A short little one-shot I wrote for school and figured I'd post. It's not my best, but it's decent. ^.^
Disclaimer: Given my utter lack of brilliant symbolism and poetic language, I am not Harper Lee. Thus, all characters and settings you recognize aren't mine, sadly.
Friends
The broken shard of mirror in her hands didn't lie, though, grimy as it was, it was a wonder that she could see her reflection at all. It wasn't a pretty sight. Bruises covered her face- that is, the part that was visible beneath the layers of dirt- and a long, thin gash on her cheekbone oozed fresh blood. Mayella Ewell threw the mirror to the floor in disgust.
"Get outta the way!" Her father's voice was like thunder in the tiny shack. There was a loud smack, and suddenly one of the younger children was wailing in the next room. Papa had been drinking again, she knew, and he had probably hit Sara in an alcohol-induced rage. Mayella scowled. It was an anger she knew all too well.
She hurried toward her sister and shepherded her out of the room, narrowly dodging another blow herself. Sara was sniffling; she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her tattered dress before running off to join the other Ewell children. Mayella sighed and went back to making dinner.
It hadn't been this way when Mama was alive. Mama had always been able to calm him down, had always been able to keep him from harming her children. When Mama was alive, she had kept them safe. She had kept them relatively clean and healthy, and Mayella had been able to attend a few years of school. But those times were long past. Now she was needed at home, to watch the children while her father became increasingly drunk… and increasingly dangerous.
Mayella sighed again. It was a lonely life. What was it Mr. Finch had asked at the trial? Oh, yes. "Who are your friends?" Friends. People her own age, people she could confide in and laugh with. All her life she had watched as kids walked past her window, giggling and chatting away happily. She had seen their expressions of contempt as they passed her house, their scorn when they saw her dirty face and unkempt clothes. When she was younger, she used to wave as they walked by. No one would ever return those waves. They all had the same "high-and-mighty" air as they passed, as if they were too good to associate with the likes of her. So Mayella stopped waving.
It was no big loss, she told herself. She didn't need them. So why had she felt the need to call out to Tom Robinson that night? Why had she tried to kiss him, and framed him for a crime he didn't commit? She had sent an innocent man to his death… a man whose only offense was being born a Negro. Mayella felt a lump in her throat as she remembered the look on his face when he was convicted. Tom Robinson was the only person in Maycomb who had ever been decent to her, and this was how she had repaid his kindness. She had allowed him to take the blame to save her own skin.
She had accused him of rape, and the jury had convicted him. Why? Simply because, low as she was in the Maycomb hierarchical system, she was still white. And as a white woman, even a poor one, she was still higher in rank than poor Tom.
It was wrong, and she knew it. After all, it was clear to her now that of the two of them, she was not the kinder or most honest. She was not the more generous; she was not the more courageous. Despite the color of her skin, she was not the better person. That was Tom Robinson… and she had killed him.
Mayella closed her eyes, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. Looking back, if things had been different… they could have been friends.
They could have been friends.
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