Stranded Memories

Thoughts of the past were painful, repressed away into the recesses of Violet's mind so she could just barely stay even. Remembering what she had lost was sure to send her over with the brutal hysteria she'd fought since the beginning. What seemed like hours, days, lifetimes, of spent energy devoted to holding back a tear that would surely turn into a flood, sobs with the potential of earth shattering screams, were only seconds if not minutes of reality that were an eternity for her.

To everyone else however, she was a statue. Unfeeling, cold, and despondant, she lingered on the edges of association, talked of but not with.

"All she does is mope around these days."

"She hardly even speaks."

"It's like she died with him."

"She still screams in her sleep."

"I have a ghost for a daughter."

Violet repressed so much she could hardly breathe for fear of exploding. The old her wanted to dispute everything they said like she wasn't there. But the person who they spoke of didn't care enough to live, why would what they said matter?

"Violet sweetheart."

This voice was different and rare, no longer spoken around her but directly to her. Violet felt through the fog of her mind to consciously find her mother looking over her in uncertain concern, a look achieved by her frown contrasting with a clearly forced smile. In this brief epiphany, a look outside instead of within, she realized she was home, sitting at the kitchen counter. This had been happening more frequently, Violet losing chunks of time and finding herself places she had not intended.

"Violet honey," Her mother continued, noticing her daughter's waning focus. "Do you want me to fix you anything? I can make your favorite, peanut butter and bananas. I'll even cut the crusts off like I used to, does that sound nice?"

This was something she'd began to notice, another part of her mind cataloging such recurrences. People had begun to revert their treatment of you if you withdrew. If you have similiar characteristics with a child, not talking, hardly eating, they treat you as such.

Perhaps to tempt you out of your shell with comforts of a better time, magnifed with primal memories. Violet watched as her mother treated her like an eight year old, while her eighteen year old mind assessed her.

"Violet darling," She started once more with the voice of a negotiator to a jumper, her name followed by a term of endearment. "You need to eat something sweetie, you're practically wasting away."

Those words were aptly put, wasting away; she couldn't dispute it. She watched in silence though as her mother busied herself a little more than neccessary to make a sandwich, humming to fill the silence. A white square appeared on a paper plate in front of her, cut in triangles to reveal the brown and white mush spread inside she used to enjoy.

The expectant, nervous smile of her mother's reminded her of a child waiting to be praised. Yet it was still her mother, a montage of memories from her childhood slipping through to confirm this, and she took a bite of the soft bread. It tasted like gray mush as everything did these days, but it made her mother smile an almost victorious smile. Violet realized for a moment that this act was one of the first times she'd recognized somebody else's feelings in a long time.

"Is it good?"

Violet nodded a lie, letting the food settle heavy in her stomach with little relief against the dull ache.

The silence returned like a thick fog. Violet was used to it but her mother clearly found it unsettling. Tapping her fingers against the granite, she spoke.

"So... I talked to Sarah Peterson's mom. She told me Sarah went off to Georgetown last week."

Despite the familiarity of the name, Violet couldn't find a face to fit the name in the haze of memories.

"When are you going to start school?" She continued, getting to the point of her argument.

"I'm not." She answered, the most words she'd said in a long time.

Words weren't neccessary to convey her feelings, her mother's expression said it all. Shock and anger met at a crossroads and she clearly dithered between which one she felt more. Violet was actually intrigued to see what would win out, almost like someone looking in, she show of her life.

"What do you mean by 'I'm not'?" She asked in a voice bordering the numb of a negotiator and extremes of a mother. "You can't mean you're not going to school, because that's not an option."

Violet shrugged, biting once more into the sandwich in a subconscious act to placate her mother. It was in vain as the look on her face had rivaled, and now passed, a failing report card expression. Passed coming home late smelling like smoke and sweat from a party. Steadily climbling further still so that her resentment toward William the day she brought him home looked like one point making up the entire painting of her now pointless life.

Perhaps it was justified, both her parents spending thousands on the best education they could find her. Only natural to assume once their daughter got over this bout of depression she'd go onto an Ivy League school and find a career that made lots of money but amounted to nothing in the grand scheme of things. She was quite sure there were many variations of this future wrapped in untouched white envelopes gathering by the door, University this, State that, enough to belittle Sarah Peterson and her Georgetown.

Her mother had continued talking, spinning those words into her own grievance while her face turned red with fury at the level of anger she had reached. Violet was quite sure she'd peeked at the letters, most likely of the acceptance sort, and knew these futures were possible. It was clear she wanted to be the one bragging to all her friends about the fancy exclusive school her daughter went to last weekend. A pity that weekend would never come.

White noise rushed through her ears so that the excitement in front of her seemed more like a one woman monologue on mute. Violet grew bored of this overexertion of emotion, seemingly pointless next to her own lack of it. She finished another mushy triangle and walked away, heading for the door.

"Don't you walk away from me!" Was screamed with little deference to Violet.

She was quite certain, as the eyes of her house followed her down the street with the rest of them, that by the time she came home that night her mother would be a watered down version of this dragon, a glass of wine in hand to quench the flames of her words.