Opportune Moment

Ch.3

Madness and Waddling Cases

Men!

Can't live with them, and you certainly can live without them.

At least that was Erin's opinion.

All her life, men were the center of attention; the cream of the crop. There simply was no besting them, and in 99 cases out of a 100, when it came to open debates relating to a man and a woman's disagreements, the man would, based on the ratio, always win. A sick and twisted world was woven amongst the feathered headed, chauvinistic apes that made up the respectable London that existed today. She began to believe that God decided to put man in charge of every aspect of human life, simply by the fact that if he didn't, then hell would have broken loose. So give the whining baby what he wants, but soon, appeasement will no longer work, and you'll have thousands of the devil's spawn running amok. Perfect plan God. Real genius.

She wished that for one day, the least, a man didn't judge her for what she was and what stereotypes were inflicted upon her due to the generous desired help from Britains ne faux pas society. That she could be accepted for her own dreams, her own talents. In reality, just to be accepted.

A woman in Britain's society had her life mapped out for her until she died, causing most women to wish they we dead. Each lady was expected to be courted early, around the age of 14 to the latest, 18,during the time called the Season, where many young bachelors and young maidens would attend a chain of balls in search for the perfect someone. Those of who were approved of course. Meaning those with an exuberant amount of money, and a longer title than that of the mut with the most colored breeds. A title that a writer would kill for.

That is why, early in life, Erin decided that her only love would be her writing. Writing could never hurt you, except for a paper cut every now and then. And the words, even if coming from a lady, could never be judged. Something refreshing like cool water hovering down your bedewed body after a day of tedious and strenuous work. A void of escape for those crammed thoughts and phrases of faux pax that if discussed amongst those of a stoical nature, and perhaps even those of a clandestine mind but a mouth of causerie, fatal consequences would erupt into the uncharitable depths of society. In writing, however, these simple, perhaps even facetious, phrases won't be turned away.

It is said that because of this known fact, many people keep a journal or seek the metaphorically calming profession of writing (which we all is a huge lie, but gossip is gossip), in order to escape times of anguish and bittersweet emotions. So they confide in this sole confidant, that will not only listen (in a figurative sense), understand (also figuratively), but respect and understand (not figuratively). How can that be said? Well, the pen and paper with which you write, of course, does not have a mind, so it in fact, does not have an opposing argument. Nor a few harsh words to be embarked upon. No...

Silent. Just how Erin liked it.

So, at a young age of 8, Erin sought the confines of her thread bare room and journal, which was actually pieces of paper sewn together with thread from the bottom of her dress.

Now from what we have previously found is that Erin, in the present, lives in an opulent manor, with the services of submissive retainers, and has a successful, despite the hardships, job as a columnist for the London newspaper.

So, how can I say, that she was living like she was in a slum meant for those who could not afford such things. Not meaning to be racist or discriminating; just stating fact. Well, in so many words, she did.

She lived her life, at first, in perfect happiness. Her mother and father loved her to their heart's greatest content, and did not resist in doting sumptuous gifts upon her person. Sometimes for no reason at all. But, one day, her mother became very sick, and eventually in such a way, that had ridden her to bed rest. She was seven when her mother died of consumption.

A fair deal of a crying had been issued, but not a tear was to be shed from her father. One day she had asked him why it was so that he did not cry, and he glared heatedly before sharply answering, 'I haven't the time for foolish inquisitions, child. I need to organize a funeral here.'

And that was the day that the gifts stop coming. But what was worse, the love stopped showing.

One day, Erin, walked in a found her father on the floor of his study, a picture of her mother clutched in his right hand. She would be eight on the very day of her father's funeral. The doctor's said the cause of death was heart ache.

She wondered for sometime, if she had only walked in on him when she heard the muffled sobs of his voice edging through the transparent cracks in the build of the mahogany door, that maybe he was still alive. Maybe if she had held him and told him that everything would be fine, that he would be still there holding her. Maybe then he wouldn't have taken that dagger and... well who would have listened to a helpless, inferior naive adolescent anyhow? Especially a female one.

Afterwards she was stripped from her house and sent to live with her uncle, Lord Duron, who lived in Wales. So far from home, she became homesick and would often cry and mope around the house. At first her uncle was very comforting, and would often leave her alone, since most men are not able to comprehend the emotions and mood swings that affect a girl during certain situations, including those of extreme suffering and grief. Some girls, in fact, are unable to handle their own problems, and so they cause those around them to become aggravated because of their aggravation. Sometimes, that aggravation increments up into pure frustration and stress. And that stress can build up into a painful pressure. So painful, that one can almost never contain it, and must inflict their suffering on something.

Unfortunately, being a man, Lord Duron, despite his elegant title, suffered from the sexist term for superior-inferior complex. And, in his beliefs, he believed that women were nothing more than beings that were meant to be bent and molded into something that men wanted. Something worth seeing. Something worth being around.

What he called his 'methods' of molding was teaching. What she called it was torture.

'Why would anyone want a little girl with black eyes and cuts gracing her lips?' shw would wonder painfully. She could hide the other ones with clothing, but the beauty she once held, the light that used to shine, had been crushed into the shadows by an evil black tyrant, behind a mask of his own will.

She ran away when she 16.

Her long legs carried her to a lovely stoop. Full of flowers and vibrant color, she could not help but be entranced. If the garden was so beautiful, why shouldn't the people there be too?

One usually can judge a person on their starting impressions. And usually they are right in their assumptions. So it was no different that a lovely elderly lady, owned that beautiful garden, and took her in as part of her staff.

Long talks followed, and many walks were taken by Erin on her days off. She would walk around the grounds, sometimes with a pen and leather book in her hand. There was always this one place she would end up. The little old lady had sworn once that she had been told that the stable boy had found her there once lying under the weeping willow.

It was called Erin's pond, or least what she called it. She loved it there. There always seemed to be an air of jollity and grace, as the trees swayed in rhythm with the breeze and cast thought consuming ripples to flow, like the thoughts in her imagination. She would sit and write. Notes most of the time, that she never really understood until she looked them over later. Or sometimes she would just think...and think...and think. About anything at all. And the beautiful part that struck her most in her deep thought, was that no one could tell her she couldn't.

That's what we all long for. Independency. That feeling where we're not crushed by that hand that commands us to give our will. Our reason for inquisition. That force pestering for obedience, without resilience. It was here where Erin could watch the many dewy rains of colors sink into the water, as nighttime called its eery warning, and find peace...tranquility.

Silence.

It was also here, where Erin wrote her first book. It was one of those, I'm-never-going-to-publish-this-but-what-the-hell,-why-not?- kind of books.

One day she saw a duck.

And not just any duck, but a cute duck.

But I guess all ducks are cute.

And she would watch this duck, everyday, for it was always there, as if waiting for her.

She would write something, it would swim, waddle, anything really that ducks do.

And when she was finished, so was he.

And she'd watch him, as he flew away to the depths of the sinking sun. And she envied him.

His innocence...his free-spirited ways.

But most of all...his freedom.

After that day, she believed he was in fact swallowed by the sun, for he did not return. Never again.

In her book, she wrote that he went to see his penguin friend down in the Arctic, and the reason why he had not returned was because he was trying to teach his funny winged friend how to fly. Now we all know how this goes. But she still believed the duck was trying, and maybe one day, he would come back to her.

Her one friend. The one who never talked. The one who never would question, and never flee. The one who taught her to try. And she would wait for him, by that pond, everyday.

For the rest of her life.

So that was where she was to be found, thinking as usual, and trying to calm herself from the hectic life that was determined by her many obstacles and chances of luck. The old lady had died a far few years before, and had left everything in her will to the young lady that had stumbled upon her stoop, and before receiving a bit of tea had complemented her on her garden.

Now, if Erin didn't believe men to be scum, then there would be no basis to the conflict of this story. And if I had not told you her past, you would never have guessed why she feels the way she does about men. And if I had not mentioned the waddling duck of freedom, why, then there would be no silliness in this story. So all these points are all going to pool together into a gigantic convection of downright silliness and maybe even horrifying circumstances of luck and chance. And who better than to be acquainted with this madness and waddling cases, then none other than...

James Matthew Barrie...

Thank you to all my lovely reviewers. I 'm doing this in a hurry, so thank yous in the next chapter, savvy? PLEASE READ AND REVIEW MATES! If you do you get J.M. Barrie in the next chapter (figuratively speaking. Sorry to put a damper on you hopes, mates)