Memoria

Chapter 1

I write down everything.  Homework assignments.  Love confessions.  The list of books I’m going to read.  I don’t really have a reason besides the simple fact that it helps me remember things.  I can look back and relive the moment that I found my great-grandmother’s broach in the garden behind my house when I was 13.  Remember how it felt to slowly fall in love with Jaymes.  And how it felt to realize that he was nothing like I thought he was. 

            I spend my lunch hour wandering the cobblestoned streets of Breaven, alone with my thoughts.  I’ve come to appreciate the rusting lampposts and the clouds that hide the sun three hundred sixty-five days a year.  No one on the streets gives me a second look.  No one stops to ask me if I’m lost.  No one remembers me after we casually pass as strangers.  It never climbs above 65 degrees here, so by the time I pass through the gates locking me into another two hours of staring at a bespectacled professor and a chalkboard, my cheeks are flushed and I’m hiding my numbing fingers inside the pockets of my peacoat. The same-ness of everyday comforts me.

            18 February

            They were out of coffee this morning. They’re never out of coffee.  I can feel the coldness of the stone benches around the fountain through my gloves. That’s February in Breaven for you, I guess.  Freezing and no coffee it give it warmth.   I’ve heard there is supposed to be a new student at school today or tomorrow.  With the city growing, I guess that is to be expected.  Now to survive the morning without coffee.  Should be interesting.

 

            I sat in Anatomy and watched the huge, cast-iron gates close and lock precisely at nine thirty.  They say it’s a safety precaution, but I’m not dumb enough to believe the government’s empty talk.  They want to keep us locked in.  Our government sure does love to be in control. 

            I still don’t know how he got in. 

            Since the human brain isn’t exactly my favorite topic to discuss, I busied myself with trying to remember and copy down the Bukowski poem I’d read last night.   Hitting a dead end, I bit my lip and absentmindedly looked out at the same gray clouds I see every day. 

            But the image wasn’t the same.  The gates were open.

            “Sorry I’m late.”

            ________________________________________________________________________

            I’m usually a stickler for rules, but if there’s someone who is even more of a goody-two-shoes than I am, it’s my younger sister Elissa.  So not only is she already the little angel in the family for being the youngest, she had to go and be selfless and considerate and obedient.

            I’m good.  Truly I am.  But there is something inside of me that tells me that I’m more than the lonely girl who reads books and drinks coffee and spends every day writing down every detail of every repetitive second.  And to find out what that is, I need to be at least a little rebellious.  Right?

There is more to come on this chapter.  I'll keep writing until it's right.  Oh my.  This is on the internet.  For you to read.  Wow.  Thanks for reading.