Why so serious?

(Prologue) December 23, 2016

Just to let you know-

I know I tried this before: talking to you. It didn't work out so well last time, but my life might be a little more interesting now. So, from this day forward, you're my rock. I can't say me writing to you will fix anything, but it's worth a shot. Isn't everything?

They told me to write about my thoughts to you, but that's so incoherent to what your interests are about me. Please don't judge my character from what I share with you on this paper, and with this pen with ink that will foretell my story to you or anyone who cares. I'm not crazy; everyone else is simply insane, don't you think? People have thrown me into a black abyss my entire time living in this area. Before that story, I should fill you in on my caring past.

Westborrough was suppose to be my last home, but mom never thought of it as a safe haven enough for her. It didn't matter if, for the first time, I was able to develop enough courage to go for a walk without the fear of a gentleman taking notice of me. I guess when she started to hear the people talk in the back of the grocery store of what happened between my mom and her husband last summer got the best of her. She never asked me, but the screams of her pain brought me great joy.

One day as I arrived home from a friends house, my mom took my eight-year-old hand and piled my things into our Pontiac, and didn't bat an eye as we left our house with the smell of my dad's decaying body in the garage's supply closet. Being a small child, I couldn't comprehend just how unfortunate us moving to Ridgewater was going to be in my future.

We settled nicely in this town, and inhabited an old apartment floor above the ancestral library that had inhabited the town for hundreds of years.

As the years went by, my mother's mental state diminished due to her satanic disease, and she slowly saw me more as a pet than a daughter who needed care from her only life support. I quickly learned that on Mondays and Tuesdays mom would be in the attic, so I would have the apartment to myself. On Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays she would be in the hospital for treatments, so I would have the town to myself. But on the weekends, I would have to dread the hours of torture and emotional scarring my deranged mother would inflict upon me.

Most mothers have dinner parties with wonderful friends who would tolerate the children to the certain degree of playing with them and knowing them by first names and, for the lucky ones, nicknames. My mother had parties too. But, for some mystical reason, I would be the center of attention: more than other children would be.

Mom always used the excuse of "us needing money for her cigarettes and medical bills" as a resolution of me being an attraction at her parties. For her guests to fling themselves upon with drunken laughter, and for men to grope and "play" with until they couldn't tolerate my whimpers and screams of protest against their roaming hands. That's when they would hit me. Or choke me. Mom always was with her lady friends at the time of these childhood memories being imprinted into my brain. She stopped having parties when I was fourteen. Something about me needing to have a reputation with people my age being the reason for the men to not come to our home anymore.

Two months after the last party, my mother died from pneumonia. Her illness ate away her use of muscles, and as she tried swallowing her pudding one morning, she couldn't get the food down the right tube. The pudding sat in my mother's lungs for a week before it molded and caused her final death. I could say that that was the best day of my life, and will always be the best. I was to turn fifteen the day after her death.

My aunt came from California to take care of me. Finally, I knew the sweet feeling of love and nourishment. She taught me social skills(which I was never able to obtain since I was so busy with entertaining mom's guests who were well above the age of my peers). I started to become fairly popular at school since I learned how to deal with other teenagers, and boys took noticed. Since I had a mother figure who actually knew exactly who I was, I was given the luxury of suitable clothes, a haircut, and a well fed body.

As the boys took noticed, I took notice of sexual pleasure instead of what they call rape, which was what I was formally used to. Instead of hitting me, they gripped my ass as I walked by. Choking was substituted for flirtatious hands touching my cheek, hoping to win the affection of my heart.

I never had a real boyfriend. If anything, I had multiple flings one after the next after the next. Each boy held an important lesson for me in terms of future relationships. But none were strong enough to commit like other boys to their high school sweethearts. I always envied the girls who had secure dates to dances. The ones who were able to cuddle with something other than a cat.

Because of this misfortunate emptiness in my life, I always saw myself as something less than all the other girls. I saw myself as uglier than what the mirror showed, fatter than what the scale said, and less important than all the medals or awards I would earn in athletics or academics. As graduation came to a tangible sight, I realized I was to go to college, and be trusted with the most important thing: my life. Insecure, unstable, and uneducated in terms of society, I was, by no means, ready to deal with the fate I was set up with ever since I was a child.

And that is where I bring you to the present. Graduated, twenty-five and one month old me. My past may be more colorful than most, but I don't see it as harmful. I mean, just take a look at my current situation. I'm fed well. I have a place to sleep. I have many friends who care about me. It's great.

You may, however, have figured out that I have left a gap in my life. And that is where these future journal entries come in. You see, instead of talking about what I think about inside my head, I will write about my life from eighteen year old me to 20 year old me. The five years still untold will be revealed later. But please, bare with me as I take you through the two years I recall as my most serious times of age. I can't wait. You shouldn't be able to either. Enjoy.

-Mandy J.

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Authors note:

Hi! Thank you for reading my first chapter! I'm so excited to write more, but I would love for some comments and feedback! The picture attached is of Mandy J. If you have any questions please comment!

- Authur
A.R.