I Amsterdam (Completed)

Chapter 3.3 - Emma

Was I wrong to have asked my parents' best friends to stay with them? Am I straying too close to the edge?

No, I told myself, I made it clear that I don't want to discuss my parents. They are my past, and they shall stay in the past.

This won't happen again.

Or at least I tell myself that.

Just forget. Forget it ever happened. You are traveling the world. Alone. Just focus on the beautiful city you are in.

My steps mimicked my thoughts fiercely, stepping in front of me, one after the other.

Left, right, left, right. I stared at the ground as it swept away from me underneath my feet. If only my past could just as easily be swept behind.

Maybe I should've been less harsh to Mr. Schneider, I wondered.

No, Mr. Schneider understands. He never takes me the wrong way.

I remember back when my family had just moved to Europe, we stayed with the Schneiders in a modest cottage settled on a vast southern French field, before the Schneiders moved to Amsterdam, and we moved to the UK. There was a church a few miles out that we visited together every Sunday. I was around six years old.

The church was built very close to a forest, so close that when the bells rung, the bright yellow Serin birds that perched in the forest's branches would mimic its music, the wind blowing their chorus from the trees across the swaying field to me. I was little and hard to be seen in the tall grass, so one day, while my parents and the Schneiders were talking outside the church, I snuck off to the forest. When my parents realized I was missing, they panicked. Mr. Schneider immediately knew where I would go. I didn't make it that far, deep into the forest, but still, he found me first.

"Your parents are worried sick," he had told me, reaching for my hand.

"But I like it here," I had complained. "It's so much colder than the field. And it's so beautiful. I don't want to leave."

He handed me a church pamphlet, and a pencil. "Why don't you sketch it? Then you can remember it wherever you go. Take your time, and don't move, and I'll call your parents to let them know you're okay."

I took the pencil and the pamphlet, which had a black section on the very back, and began sketching. I sketched the trees, the grass, the dead leaves and branches on the floor, the yellow Serin birds with music notes around their beaks.

It took a long time, and my parents were probably getting very worried despite Mr. Schneider's constant calls of confirmation that I was okay, but he patiently waited until I was done.

He understood me more than anyone else. More than me, more than my parents.

No, don't think about them. Just forget.

Minutes passed until I finally looked up and noticed where I was. My feet slowed as I stared in amazement at the city. How I wished I had my sketchbook.

To my left was a canal, with boats that consistently came and went, packed with tourists, some who waved vigorously at passing pedestrians, and others who snuggled in close with their family at the boat's stern to capture a selfie. Close in front of me was a bridge connecting the two ends of the river, baskets holding flowers of vibrant colors hanging from the railings. Lining the river were houses, neatly resting next to one another, towering over the smooth roads. I was shocked at the insignificant number of cars here. There were lanes dedicated to only bikes, but unlike other cities, many people here used them, leisurely cycling down the street with a friend or two, baskets filled with groceries and items they would soon be using. Life was flowing in the city, as if the river was the city's source of energy, the resource needed to keep Amsterdam alive. Individuals bustled from place to place, products and loved ones in their hands.

The atmosphere of the city first struck me as pleasant, optimistic, everything I needed right now, but no city is perfect. As I passed shops, I spotted smokers lighting their cigarettes, leaning groggily on the wall while their lifeless stare fell upon the river. Vapers trodded down the sidewalk, exhaling toxin into the air. Young teenagers lurked in the corner and alleys, seeking the tastes of adulthood and the sins of the world.

I glimpsed a woman sitting on a front porch, crying while whispering into her phone. Her makeup poured down her face in black tears, but she made no move to wipe it away. What happened? I wondered. In between words, she smoked. Is she broke? Homeless? Did she get fired from a job she has spent years to pursue? Or did her man have an affair? My mind sorted all the dreadful possibilities. Will she have this fixed? Or will she live the rest of her life with a wound in her heart?

I turned my eyes away to land on a couple walking hand in hand. They stopped in front of a perfume shop to give each other a small peck on the lips. Will they marry in the future? Will they split? I noticed the lack of rings on their fingers.

Everyone here has a story; everyone here has lived a past, and will have a future, whether it's in the next minute or years later. Where will they be? I wondered. What will they be doing?

What path would they choose to take?

There were so many stories, so many possibilities, that I was overwhelmed. What will be my story? I find it dreadful that we only get a shot at one life in this world, one shot at one story. I want to experience all the stories. I want to know what it's like to live on the run, in the face of danger. I want to know what it's like to live in a castle, with the responsibilities of a kingdom upon your shoulders. I want to live a successful and an unsuccessful life. I want to live a life in society, and a life in the wild. I want to know what each and every story is like, and then I can decide what I want my story to be, what I want my life to be.

But I can't.

I just have to hope that I'm making the right decisions.