Harbored

Conceived

Hello sweet readers! In honor of this book being conceived for a year, I've decided to release the original rendition of this tale.

To set the scene, I'm a sophomore in high school, a huge introvert and a massive romantic at heart. In short, this was written five years ago. Finally, I present to you, my final piece in my creative writing class, inspired by the Great Depression, and a hint of my parent's love story.

Despite how heavily critical I am of this piece (in my current opinion, this is not my best work) I received a 100. Enjoy!

***

There was something about today. Whether it was the fresh wax on the hard woods, the details payed attention to in the floral arrangements or the ribbons dancing in the artificial winds brought on by metal fans, everything seemed to be very empty. As if nothing was what it really was, just an illusion of what it's trying to be.

That's how everything was feeling lately. Just like anything could evaporate at any given time. What this frigid mansion lacked immensely was love. Not the pretend type. The true type. The type where you can tell your parents everything, with no fear of them simply clearing away the topic of the matter and going on about their lives and the realization that sometimes, family is of more importance than family image.

"Story," Mother says. Wishing to never pry my eyes away from the beauty of the willow tree in my view, but do so to satisfy Mother, I see her daily ensemble. The ridiculously red smudge of lipstick she wears reflects the deep pigment in the light of my window seat. Her favorite green dress, that reaches her calfs, drapes in a flattering manner. The outlandish hat crowned on her head was brand new, as was handbag she proudly draped on her forearm. She was dressed to impress, as usual. 

"I'm going out to eat with Violet. Your Father left for a business trip this morning. He works hard to provide money for your dresses and automobiles. When he returns, I expect you to thank him very kindly," says Mother. My head weakly nods, a small, fake smile appears as she kisses my forehead briefly.

It's almost like she lives in a fantasy land, I think in my head silently as she keeps her posture, collar bones peeking out just enough to show that she is well fed yet slender.
Across the room, I look at my full reflection in the vanity mirror. Shy, undeserving smile, pale skin whiter than the moon itself, modest peach dress, easily placed into the middle class, and glittering, vacant eyes. The reflection chews her fingernail thoroughly, trying her best to remove the french manicure Mother insisted she get and not wanting to pick a fight publicly, got one anyway.

A loud commotion pulls my ears and curiosity back to the window. I feel the warm heat radiate from the sun as my fingertips graze the freshly cleaned pane. My eyes widen with embarrassment at what is happening on my front lawn. The faded cherry pumps I am wearing are hard to run down the stairs on.
"Mother!" I say. She stops pointing her finger at a boy, no older than me. His face, beautiful, yet coated in dirt and mud. The poor overalls he wears look like they should have been retired ten years ago.

One twitch of Mother's eye tells me she is less than pleased at me.

"Story Meryl Gentry, do you care to tell me as to why you absolutely had to interupt me telling this, this," she struggles to put words together, "bag of trash that he can not work here," she turns to the boy, "I am truly sorry but I do not condone poor hobos in my household." She says, looking satisfied, "Well, I am off to lunch because I can afford it."
My jaw clenches at her crudeness. How dare she say that, it is not like this boy can help his situation, he's just trying to make life better for himself. And that's admirable.