Sneak Peeks?

1934- Mafia Love story

1934-

Evelyn Morren:

   I sat in the back seat, the windows down. I'm in an auto mobile with my aunt and uncle... So why can I not convince myself that I am not alone?

    My aunt is sitting right in front of me, My uncle is driving and singing to a song I've heard countless times, but still do not know the words to. Is that wrong? Could it be mother is right? That I spend to much time with 'my head in the clouds' as she calls it.

    Everything has gone down hill since my mother and father moved to Chicago. I use the word Father very loosely. He's never been much of a father. But can I blame him? He was 17 when my mom got pregnant. I've been told the story, only once by my nurse maid. They were celebrating mother's 16th birthday. And 9 months later... I was her present. A present my mother and father must have regretted- somewhere, somehow, even if they hadn't realized it. How could I blame my father for ignoring me when he blamed me and my mother for cheating him out of his future?

    You see, my parents had dreams, wishes, wants, goals...Aspirations. And none of those things had involved me.  I was born in hot, muggy, July it was 1918, A small town in Michigan. Where my parents had grown up. Once my mother had found out she was pregnant, my father proposed to her- and my mother agreed because it is the way of the world, not because they were in love. So now here I was, utterly alone in the unfair world- both parents wishing I'd been miscarried- wished I was never born.

    Of course they never said these things aloud, but I knew. They were to nice to really tell me how they felt about me. I'd been raised by Jean. She was a woman only a year older then my own mother. She was pregnant with a child the year before my mother- she lost the baby.

    So when my mother brought me home- Jean became my caretaker, My best and only friend-well, besides my secret letter friend, but I didn't cout him because I didn't really know him- but even Jean didn't understand. She had been in love. Allen was his name, he was her husband, he died from the 1918 epidemic that washed through Chicago. She was the only friend I had- Therefore I thought she'd be waiting for me when I got off the train from my current bording school. We'd written, she'd even taken a train to come and visit me once in a while.

    The school had become my home. I was sent there when I was 13. I only came home for semester and Holiday breaks. And even then my parents house was not a home- not to me. When ever I came home there were people, new people, or the same people. I just smiled and waved too. I tried to ignore them, to be completely honest. Because even if they were new people it was always the same mindless conversations and gossips. And the sick thing was they expecteed me to go right along with it. When I did not, however, I was scolded, either by mother's sharp intake of breath, or my father's steely gaze.

    "We're here." Aunt Rebecca, said in a high pitched voice. I clutched my bag tighter. She was just like every other woman that was going to be in there. They acted as if they didn't have a brain talked of things that held absolutely no importance.  My uncle Calvin grabbed my bag and I clutched my book to my chest. A woman my mother's age met me at the stairs.

    ''Oh my, You're gorgous!" She exclaimed, smiling at me.

    "Thank you." I murmured.

    "I'm  Sara Roscoe." She said still smiling, a girl a few years my junior walked up beside her.

    "Hello, Ms. Morren. Please excuse my mother. She gets a little excited. I'm Ella." She giggled.

    I smiled and nodded.  "Evelyn." I said

    "Your father is away on bussiness at the moment." Mrs. Roscoe said, "But Andrew should-"

    "Cousin!" Andrew greeted. My cousin was 20- 4 years my senior. "Come, I'll show you to your room. You must be exhausted from the drive."

    When I got to 'my' room I saw the oak desk fully stocked with paper and pens. Without looking around any further I set my bag beside the bed and sat down in the matching oak chair. I wrote to the Noah, my bethrothed- more or less.

He'd been writing me since I'd turned 15- but he never told me his name or how he'd ccome to know of me.

    He already knew me as Evelyn, so I corrected him, I'd detested the name Evelyn- it was far to long, Evie was perfect short, sweet and to the point.

Dear Mr. Noah,

 I know it's been awhile since I've written you. I've been busy with Exams and surprised with getting off The train  getting  straight into an automobile and driving to Chicago from the Michigan train station.

As I sat in the car all I could think about was how diiferent my life could have been if I'd runaway. Would I be happier? Would I be less lonely? Those are questions I will never have the answers to. I'd thought I'd prepared myself for coming back to this life.

The life where I feel like I'm standing on an eroding cliff, but somehow no one else sees me slipping to my death. Here in this life I have no one to pull me back, no one who cares- or even notices- that the ground is falling out from under my feet. Can people really be that oblivious?

I suppose I am everything a well brought up girl should be. But inside I find myself screaming for anything that could fill this void empty space inside my life, help, friendship, understanding, support, freedom... love. Things I have never really had before.

I apologize for this letter. It is rather depressing, is it not? I also apologize that this will most likely be the only kind of letter you recieve from me while around my father's friends- clients, or co-workers. When I'm here I must act as if I'm happy to be surrounded by the same kind of narrow people. Their same mindless chatter.

I'm seeing my own life as if I've already lived it out. And that's slowly and painfully torturing me. When I was a little girl I believed I could do something great... someday. I had believed I could be a princess, Believed I could fly. Now I know how rediculous that all sounds, for in this world I am merely an object to be gazed upon, but that doesn't keep me from dreaming of the things I used to. Dreaming of a time where my life could be so different.

Even though I was... shocked when you'd first written to me- knowing so many things about me... but now I'm glad, happy even, for that small mercy. To know that someone really knows how I feel, some one may care. And I thank you for that. I am so very thankful for your letters, Noah. They may even keep me from falling from this cliff I seem to be barely balancing on.

Sincerely,

Evie Roscoe

I folded the letter and put it in the envelope scrawling Mr. Noah on the front- somehow I always got a reply. And as always I felt the butterflies as I sent it away, knowing he'd read it soon and find the only comfort I'd yet known in my young life.