My Ode to Survive

September 29, 2010
By Anonymous

Enter at stage right wearing a shawl and grayed hair. Sit in a desk, cross legs, open a leather journal and begin to read:
September 13th 1998 Dusk:

I was nine years old when my mother was diagnosed with lymphoma, fifteen when the doctors categorized her death as “a blessing”. I can still remember that day, every detail held captive in a stainless steel safe, hidden in my imaginary pocket. I was wearing a Boston Lakers sweatshirt that hit my rigid knees, and ripped blue jeans. I wasn’t the normal nine year old girl that most people think off, I was different, special in a way that’s not good. You could call me the freak of 3rd grade, the messy haired weirdo who twiddles her thumbs while the teacher’s meaningless words go in one ear and out the other.
September 13th 1998 Midnight:
I remember her voice when I walked in her hospital suet that morning, the paleness that smeared my translucent blue eyes. She looked like a ghost, a seven year old that smudged chalk all over their face. Her string was cut too short; the thin thread that her sweaty grip hardly grasped was loosening. She was a breathing corpse, a human being almost dead and she still had lectures left for me. “You bought those? Already torn and shredded” she said. “Sammy, do you know what the value of money is?” She was always making sure that I was ready to handle the real world conquer the demons that she knew lurked around every corner. I knew what she was thinking, the creaking noise that alarmed in her head, reminding her that she was leaving me in my father’s hands, the man who didn’t know the first thing about raising a teenage girl. **Notice I did not say daughter**.
October 2nd 2000 4:33:
It has been a while since that day, but not one memory has left my mind, not one smile has escaped the biography of my mother that I hold on too. Five years ago I sat in the children’s lounge counting down the minutes in till the reason I lived was ripped from my bare arms. Every word that I thought of was mocked by the yellow sponge who giggled annoyingly on the T.V screen in the front of me. Large bean bag chairs surrounded me, and books were dispersed around the floor. I was a thinker, and on that particular day my mind had spiraled out of control. Before I got too lost in my own world, Dr. Oliver, my mother’s oncologist, walked through the doors.
January 1st 2007 Noon:
My mother’s death was not a blessing; it was a message from the devil, one that was locked in a glass bottle, sent down to earth on the skies rivers, mortified by the touch of a cross boned angel.
April 9th 2012 8:30:
When I was seventeen I dropped out of high school, but I never put down the pen and paper. At eighteen and a half I moved out of, his house. He was a thing of the past, a piece of plastic trash that I would no longer keep in my toy chest. Now don’t ask me that same question that I get from everyone who tracks my story, think about something new. Where did you live? No to boring, how about where did you think you went? Five star hotels were a Monday fling, Penguin caves in Alaska fit in on weekends, and Middle East luxury getaways were left for the rest of the week. I was a character, a masterpiece of design, a measly idea engraved on a rain damaged card board box. It is amazing what you can do; you can be a magician, a ballerina, a Nobel Prize winning scientist, or even that comic book superhero that saves the world. I was all of those things, but in reality I was the 42nd street bum who dug through mosquito infested trash barrels for a bite of food. But that all was erased, wiped away with a flash of a high, a free feeling that overcomes me when the pen touches the paper pad. When I write I fly, I touch the heavens and sew together Ivory and Brick, but when the ink stops flowing, I hastily fall back to earth, flooding my body with an angry tsunami. I am a survivor, a fighter, the growing teen who passes through life living in a fantasy land.
Brush backs a piece of loose hair, shuts journal, and the room turns black.

The author's comments:
Everyday I struggle to get through the day. This piece shows one teens struggle to deal with loss, and how writing made it easier for her.

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