I See What You Don't

A Quilt and a Quip

The winds approaching Fall onto Winter are always more crisp in Romania than anywhere else you've traveled to in the world. Something about the bitter cold of sweeping fresh air left you feeling reinvigorated. The chills kissing your neck trickled down your spine with each passing of silent whispers through your hair. Most townsfolk would complain about the cold, but you loved it. To you the cold was what made you feel most alive. It was your favorite time of year. You loved to sit by your writers desk with the window slightly ajar, taking in the inspirational breeze. Mint and honey tea soothed your husky throat with eaze. Made it easier to concentrate. A beige and black diamond pattern quilt passed down your family line with its borders holding on by frays layed gently on your lap. It was thick and warm, lightly stuffed with old down feathers. It showed obvious signs of being loved. You reminisced for a brief moment about your childhood memories with this quilt. Your mother holding you bundled up on her lap sitting on the creaking rocking chair in front of the fireplace. She would gently sweep away the red soft locks of hair from your eyes as she lulled you to sleep with songs of old Romanian folklore. Fascinating tales about Vampires and Werewolves were read to you by your father when he came home from mining coal all day long. This quilt was what he would tuck in on the sides of your body. He often told you that it was to protect you from the monsters of the night. But deep down you knew it was because he did not want you to leave that bed. The quilt couldn't protect you from his absence one night when he did not return home from his work. You had to tuck yourself in from then on. It was only once he was gone that you learned about monsters in the dark. Most of them were other men in your family.

You run your slender Summer tanned hands over your steel typewriter with a relaxed sigh. This truly was your happiness. The scratched nearly frozen gray metal squeaked against your warm fingers as they slid over the keys. The 'e' and 'a' key-stamps had developed a slight wobble from overuse and age; so much so that you could barely make out the risen faded lettering. Nonetheless this was a gift from your mother before she was committed to hospice from a form of mental illness that had no name. It progressed heavily once your father passed from the collapsed mine incident. You were only nine when you began to try to cope with someone who was not who they once were, but was someone who you very much needed. This typewriter was your release. As a child you wanted nothing more than to be a famous writer. It did not matter what you were famous for as long as your brain on paper was posted for everyone in the world to see. You were very fond of classics like Poe, Jack London, and Robert Frost. The idea of writing about the creative darkness's of the world that would peak human interest was fascinating to you. There was great demand to contrast the large influx of romance novels. You did not like to read nor write about happiness. You liked to create truth. The world would know about that in your first major novel.

However, paper was a luxury to you and one that you could not often afford. The amount of which to create said novel would be astounding. Your father was barely able to pay for any form of education, let alone at the level in which you received it. He had made a breakable bank and often put most of his money in there for you. You had smashed it together three days before his passing. He had cried of happiness to know that he had worked hard every day for years so that his little girl would have the education he never could. And it served you well. The emptiness of him not seeing you learn and grow created a void that never was replaced. Even with the pride you knew that he would also feel a deep shame. To pay for your supplies, as well as your mothers care, you took the easy route as a woman in order to make money. You were considered decently appealing. Your eyes are the color of the resourceful farm lake by your house and the water that caressed the rock beds. The sun gleamed down to greet the small fish. Your hair was often complimented on being that of a young red fox pelt. The bright hues of orange and honey browns speckled in the light. Needless to say your unique appearance was a great selling point and made you visible on the roads at night. Men would flock to you for even a kiss. Most of your clientele had become regulars.