Cherophobia

Prologue

I sat alone in my room as I chewed on the tip of my pencil & ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. I was trying, and failing, to clear my mind of the unfortunate thoughts and memories that blocked me from writing and thinking properly. Thoughts and memories that liked to flood my brain when it seemed I was trying hardest to just let it go blank. So unfocused and uninspired as I was I knew I wouldn't get anything done until I allowed the memories to invade my thoughts as they often did.

Finally, so surrounded by the rushing thoughts and feelings, I gave in. Letting the familiar memories tumble and fall like waves over my mind, pouring down, not allowing for any breath to be taken or image to be seen. Yet it was also not so violent as it sounds, now a familiar feeling, though never pleasant.

It was a Tuesday in the month of October. About a month after my 8th birthday. I can't even tell you which exact Tuesday, because all Tuesday's after it ran and blurred together more and more after each passing week in the past 10 years.

We were living in a small town about 30 minutes outside of Charleston, SC called Goose Creek. It was were my parents had met. Where my mother had grown up and ended up getting knocked up and marrying a man who had only planned on visiting there for a few months. Where this couple lived together for almost 13 years and had two kids. Their firstborn was born only months after they officially got married, a boy that they named Walter. Next came a girl, being me, born about 4 years later and named Winifred, after my mother's beloved Aunt.

It was also where my mother abandoned my father and I.

Though unlike your average case of runaway mom she, for reasons I do not pretend to know, took my brother with her and left me here.

So on that particular Tuesday I can remember nearly every unimportant and random detail of it, I can tell you the color dress I put on that morning, being only eight years old it was of course pink. I can tell you the exact placement of my Cinderella backpack in my bright pink room. How it took me longer than usual to find my shoes with the buckle, because I didn't want to wear the ones with the laces.

But I, to this day, can't tell you what the exact color of my own mother's hair the last time I saw her. I know it was blonde. But I can't remember if in the light that day it shown bright and warm like a gold lit wheat, or if it was more a platinum and sleek, or even if it was many different shades of light and dark like my own.

So after I completed all of these meticulous little tasks, wanting to get ready all by myself without even a word from anyone reminding me to do something so my mom and dad would be proud of me, I went downstairs, my body bouncing down the stairs along with my hair that I had attempted to put in pigtails.

Running into the kitchen to greet my family, expecting to see them in their normal places, my mother at the counter pouring my brother a bowl of cereal, him sitting at the table with my dad talking about football or lacrosse. He was only in the sixth grade but had already shown great skill and natural talent in both and many more sports. And as my dad talked to him, he would smile brightly and occasionally sip his coffee, or his eyes would flit over to my mom in a look of admiration.

But this morning the kitchen was empty. The only sign that anyone had even entered it before me that morning what the scattered pictures, paper, and magnets that had been ripped of the fridge. So I quickly ran back up to my parents room trying to open the door and soon realizing it was locked.

So as I knocked on the door I started to call out "Mommy! Daddy! I'm already all dressed and ready! All by myself, I've got on my new shoes with the buckles!"

I called out to them a few more times, before giving up and running into my brothers room. Only to find it empty.

His trophies and team pictures from all the sports he'd already participated in were all still there. But his drawers had been emptied, and his bed was made, which my brother never ever did.

I started to cry. Thinking my whole family had gone and left me here alone.

That was until I heard footsteps approaching my brother's room. I quickly got up, racing to the source of them and seeing my dad. I ran to him overjoyed I'd found him but then even more confused when he ignored my presence. Walking right past me and into where I'd just came from with a piece of paper clutched in his hand.

I immediately followed my dad into Walter's room. Not understanding what was going on, where my mom and brother were.

"Daddy? Where's Mommy? And Walter? Did they already go to Walter's school?" I asked, sad that I didn't get the chance to show them how I'd gotten ready all by myself.

My father dropped to his knees. The paper in his hand falling slowly to the floor and closer to me and he started to cry.

"Daddy! Daddy!! What's wrong?" I said, not knowing what was going on as he only cried harder.

Not knowing what else to do I grabbed the note that he had been clutching a few minutes before.

Reading it slowly and carefully like my teacher had taught me I didn't at first understand what it exactly mean't. That was, until I read who wrote it.

              -I'm so sorry. I have Walter and we're fine. Please don't look for us. I just needed to leave. Take care of Winifred and of yourself.

-Edith

I read it and despite my young age, despite my love of all that was pink and frilly and had to do with princesses, I knew.

I knew that this was not the hard and sad part of the fairy tale, the part that occurred right before something amazing happened and then you lived happily ever after. I knew she wasn't coming back. And I knew my father would never recover from this.

Finally freeing myself momentarily from the constant reminder of my own faults, that apparently were large enough to drive away my own mother and brother; I slammed my notebook closed & threw down the pencil, giving up. I quickly got out of bed & slipped on my clothes grumbling at the thought of another boring day of hell-I mean school.

I might as well tell you who I am if you're going to be reading about some of the most intimate moments of my life. Well just don't laugh when I tell you my name.

I'm Winifred Matilda Jane Foster, but I go by Winnie. So seriously, do not call me Winifred.

And yeah I am quite aware it's a ridiculous name both my full name and the nickname I received matching that of a chubby bear whose a bit too in love with honey. But it's one of the only things my mother left for me when she abandoned my father and I when I was only 8 years old.

But enough about my mom, let's get to the real reason why I'm writing this story and asking you to read....

....Well I can't just tell you, that would kind of defeat the entire purpose of reading my story. Duh.

So for now I'll just start at the only place that makes sense, or at least before he showed up it did,

The Beginning.