Hola, kiddos. I just want to say: my decisions have been made, but I am not exposing answers! Sorry! Although, I am quite sure that you'll love my decisions. I have planned this chapter out quite specifically. It is going to be long, if my calculations are correct. There will be lots of thrilling surprises. One question will be answered in this chapter, by the way. – Rae
Tris POV
I have been moping around a lot, planning for the worst. Organizing my mother's favorite flowers, finding good pictures of her. We don't think she's going to make it. Today is her last day; it will determine her living or dying. I wouldn't blame her if she loosened up her last thread, but I know some others would. Harrison would be absolutely devastated and Caleb would just, well, die. I have been so worried about my mom that I haven't even put the slightest thought into how I am going to face that sadistic, poor excuse for a father, a man even, this evening. I keep hoping that I won't have to, but I know I will.
I continue rummaging through my mom's things, all of her boxes and scrapbooks, I come across a cute little black leather book with brown binding. It was the book my mom stored all of my poems in. Back in 7th grade, I got a creative writing class and I did really well. I even entered some of my pieces in competitions. They didn't start getting better, until the abuse got worse. The more Andrew did to me, the more I thought of other things during the beatings to clear my mind. The very last page is the poem that made me put down the pen, after Andrew made me get the abortion. My writing was getting to strong for me to handle, so I quit. I put the pen down because of the childhood writing on crinkled paper, written in blue ink.
The Troubled One, Blaine
At sundown she slumbered, but then she woke.
Pale-faced, teary eyed, lips a peculiar shade of blue.
"Demons," her doctor sighed, watching her feet.
Blaine swore they weren't real and begged her mom
to take her to the other world, she cried.
Blaine retells this story to her colleagues.
After the story, they aren't colleagues.
The ghosts like to visit at night alone.
"They only mean the best of things," she cries.
Counselors,Physicians, they all tried too.
Her mother,who never fancied her daughter,
tried the hardest to change the child, but no.
Lisa, the mom of the peculiar form,
tried pigtails, french braids,ringlets,and hair bows.
Stuffed the girl in victorian dresses,
did her nails the concerning shade of pink,
bathe the child in petals, for the Lord's sake!
A few nights a week Blaine screeches in pain.
She keeps a journal at this point in life.
"Ten years of torture and you learn how to cope"
I was being mauled by Phat, my late dog.
Then, Tinkerbell jumped through my winded lungs.
From time to time, Lisa takes her to the doctor.
"Explain it to me," he reasons again.
"Hanai, my brother, came to visit me,
it wasn't too pleasing, it hurt me.
He hurt my arms and my legs with some magic."
"Sweetie, Hanai passed away within months."
"But, he came back. He even left me this."
Blaine hiked up her skirt of the puffy dress.
Seven slash marks, cut deep, on side her thigh.
Some of them were short, but pierced her pale skin.
Her doctor wept and her mother left her.
All Blaine wanted was rest, a mellow sleep.
The demons told her it wouldn't be done.
I have eleven cuts now; they all hurt.
Hanai says the ninth was for him, it hurts.
I forgot his birthday, so I'm in trouble.
I sleep for a few minutes every night.
"My stomach, sir, the cuts pain me today."
"Well, Blaine, tell Haini to take a long nap."
"I try every night, sir, he won't do it."
"Well, I'm afraid you will be in pain, Blaine."
"Please help, you have ointments to fix my cuts up."
"No, Blaine, I refuse to smother your cuts."
"Fine, you will just have to treat my demons."
That night Blaine slept for an hour calmly.
They burned my cheeks and palms. They laughed at me.
Haini slit my throat and kissed my forehead.
And he told me come take a nap with him.
I cry silently, thinking of how much had happened that year. How painful it had been and how much of an emotional wreck I actually was. This poem was the one that let me release it all. It gave me strength to go on because, truly, suicide had become an option, but too much was at stake. Too many people told me I had something coming to me that was good and I live today to speak as witness: something good, better than already, is coming to me. And I am fully prepared to accept the challenge.
I rise from my knees and head to my room; I dress in silence. I am not dressing up for him, so my decision clears itself up a little bit. I choose regular dark wash jeans, a midnight blue chiffon top, a black blazer, and plain black Toms. I throw my hair into a messy bun and head for the car. I make a straight shoot for the restaurant, eager to end this. I go in and spot the gray headed, pointed nose, blue gray eyes, male version of myself. Physically, of course, only physically. He smiles and waves me over.
"Hello, Beatrice." He says summoning a waitress, who he orders to bring us waters with extra lemons.
"Andrew." I respond, getting comfortable in my chair.
"I expect to be addressed as father."
"You've always had high expectations. Haven't you?"
"Why yes, Beatrice, I would suppose so. Seeing that you are the wonderful young, blossoming individual you are today."
"Don't play that game, Andrew. Don't act sweet. The least and all, you are going to do is buy me food, smile, and dismiss me."
"Very well then, shall I say whatever appetises my taste buds is the meal?"
"My food, not yours." I say with a light, fake chuckle. Not letting anyone in on the argument.
"Don't push your luck, Beatrice"
"Mhmmm." I say. Afterwards, I don't talk at all. I let Andrew do all of the talking. He smiles and makes sly comments, in which I reply to with a simple nod of the head and a grin. I have already tested my luck far too much tonight for his liking. I would hate to see the results of stretched luck. I eat and chew, and he glares at me. Angered with my calm behavior. The meal dwindles to an end and we rise. He links his arm with mine and escorts me out of the restaurant into a crowd of people with cameras and questions. We push through them and continue on our way. As we approach my car, he tries to hug me! I simply climb into my car and drive away. I turn the corner to make the block to my house as the phone rings.
"Hi Harrison, is everything fine?"
"No… She's awake, Tris. Alive and talking! Come now!" I make a U-turn in the middle of the street and rush to the hospital on pure adrenaline. I run up to her room and what I see is, almost, unreal. I can't believe that she was on her last leg and now she is awake. Her eyes look brighter and her voice isn't strangled at all. She sits at attention, as the doctor explains a series of things to her. Only one of them catches my attention, dragging it away from my mother.
"Surprisingly, fortunately most definitely, your baby survived the trauma." Tears stream down Harrison and my mother's eyes. They watch the doctor leave. I thank him for all of his efforts. I turn to speak to my mother, only to find her and Harrison in an intense make out session. For a woman fresh out a coma, she has truly strong lungs.
"Marry me, Nat?" he says in between kisses. She pushes him back and stares in awe. The hopeful glint in her eyes has proven true when she finally answers his question.
"Of Course!"
That's a wrap. I wrote that poem for my creative writing class, for the record. Thank you guys for the opinions and reviews, I took them into account. Please Review. I would appreciate comments about the chapter and my poem. – Rae
P.S. it should be clear what grade I am in now!
