The two pictures that inspired this one-shot are on my profile.
"Next!"
I groaned, you've got to be fucking kidding me.
As I rubbed out my foot I exhaled in exhaustion. Slipping my sneakers back internally debating whether I should be relieved or exasperated at the outcome of my recent audition.
Stepping out onto the streets I was immediately hit with a wave of calm. Walking, keeping a steady power walk, everyone was lost in their own world. Nobody was staring, judging. They have no preconceived notions of who you are or what you do.
"Why would you want to go there? All those people," she scowled as her lips twisted into a distasteful sneer.
Unlike others the crowds, the inexclusiveness is what I craved. It was like a high I chased, a sweet addiction I couldn't control. No matter how odd it sounds its like the one place I feel I can be free, be myself without faking for anyone else, without wearing a mask, without being the one person always afraid of dissappointing people, without being the one person trying to please everyone else.
Yeah, I learned alot over the years, and found out the hard way that path only lead to unhappiness, and begging for redemption.
The click of the lock ehoed around my scarce apartment as I shrugged out of my wool coat. Dumping it onto my used wrought-iron sofa I heaved a sigh. Life is nothing as you expect it to be.
Flipping through the tattered scrapbook still held together by dry peeling glue my heart thudded in my chest when my green eyes landed on the fifth picture smiling back at me.
A carmel hair colored woman with twinkling brown eyes was smiling widely excentuating the slight laugh lines in her otherwise porcelin complextion. Wrapped in her arms was a chubby cheeked little girl with a taffeta skirt surrounding her, and adorably twisted around her tiny legs. The infant gazing at her mother as if she were the sun, with the left side of her lip curled up.
Softly stroking the womans face without my brains consent I whimpered,
"Mama."
Turning the page my eyes began watering, and a melancholy haze clouded any coherent thoughts I held. The same baby girl alone now holding up a seashell with the pristine beach in the background.
As I stared at my former self I couldn't help but feel envious. Throughout my life I never took on a third person perpestive and realized how lucky I was. I was happy, and loved.
His kind smile had a tint of sadness to it only I would be able to detect for knowing him so well. He scooted the drink across the table we currently were occupied at and gently told me to keep myself hydrated. I am looking a bit pale lately.
"I miss her too, more than you know."
I nodded too choked up to speak.
"Hey, look at me," he spoke softly. I aquiesed and lifted my morose stare from my glass. "When are you going to quit?"
"I'm not-"
"Like hell you will. You're not happy. I know you. Just because it was her dream doesn't mean it has to be yours."
"I like dancing," I insisted.
"Yes, you do, but only to a certain extent. Can you forget everyone else for a second once in your god damn life? Don't think about what Nana says, or Aunt Shelly. What do you want to do with your life?" He leaned across the table to stare directly into my eyes, not giving me a chance to retreat into my protective shell.
"I..."
"You want to teach."
I let out a shuddering breath, and reluctantly nodded. The truth was out. I felt so vulnerable in that moment, bare for the world to see. It was as if I was imagining every person in the little pub boring holes straight into my back. In simpler terms, some people called it paranoia.
"I know how Aunt Shelly drilled in your head every since you were ten that it was your responsibility to fulfill your mother's dream, but its not! I agree with Nana how it was stupid of you to move out in this city for something you didn't even want, but I diasgree with how she thinks you don't have a place in this world.
I know where you belong. I've only been waiting for you to figure it out but," he breathed out sharply, "lets just say I don't got that kind of fucking patience."
My thoughts were tumbling a whirl of confusion, and my stomach rolled in nausea as I desperately tried to comprehend what he was trying to tell me. The boy I've known my whole life, the boy who first held my hand when we were five as we ran through the field in Nana's backyard, the same boy who followed me eight hours to Chicago to make sure I was safe, and knew I always had someone there for me, a person to understand, a shoulder to cry on.
His hand crept across the table and he tenderly rubbed the knuckles on my left hand. I could feel his slightly calloused fingers from mowing lawns all his childhood years, and playing his guitar everynight in front of a distracted audience in the very pub we're currently residing in.
I relished in the rare physical contact I was receiving. He was always my safe harbor, if I showed up at his apartment around midnight with tears streaming down my cheeks he didn't ask. He would step aside to let me enter his home, wipe my tears away with his thumbs, and hold me until morning when I assured him repeatedly that I was fine.
"I want to be happy," I confessed.
"Then you have to allow yourself to be, kitten."
I felt heat flame up to my cheeks at his nickname for me. Around our teen years I conjured up enough bravery to ask him why he called me that. I was expecting him to explain that it was because I was weak, but it was anything but. He considered it an endearment, and it was unique enough to fit me. He put his heart on the line by telling me how no matter what kittens do you can't help but love them, and want to keep them forever.
As I hesitantly met his gaze again I knew I had to listen to him. My mother wouldn't want me trying to do something that didn't make me feel good about myself.
Smiling a little I slipped my hand through his, and felt almost euphoric at the hope I saw shining through his loving eyes.
"I belong with you."
I knew at that moment in the deep recesses of my heart my mother was smiling down at us, and able to finally rest in peace.