Willow Needs Help

Prologue

Listen to the song while reading!
Song: Kids - Current Joys
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THIS PROLOGUE isn't about a fifteen-year-old rape victim.

Although, dear reader, I know you probably crave to hear the tale about a ravaged fifteen-year-old girl, whose name was facetiously used as a synonym for the word "Reverie", whose soul often danced under the sweet whispers of stars and ashes of callousness, for the spirits of the night sky were her only true friends.

Nevertheless, this prologue isn't about me.

This prologue is about my mother.

However, you know what they say: The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Or in this case, the rotten apple and the weeping willow tree.

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ELEVEN YEARS AGO
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The fresh summer of 2012 had just begun, I was busy trying to find hospitality in my pitiful repose as I held my clueless gaze towards my naked mother, who was currently drowning in all her mutilated magnificence.

My mother was everything I wanted to be lookwise; beautiful and skinny. All the men go crazy for her.

The room was drained of colour due to the light giving up on us. As we both sat there in ear-splitting silence, we contemplated whether we had enough money to stay another day in our ratchet motel room.

Mother was damaging her lungs while counting the money she made. I always wondered why we were struggling to pay rent when she made this much cash. It was later when I found out she used up all of the money to buy fairy dust. Oh sorry, I meant bags of powder.

The only source of colour came from the outside, from our tiny little window. The sky was as enthralling as ever. I saw the colours orange and blue mix together as they create the illusion of a perfect relationship. It's like they have been soulmates for the longest time.

I vowed to myself one day that I will experience that kind of love, finding the blue to my orange. And one day, just one day, we would be able to produce the same enchantment that lingered in the sky, escaping the ceaseless horrors of my home and diving into the felicity of life all while experiencing the perennial calm of my liberty. Maybe one day, when I am not four years old, I can finally enjoy the briskness of my youth.

Maybe one day, when I am all grown up, the vitality of the seeds in my heart will help grow them into spirited crimson roses, blessing my being with its dynamism.

Maybe one day.

Just not today.

Not today, when I am four years old.

Not today, when I should be enjoying childhood.

Not today, when I should be at the peak of experiencing carelessness.

Not today, when I am trapped in a cramped motel room with my mother.

Just not today.

I was still looking at my window, I held my gaze towards the jubilant sky.

Morning and night made friendship bracelets.

And I had to bare the pain that is making my own with their leftover beads.

Their arresting beads swam exquisitely in a pool of ataraxy tenderness, unknowingly drowning in its flamboyant serenity. It is unfortunate that the colours of the breathtaking sky were about to fade away and turn into the sombre and dismaying colour which is midnight black. Leaving nothing but a sense of utter desolation and nostalgia.