Clouds

Chapter 2

Diary,

I am Melani Richards, and I am 13 years old. My mother is Caroline Richards. My father is Pete Richards.

My mother tells me that when things get hard, people get who they are. She tells me to remind myself as much as possible. My mother is a warm person, she gives good hugs, and she is patient with me. Most people aren't patient with me. They say I'm weird. She tells me, 'own your weird, baby girl'. My mother is kind. Other people aren't kind. 

I am Melani Richards, and I am 13 years old.

I am Melani Richards, and I am 13 years old.

I am Melani Richards, and I am 13 years old. 

***

I am told that I have a short attention span. That I have my realm, that I only visit the world of people sometimes. I am told that I should be more like other people. I tell people that I am trying. 

"Melani, can you come downstairs, baby girl?"

I think my mother is the only one that can traverse between the realms with ease.

"Yes, momma."

I close my brown leather diary. I run my hands down the worn skin, I feel the fibers against my calloused fingers. I wonder what it's like to be hauled to slaughter. To have your bleating throat cut. To have your thin, skittish little legs fall limp in the hands of the people who raised you. To know your life's worth was only the skin of your body. To know, that your soft pink flesh is going to be cut, by an unhesitant knife, black with the blood of lives before mine. To have your whole life being fed poisonous chemicals to the point where you don't know the difference. To grow up seeing your family and friends dragged to their death. To scream, knowing that it wouldn't make a difference. I suppose it isn't that different from our lives. 

"Madelin, we have dinner ready downstairs."

"I am coming, momma."

***

"So, how was school today, baby?" My momma asks as I set the table- one white plate on each peach mat, one spoon on the right of each plate, one knife and one fork on the left, and one glass on the top right corner of the plate. 

"It was good, momma."

"Really? Are you sure?" My mother always says this when she knows something and wants them to 'fess up'.

"It was good, momma."

"Well, you're a teacher who called me today said otherwise." She has that look on her where she is trying to be patient with me, even though I know she is exasperated. I picture her will stretched thin, dilapidated, barely hold herself up while she tries to carry me. I wonder when it will break.

"School was good, momma." I watch the bubble float to the top as I fill the jug. Tiny little air pockets, tiny little gasps. Pop. Pop. Pop.

"She asked you a question, and you said that you didn't know the answer. She told me that you never know the answer when she asks you a question." I watch as her soft skin on her face sag a little. I watch as it exposes all the wrinkles, all the lines, all the pain.

"I know why the printing press was important during the protestant revolution, momma." I watch the bubbles float to the top as I pour water into the glasses. Pop. Pop. Pop. 

"I know you do. What I want to know is why you didn't tell her  that." She smiles a little when she sees me watching her.

"She knows that I know the answer, she asked anyway." Pop. Pop. Pop.

"You have to answer her questions when she asks you in class."

"She doesn't have to ask me a question when she knows I don't like answering in class."Pop. Pop. Pop.

"Madeline." she sighs.

"Momma."Pop. Pop. Pop.

"You can't be scared to be smart because of people at school."

"I'm not scared, momma. I picture them as birds with broken wings. They try to fly away, but they can't, so they writhe on the lithium floor. Every time they something mean, their wings break a bit more. They can never fly, so they chirp, they keep chirping till their cacophony becomes white noise, and I can't hear them anymore. I keep trying to help them, and when I can't, I lie with them in the pool of their blood. It never stops flowing. I'm not scared of them, momma, but I am scared of the day I might want to stop wanting to help them. I might be the monster here." I watch as her she turns serious. She sits in front of me and takes my hands in hers.

"Madeline", she says, "you need to listen to me very carefully. You are not a monster." Her hold on my hands tighten as she says, "You will never want to stop helping other people because you are a good person." She holds my face with one hand, caressing it. "You always have to help people. You always have to show compassion to people, no matter what they did. You always have to care for people. I don't want you picturing them get hurt every time someone is mean to you. Do you understand me? Revenge is never the answer. If someone is mean, then tell a teacher or tell me. Do I make myself clear, baby girl?"

"Yes, momma."

"Good, now finish pouring the water in the glasses, then sit down and eat dinner."

"Okay, momma." Pop. Pop. Pop.

***

I heard my mother cry that night. I wonder if her will is already broken.      

***