowed, so be sure and tell me what you think!
I remember that year with vivid clarity, despite how much I wish I could just forget that impossibly dark time.
The world went in reverse that year. I could almost believe that leaves fell up or water ran uphill, because for all I know, it did.
It all started on a warm summer night, the week before my sister, Mary, went back to college. She was a sophomore theatre major, loved attention and life and family. She was my hero. And then, she came stumbling in, long after curfew, clothes torn and skin bruised, with silent tears still trekking down the pale planes of her face. Mom was gently coaxing her for at least a few hours, speaking to her like Mary was a frightened, as though one harsh word or rough treatment would break her. Had my sister been in her right mind, she would have protested this treatment immediately and vehemently. As it was, she simply stared blankly at the bathroom wall, as though it was something more than clean white tiles. My mother, a registered nurse, gently inspected her, dread growing more and more evident in the tight lines of her face and the set of her mouth. Mary didn't respond to anything.
Finally, just as the sun was rising above the darkened horizon, the truth was spoken softly, in a dead voice.
"He raped me."
The world stopped.
Time didn't though. It marched on, resilient in the face of adversity, unlike us. The scheduled date of departure for Mary to go back to college came and passed but my sister stayed home. She transformed from vivacious and colorful to a mere ghost, drifting from room to room with desolate eyes. My mother didn't say anything about going back, totally out of character for her. It was as if she was terrified one too firm push would shatter my already broken sister even further. Honestly, looking back, I think my mother could have ranted and screamed and gotten the exact same reaction she got by walking around on eggshells all the time; absolutely nothing.
Summer ended and turned into fall. August crept by and right at the end, mom finally convinced Mary to go to a doctor. And then came the worse news.
We found out then that Mary was a month pregnant with her rapist's child.
She refused to have an abortion. My mother was a very 'pro life' pusher, and was adamantly clear that 'anything Mary chose, we would support her.'
And we did; mom took her to her doctor appointments and reminded her to take her prenatal vitamins, and to eat healthy.
Mary didn't speak again after those fateful, world twisting words, communicating in forced smiled and nods, shakes, or shrugs, and the window seat upstairs, in our father's old study.
It was the first official winter, though the temperature had been dropping lower and lower, and yet it was almost as though it thawed our frozen world, because after Mary's latest doctor appointment, the one where we found out the baby's gender, Mary started to cry.
Winter was long and hard, and soon I was out for Christmas break, and the snow was falling fast and coating everything with white, but Mary rarely left her post of the window seat. Several times, when I brought her dinner up, I would stand in the doorway of the study, filled with the things that belonged to my father who had died when we were little, trying not to breathe and staring at what had become of my sister.
More often than not, she had a blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders, and tears silently dripping off her chin. I would quietly set the food down, and ease back out, always feeling like I was intruding on something private and shameful.
I knew my sister was hurting, knew she was sad, but I never knew how to help, or if I even could.
The baby was due in late April, and as winter melted into spring Mary grew larger, swelling with child, but didn't glow like she used to. She wasn't the Mary I knew, loved, and idolized. She was dead inside, and had still yet to talk. Sometimes I wondered if she talked to herself at night, just to remember what her voice sounded like, to remember the way words curled around inside her mouth and rolled together in sentences.
And who knows, maybe I was right and she did it every night, night after night. Regardless, if she said the same thing every night, night after night, I was the only one who heard her that night besides the tiny soul she was carrying inside her.
It was early in the morning, well before the sun rose, but some time after midnight. I don't remember what woke me up, but something was calling me to the study, to Mary.
Her soft voice carried through the door, which I didn't dare open for fear of alerting her of my presence, but I heard her loud and clear as the still of the night cradled her quiet voice.
"I want this baby. Despite what your, what it's father did to cause it, what he did to me... This is a life growing inside of me. And it's, you're, precious." She may have been trying to convince herself that, or just stating a fact, but the conviction in her voice, the fire in her tone set my soul on fire because then, crouching outside the door in the dead of the night, I heard the life in her for the first time since that fateful summer night.
I never told her I heard her that night, that I heard her admission, that I heard her let her walls down. But that was what moved me; that she still had walls, that under all the hurt and fear and confusion, she was still the loving, thoughtful Mary she had always been. Under everything, she was still my sister.
The baby was born on April 29th. It took what felt like an eternity of high pitched screaming and the word 'push', and I felt sick because I had never been happier; my sister still wasn't talking, just wordless cries, but there was a sparkle in her eye, a fire growing from a tiny ember of what had once been her blazing spirit. When the little girl, Piper May, was born, the real light was born, pushing past the clouds of pain and confusion, showing us the sun.
It was a turning point, Piper being born. It was the start of a new life, almost like that horrible night was a bad dream or a past life, something vaguely remembered but not full grasped, except it was this life, our life. Piper's life. And because it did happen, Mary had to work backwards, unraveling every thing that had happened in the previous year, one issue at a time, starting with the newest, freshest issues and working back.
It was the year that ran backwards; starting with spring and the beginning pf a precious life to the summer that had started it all.
Mary bears the scars, because some scars do not mar our skin but rather our soul, but they;re closed and healed, just memories of a time where nothing made sense and the seasons told their story in reverse.
I remember that year with vivid clarity, despite how much I wish I could just forget that impossibly dark time.
The world went in reverse that year. I could almost believe that leaves fell up or water ran uphill, because for all I know, it did.
It all started on a warm summer night, the week before my sister, Mary, went back to college. She was a sophomore theatre major, loved attention and life and family. She was my hero. And then, she came stumbling in, long after curfew, clothes torn and skin bruised, with silent tears still trekking down the pale planes of her face. Mom was gently coaxing her for at least a few hours, speaking to her like Mary was a frightened, as though one harsh word or rough treatment would break her. Had my sister been in her right mind, she would have protested this treatment immediately and vehemently. As it was, she simply stared blankly at the bathroom wall, as though it was something more than clean white tiles. My mother, a registered nurse, gently inspected her, dread growing more and more evident in the tight lines of her face and the set of her mouth. Mary didn't respond to anything.
Finally, just as the sun was rising above the darkened horizon, the truth was spoken softly, in a dead voice.
"He raped me."
The world stopped.
Time didn't though. It marched on, resilient in the face of adversity, unlike us. The scheduled date of departure for Mary to go back to college came and passed but my sister stayed home. She transformed from vivacious and colorful to a mere ghost, drifting from room to room with desolate eyes. My mother didn't say anything about going back, totally out of character for her. It was as if she was terrified one too firm push would shatter my already broken sister even further. Honestly, looking back, I think my mother could have ranted and screamed and gotten the exact same reaction she got by walking around on eggshells all the time; absolutely nothing.
Summer ended and turned into fall. August crept by and right at the end, mom finally convinced Mary to go to a doctor. And then came the worse news.
We found out then that Mary was a month pregnant with her rapist's child.
She refused to have an abortion. My mother was a very 'pro life' pusher, and was adamantly clear that 'anything Mary chose, we would support her.'
And we did; mom took her to her doctor appointments and reminded her to take her prenatal vitamins, and to eat healthy.
Mary didn't speak again after those fateful, world twisting words, communicating in forced smiled and nods, shakes, or shrugs, and the window seat upstairs, in our father's old study.
It was the first official winter, though the temperature had been dropping lower and lower, and yet it was almost as though it thawed our frozen world, because after Mary's latest doctor appointment, the one where we found out the baby's gender, Mary started to cry.
Winter was long and hard, and soon I was out for Christmas break, and the snow was falling fast and coating everything with white, but Mary rarely left her post of the window seat. Several times, when I brought her dinner up, I would stand in the doorway of the study, filled with the things that belonged to my father who had died when we were little, trying not to breathe and staring at what had become of my sister.
More often than not, she had a blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders, and tears silently dripping off her chin. I would quietly set the food down, and ease back out, always feeling like I was intruding on something private and shameful.
I knew my sister was hurting, knew she was sad, but I never knew how to help, or if I even could.
The baby was due in late April, and as winter melted into spring Mary grew larger, swelling with child, but didn't glow like she used to. She wasn't the Mary I knew, loved, and idolized. She was dead inside, and had still yet to talk. Sometimes I wondered if she talked to herself at night, just to remember what her voice sounded like, to remember the way words curled around inside her mouth and rolled together in sentences.
And who knows, maybe I was right and she did it every night, night after night. Regardless, if she said the same thing every night, night after night, I was the only one who heard her that night besides the tiny soul she was carrying inside her.
It was early in the morning, well before the sun rose, but some time after midnight. I don't remember what woke me up, but something was calling me to the study, to Mary.
Her soft voice carried through the door, which I didn't dare open for fear of alerting her of my presence, but I heard her loud and clear as the still of the night cradled her quiet voice.
"I want this baby. Despite what your, what it's father did to cause it, what he did to me... This is a life growing inside of me. And it's, you're, precious." She may have been trying to convince herself that, or just stating a fact, but the conviction in her voice, the fire in her tone set my soul on fire because then, crouching outside the door in the dead of the night, I heard the life in her for the first time since that fateful summer night.
I never told her I heard her that night, that I heard her admission, that I heard her let her walls down. But that was what moved me; that she still had walls, that under all the hurt and fear and confusion, she was still the loving, thoughtful Mary she had always been. Under everything, she was still my sister.
The baby was born on April 29th. It took what felt like an eternity of high pitched screaming and the word 'push', and I felt sick because I had never been happier; my sister still wasn't talking, just wordless cries, but there was a sparkle in her eye, a fire growing from a tiny ember of what had once been her blazing spirit. When the little girl, Piper May, was born, the real light was born, pushing past the clouds of pain and confusion, showing us the sun.
It was a turning point, Piper being born. It was the start of a new life, almost like that horrible night was a bad dream or a past life, something vaguely remembered but not full grasped, except it was this life, our life. Piper's life. And because it did happen, Mary had to work backwards, unraveling every thing that had happened in the previous year, one issue at a time, starting with the newest, freshest issues and working back.
It was the year that ran backwards; starting with spring and the beginning pf a precious life to the summer that had started it all.
Mary bears the scars, because some scars do not mar our skin but rather our soul, but they;re closed and healed, just memories of a time where nothing made sense and the seasons told their story in reverse.