Forever Changed (Completed first draft for NaNoWriMo 2017)

Days nine and ten - chapter six

I can feel my pen in between my fingers. It's a Bic, I always write with a cheap pen. I had a stupid adolescent idea about creativity and irony. I wanted to create something beautiful and memorable, full of wonder, something that would affect people and I wanted to do it with the most basic materials. So I chose a mass produced pen, blue, because everyone writes in black. What a wild, impetuous creature I am.

The first page of my notebook, it's ridiculously clean and fresh; staring at it there's a sense of optimism. Oh, the power and potential of this cheap pen.

'She smells like my mother.' I cringe and immediately want to eradicate the sentence, especially from the first page of my beautiful book. I peer at the binding, could I remove it without leaving a trace. I am disappointed with myself and close my eyes trying to erase the image of the words.

Maggie is sitting at my mother's dressing table. I always wondered at the phrase 'dressing table'. There had been a range of items scattered on the top, she had been proud of them and had arranged them in a specific order. There had been a silver plated hair brush, hand mirror and clothes brush that had once belonged to her grandmother. That was one of the first things to be sold. Then slowly all the cheaper tat disappeared to provide her with a range of substances; so she could do exactly the same.

The brush is back and Maggie is using it to comb her hair. She's gathering its length in her hand so she can tug out the knots at the end. It looks vaguely painful. Maggie is wearing a silk kimono. My mother definitely didn't have one of those. I can see one hanging over the back of a door. It's Jenna's.

How will I remember my perfect woman? I want to see her fine body standing in front of the easel as she smokes a joint and paints with her oils. Or maybe lying draped across our bed, the sheets crumpled and damp; her body taut and shiny. Her eyes were always so sleepy and reserved; did she even know I was here? Some people can rearrange their past memories with a little judicious editing. My brain simply won't allow it.

The last memory I have, the one that has burnt itself forever on my retina forever is her pearl white skin wrapped in the arms of another. I didn't walk away, I should have; instead, I shouted, I raged.

"But we're just friends right, you never said you wanted more than that. Benjamin, you should have said something."

I feel stupid now. I had believed that I was enough for her. Why the hell did she need someone else? Why was I never enough for anyone? Even my mother, even after what my father did she stayed with him. Why wasn't it enough just to have me?

I couldn't think about that anymore. Standing in our room as I cried was not a memory I wanted to keep. I pressed my thumbs on my eyes to rub out the image. She had looked surprised and vaguely embarrassed and he was smiling. I had made a fool of myself. It was obvious now that she was enough for me but I wasn't for her.

Forcing myself away from the memories and into my imaginary world I match Maggie's lipstick to the colour of the shiny silk poppies. She is watching herself untangle her hair in the mirror, adjusting her position so she looks delicate and sexy. The change of her position is not for her, there is someone else in the room. I'm disappointed that I can't even have imaginings which make me happy. It's probably her boyfriend.

I had wanted these lyrics to be a love song but I remember his wide hand covering her mouth and the way she encouraged it. It could still be a love story – 'destructive but addictive'. I whisper the words aloud; "addictive but destructive", that sounds more lyrical. I open my eyes and stand in shock. It's my father. My father is in the room and the story isn't about love anymore it's about possession and ownership, and power.