This is an Alternate Universe story. This story won't have the happy
aspects of life. It won't be dark either. It will just be sort of sad.
It's not centered on romance, but more on the consequences of love on this
specific main character. Hope you enjoy it!
************************
There was once a time, when I actually cared. I was told that I was a rare beauty that God had bestowed on the world. I remember I would always blush and giggle delightedly whenever sweet words floated my way. Everyone, all around me, thought I was some sort of an angel. After all, I looked the part. I had silverish-golden hair, like the color of straw combined with shimmering stars, that made me look more ethereal and special than most of the other kids in my age group. My eyes shared the characteristics of the sky: amazingly endless swirls of blue. Even when I was little, I knew I was beautiful. That I would be beautiful. But like I said, there was once a time, when I actually cared. Now, I don't even remember the reason why I cared.
I was born to neither a poor nor a rich family. My father was the good soul of the town. He was the shipping/handling manager at Hinston Inc., one of the biggest computer software corporations in the country. Whenever any of the families in the neighborhood got into trouble or lost their jobs, he would always be there to help them. He would always be there to be their rock. My mother was the typical, traditional housewife whom everyone loved. She would often invite the entire neighborhood for barbeques and parties, and cook up a delicious load of food that would have put shame to the best chef in the world. The story of my parents is like a fairytale. My father had come from a poor family whereas my mother's family owned a large company that had my mother growing up like a princess. Somewhere down the road of life, my parents' lives merged. Their relationship, of course, was forbidden. They had originated from polar opposite societies in which the higher class looked down upon the lower class. My father didn't care. Neither did my mother. Three months after they met, they married each other and our family was forbidden to contact my mother's side ever again.
However, as sad as my parents were to receive such disappointing news, life went on and years later, they had me and my brother. My brother and I loved each other dearly, and even now, I wonder how our previously loving relationship ended so tragically. My brother's name is Samuel Jacob Hakinson, Sammy to be short. I call him "Big Sam" because he had always been a little tall and muscular for his age. He was 6'7" by the time he was in ninth grade, and the quarterback star of the football team. We had always been close. He would often shield me from the googly stares of the guys in my school and threaten to beat up anyone who so much lays a finger on my pretty golden head. I loved him. He loved me. There was never any doubt in my heart about the love we had for each other as siblings. That relationship hasn't changed much compared to now. I still love my brother dearly. The only difference now is, he no longer loves me.
I grew up being the perfect child. I was beautiful, popular with the girls and boys, captain of the track and swimming team, as well as the elected president and homecoming queen of my school. I received straight A's in all of my classes and I was in high honor roll for all of my four high school years. When I applied for college, I had no doubt in my mind that I would have a decent future, even a great one perhaps. Finally, I got accepted by Northwestern University in Illinois, where I planned to enroll into the pre-Med program. Things were looking good for me. But like they say, all good things come to an end.
********************
"Serenity! Honey! Time for dinner!"
Sometimes, I wonder why my mother still calls us down for dinner like she did all those years ago when we were children. She always had a cheery voice whenever she called us down to eat her food. I could still smell and taste her heavenly food from when I was just ten years old. Don't get me wrong. Her food is still great. Mother is still a great chef. The only problem lays in her voice. It's no longer cheery. It may sound like it to others, but to us, her children, it sounds dead.
Father died three years ago, when I was fifteen and Sammy was eighteen. Mother never fully recuperated from his death. I don't think she ever will. After all, the love of her life, the person she gave up her family for, left her all alone in this world. It doesn't matter that her children are still with her. Sammy and I know she loves us dearly, but sometimes, we're not enough.
I took Father's death as poorly as Mother did. I had always been a Daddy's girl, and I went to him for anything and everything. Even when I started my period, I told Daddy first, even though it was out of necessity since I couldn't find Mother at the time. Daddy didn't blush, nor did he panic. He just laughed that deep and warm laugh of his, and searched the entire house for some "green bag." When he finally found it, he called Mother up to help me because he knew that the next step is only between mother and daughter. I loved him more than ever that day, because his actions reassured me that I could always depend on him for anything, no matter how embarrassing it may be.
Sammy loved Father very much as well. Father would always help Sammy with his football passes and dodging skills. Father was also the only one who understood men puberty enough to help Sammy through it during his teenage years. When Sammy shot up 7 inches from his 6' height in ninth grade, Father immediately donated all of Sammy's too-small clothes to charity and went for a father and son shopping spree. When we were camping in the wilderness one summer, Sammy broke his leg when he fell from the tree. Father used all of his previous boy-scout skills and secured Sammy's leg with a mere branch. He never ceased to amaze us.
But no matter how much pain Sammy and I suffered when Father died, it would never amount to the pain Mother felt when she found out for the first time that Father had died. Father had been battling cancer for years now - heart cancer to be exact. He would often collapse in the middle of his walk and clutch his chest tightly as another cramp-like pain attack his poor heart. Mother never stopped caring for him while he was sick. Finally, when Father was too sick to go to work, Mother found a job as a waitress in a nearby diner and earned money for the family that way. During the day when Sammy and I are in school, Mother would be at home caring for Father. While Sammy and I were home at night and took over Father's care, Mother would be out serving food at the diner. Sometimes, she would work extra shifts just to get more money.
When Father died, she thought all of her hard work had been done in vain. For a few days, she would just sit on her bed and stare at their wedding portrait, muttering words and phrases
'he left me..he gave up on me..he left me..he gave up on me...he left me..'
Sammy and I didn't know what to do with Mother. She was so sad. It broke our hearts to know that even her own children won't be able to mend her broken heart, no matter how much love we put forth into her.
Somewhere along the line, I got sick and tired of it. I was sick of putting my love into mother, only to hold the knowledge that it will never be enough. One night, when Mother was crying, I went into her room and held her hand, silently willing her to look at me. However, when she finally did, I suddenly wished she hadn't because of the emptiness I saw in her eyes. I started sobbing loudly, my body shaking violently to the sobs that were coming from me. Mother just looked at me as her tears fell silently from her eyes and her mouth quivered in sadness. I wished that she would give me comfort, give me the reassurance that everything will be fine again, with or without Father. She didn't. She said nothing to me. Finally, I exploded, and started yelling at her about how I am giving everything and she gives me nothing in return. I yelled and yelled until my throat got sore and I could no longer utter a word. Sammy had heard the commotion and entered the room, staring at me in shock. Mother said nothing, as if she expected this from me, or maybe she was too numb from shock at the time to say anything. Sammy pulled me out the room and shook me hard until I can feel my joints aching in protest against the harsh movements.
"How could you?! How could you do this to Mother?! How could you?!."
All night, he repeated the same questions to me again and again. That night was the first time I saw hatred in his eyes. Hatred for me. I felt scared, alone, and completely and utterly stupid. That night, I changed. I stopped looking at my family with affection, with love, though I knew I never stopped loving my family. I stopped treating them with the kind personality that I was so famous for. I stopped telling my family anything that happened in my life. I knew my family felt my withdrawal from them. I didn't care. I felt alone.
************************
There was once a time, when I actually cared. I was told that I was a rare beauty that God had bestowed on the world. I remember I would always blush and giggle delightedly whenever sweet words floated my way. Everyone, all around me, thought I was some sort of an angel. After all, I looked the part. I had silverish-golden hair, like the color of straw combined with shimmering stars, that made me look more ethereal and special than most of the other kids in my age group. My eyes shared the characteristics of the sky: amazingly endless swirls of blue. Even when I was little, I knew I was beautiful. That I would be beautiful. But like I said, there was once a time, when I actually cared. Now, I don't even remember the reason why I cared.
I was born to neither a poor nor a rich family. My father was the good soul of the town. He was the shipping/handling manager at Hinston Inc., one of the biggest computer software corporations in the country. Whenever any of the families in the neighborhood got into trouble or lost their jobs, he would always be there to help them. He would always be there to be their rock. My mother was the typical, traditional housewife whom everyone loved. She would often invite the entire neighborhood for barbeques and parties, and cook up a delicious load of food that would have put shame to the best chef in the world. The story of my parents is like a fairytale. My father had come from a poor family whereas my mother's family owned a large company that had my mother growing up like a princess. Somewhere down the road of life, my parents' lives merged. Their relationship, of course, was forbidden. They had originated from polar opposite societies in which the higher class looked down upon the lower class. My father didn't care. Neither did my mother. Three months after they met, they married each other and our family was forbidden to contact my mother's side ever again.
However, as sad as my parents were to receive such disappointing news, life went on and years later, they had me and my brother. My brother and I loved each other dearly, and even now, I wonder how our previously loving relationship ended so tragically. My brother's name is Samuel Jacob Hakinson, Sammy to be short. I call him "Big Sam" because he had always been a little tall and muscular for his age. He was 6'7" by the time he was in ninth grade, and the quarterback star of the football team. We had always been close. He would often shield me from the googly stares of the guys in my school and threaten to beat up anyone who so much lays a finger on my pretty golden head. I loved him. He loved me. There was never any doubt in my heart about the love we had for each other as siblings. That relationship hasn't changed much compared to now. I still love my brother dearly. The only difference now is, he no longer loves me.
I grew up being the perfect child. I was beautiful, popular with the girls and boys, captain of the track and swimming team, as well as the elected president and homecoming queen of my school. I received straight A's in all of my classes and I was in high honor roll for all of my four high school years. When I applied for college, I had no doubt in my mind that I would have a decent future, even a great one perhaps. Finally, I got accepted by Northwestern University in Illinois, where I planned to enroll into the pre-Med program. Things were looking good for me. But like they say, all good things come to an end.
********************
"Serenity! Honey! Time for dinner!"
Sometimes, I wonder why my mother still calls us down for dinner like she did all those years ago when we were children. She always had a cheery voice whenever she called us down to eat her food. I could still smell and taste her heavenly food from when I was just ten years old. Don't get me wrong. Her food is still great. Mother is still a great chef. The only problem lays in her voice. It's no longer cheery. It may sound like it to others, but to us, her children, it sounds dead.
Father died three years ago, when I was fifteen and Sammy was eighteen. Mother never fully recuperated from his death. I don't think she ever will. After all, the love of her life, the person she gave up her family for, left her all alone in this world. It doesn't matter that her children are still with her. Sammy and I know she loves us dearly, but sometimes, we're not enough.
I took Father's death as poorly as Mother did. I had always been a Daddy's girl, and I went to him for anything and everything. Even when I started my period, I told Daddy first, even though it was out of necessity since I couldn't find Mother at the time. Daddy didn't blush, nor did he panic. He just laughed that deep and warm laugh of his, and searched the entire house for some "green bag." When he finally found it, he called Mother up to help me because he knew that the next step is only between mother and daughter. I loved him more than ever that day, because his actions reassured me that I could always depend on him for anything, no matter how embarrassing it may be.
Sammy loved Father very much as well. Father would always help Sammy with his football passes and dodging skills. Father was also the only one who understood men puberty enough to help Sammy through it during his teenage years. When Sammy shot up 7 inches from his 6' height in ninth grade, Father immediately donated all of Sammy's too-small clothes to charity and went for a father and son shopping spree. When we were camping in the wilderness one summer, Sammy broke his leg when he fell from the tree. Father used all of his previous boy-scout skills and secured Sammy's leg with a mere branch. He never ceased to amaze us.
But no matter how much pain Sammy and I suffered when Father died, it would never amount to the pain Mother felt when she found out for the first time that Father had died. Father had been battling cancer for years now - heart cancer to be exact. He would often collapse in the middle of his walk and clutch his chest tightly as another cramp-like pain attack his poor heart. Mother never stopped caring for him while he was sick. Finally, when Father was too sick to go to work, Mother found a job as a waitress in a nearby diner and earned money for the family that way. During the day when Sammy and I are in school, Mother would be at home caring for Father. While Sammy and I were home at night and took over Father's care, Mother would be out serving food at the diner. Sometimes, she would work extra shifts just to get more money.
When Father died, she thought all of her hard work had been done in vain. For a few days, she would just sit on her bed and stare at their wedding portrait, muttering words and phrases
'he left me..he gave up on me..he left me..he gave up on me...he left me..'
Sammy and I didn't know what to do with Mother. She was so sad. It broke our hearts to know that even her own children won't be able to mend her broken heart, no matter how much love we put forth into her.
Somewhere along the line, I got sick and tired of it. I was sick of putting my love into mother, only to hold the knowledge that it will never be enough. One night, when Mother was crying, I went into her room and held her hand, silently willing her to look at me. However, when she finally did, I suddenly wished she hadn't because of the emptiness I saw in her eyes. I started sobbing loudly, my body shaking violently to the sobs that were coming from me. Mother just looked at me as her tears fell silently from her eyes and her mouth quivered in sadness. I wished that she would give me comfort, give me the reassurance that everything will be fine again, with or without Father. She didn't. She said nothing to me. Finally, I exploded, and started yelling at her about how I am giving everything and she gives me nothing in return. I yelled and yelled until my throat got sore and I could no longer utter a word. Sammy had heard the commotion and entered the room, staring at me in shock. Mother said nothing, as if she expected this from me, or maybe she was too numb from shock at the time to say anything. Sammy pulled me out the room and shook me hard until I can feel my joints aching in protest against the harsh movements.
"How could you?! How could you do this to Mother?! How could you?!."
All night, he repeated the same questions to me again and again. That night was the first time I saw hatred in his eyes. Hatred for me. I felt scared, alone, and completely and utterly stupid. That night, I changed. I stopped looking at my family with affection, with love, though I knew I never stopped loving my family. I stopped treating them with the kind personality that I was so famous for. I stopped telling my family anything that happened in my life. I knew my family felt my withdrawal from them. I didn't care. I felt alone.