Will The Willow Branch Break?

Head & Shoulders, A Blue Marble

Once, when I was seven years old, I dreamt of a world of heroes.

Of Nemean lions with glistening fur and seas filled to the brim with raging monsters.

Of bloodied swords with golden hilts gripped tightly in calloused hands.

I dreamt of a passionate fire that simmered under my bones, urging me to run, to fly, to scream until my throat tore and dripped rivulets of crimson.

Then, the branch broke.

And I came crashing back to the rush of rough cloth and artificial light.

Doesn't that suck so bad? 

Like utterly, undoubtedly screwed up. Corrupted. Defiled. Bollixed, if you're feeling fancy.

And we know this because a) we must squeeze into thousand-pound steel death traps to galumph our way to a  prison-like institution dubbed as 'school', b) we live in an oven that we made better at retaining heat, and c) there are literally dirty flying needles that congregate in humid areas, waiting to kill us with their creepy mosquito eyes.

I used to ask myself: it has to get better than this, right? Maybe the reason why everyone else keeps going is that they can see the light at the end of the tunnel?

But by my 16th birthday, I realized that everything could go to hell and back, I didn't care.

Plot summary: this book will detail the misfortune of my birth, and why I shouldn't have continued existing till now.

My name is Ophelia.

Ophelia Willows.

And my parents were cruel.

Hasn't anyone heard of nominative determinism? My name is foreshadowing enough for the tragedy that is my existence. Some scholar is going to look at this line over here and be like "hmm, this is where it went downhill."

Before I get further, I'd like to remind you that I'm not the main character.

I don't exude main character energy. I have wavy black hair, and buggy, brownish eyes.

I live in middle-class suburbia, and I've never ventured 5 miles outside the radius of my school.

I don't even have a classic heroic athleticism - my mile time is 11 minutes rounded down.

In fact, I don't even want to be the main character.

I'd much rather be the snarky, yet relatable background character who dies a quick and painless (emphasis on painless) death in the 7th chapter thank-you-very-much.

But nooo, I had to keep on living.

I don't think even the main character herself lived past a year or two. And she definitely didn't have the skill to read a chapter book, never mind write one.

To surmise, I think I'd make a superb sarcastic sidekick.

But anyway, the whole thing started at the shampoo aisle at Walmart.

I have awful dandruff - like literal scales on my scalp - so I was rummaging for extra strength Head & Shoulders behind the plethora of Pantene Bottles.

I remember it was chilly and bright - one of those foggy autumn days where the sun was just peeking through the pristine white blanket of clouds, blinding anyone who looked up.

The fluorescent lights and cold linoleum weren't helping: I was thoroughly uncomfortable standing hunched over the shelf, my hand grasping at nothingness.

Of all the things I could recount through this book, I remember this moment the best. I should have moved my hand to the right, I should have stepped 3 centimeters to the left.

If only.

As I retracted my palm, I almost didn't notice the cerulean blue marble that click-clacked out after me.

It was the size of my thumbnail and a little misshapen, though it otherwise was in perfect condition, like one of those blue-raspberry dum-dums with less opacity

But it was the glitter that got to me, with specks of golds and silvers and greens and pinks holographically reflecting outwards like a beacon; if it had been regular matte, or even vaguely shiny, I might have calculated the marginal benefit of bending my entire torso to pick it up was too high.

But something about it: the way the shimmer caught my eye when the light hit its oblong gait, gave an impulse to reach down and pick it up.

As I felt its cool exterior in my palm, I waited in silence. It wasn't exactly a special moment apart from the overt superficiality of discovering a pretty object. I didn't feel a peculiar chill of a fate-forged wind or the piercing gaze of a hidden voyeur - as I gazed upon the specks of dull goldens and iridescence.

Yet, even with the complete mundanity of a forgotten marble, I still waited. For something, or somewhere or someone, to come charging towards me as I inevitably fell through a rabbit hole and lived a magical life of giant caterpillars and Cheshire grins. 

And who knew? Maybe the gears of time had already shifted ever-so-slightly, and the crack in the glass ceiling would reveal a tiny glimpse of a faraway world filled with fantastical beasts.

But in my mind, nothing would happen yet.