The Blade

My name is Scarlett, and I don’t know how to feel about it. They’re just letters given to me by my parents, and although that makes it special, I’m still indifferent. It seems like a blank wall; my name could be anything. I think if I venture any direction to accept it, I’ll regret it and that thought scares me. I wish I could have a different name, but I have no clue what I would want. Nicknames exist, but Scarlett doesn’t have many. Whenever I say my name is Scarlett, people always say it’s such a beautiful name. That’s nice. I guess. It’s a dull blade–not a visible cut, but it still stings. I don’t like it when people say that it’s a beautiful name because I don’t feel like I am. Not in the sense of I don’t like my appearance, but “beautiful” to me is when a female identifying person dresses stereotypically feminine, and that’s just not me. I don’t want to be feminine and frankly I don’t think I ever have been. The yearning to push the stereotype away from all girls is trapped behind a solid wall. That wall is my name. First impressions matter, but I wish they didn’t. My name conveys exactly what I don’t want it to, and suddenly that dull blade was sharpened by every single sexist person ever, repeatedly stabbing through my heart.

The Puzzle

Home: It’s a funny word, really. Some say it’s made from people, others from places. I love my mom’s house. It felt cozy with familiar surroundings, cluttered with drawings and objects that remind me of growing up. The sizzle of gyros on the stove are drowned out by the music playing from behind the orange-brown faux leather couch we watch movies on. Depending on the day, either Hamilton, Muse, or George Michael would be playing. I never knew the names of the songs, but play them once and my heart knows them just as well as I know every hair on my favorite stuffed animal. 

“The food’s ready, kids,” my mom says.

I glance at the unglazed dining table thats’ color is best described as a brown mauve. “Should we get the card table?” I ask rhetorically. Puzzle pieces are askew on the dining table with half of the New York City skyline filled in. Neon letters are broken up, contrasting with the dark blue sky. 

Stuffing gyros into pita pockets already filled with smooth hummus, I slowly crack a smile. We dissect each others’ days, laugh about embarrassing moments, and finish the hummus container. My mom gets up to start the dishes, and as soon as the tap water splashes on the metal bottom of the sink, I get up to clear my plate. Patiently waiting behind my mom to wash the hummus off, she audibly sighs as she has to move in front of the dishwasher. 

“Excuse me,” I say so as to not irritate her again while I’m putting my plate in the dishwasher. She still sighs. 

Later, I’m in my room and my thoughts swirl. Tears make my skin dry and my lips can’t make words. I didn’t do anything wrong, but why does it feel like I can’t do anything right?

Thunder roars as it booms through the dark streets. Although, perhaps it’s simply the neighbor’s garbage cans, rattling as their wheels struggle to stabilize themselves on the rocky driveway. I can never differentiate. Rain plops onto the metal roof. The variation between the subtle clangs of the metal, the solid drops onto concrete, and the splashes as raindrops hit muddy dirt are hardly distinguishable, yet fill the ambiance as they echo through the chambers of my body. I hear the dryer’s high pitched chimes ring, and then the soft carpet beneath me starts to shake. It’s a dragon’s rumbling snore, but it still ruins the nature outside. A murder of crows begin to caw. Birds’ songs are one of the loudest noises that humans hardly hear anymore; another sound in a world full of them. Not as interesting, not as special. I wish I could say I hear them every time, but I don’t. Nobody does.

Afterthoughts

We curve into the powdery field, kicking up snowflakes behind us. The world shoots by like the best days do. Skis skid and skin the snow gracefully. My dad falls not so gracefully, practically face planting into the fresh, chilled powder. His right ski has had enough and steers itself straight down the run, faster than the wind. My brother whooshes past me and I follow, attempting to catch the runaway. Skillfully turning, my dad meets us at the bottom of the run with his singular ski. Beneath us, a drop is visible. Not a raindrop, but an eighty foot cliff drop. Tall enough so that we would fall through the earth. My ever-inventive father sees a solution to our dilemma. It wasn’t easy, but after trekking almost four hundred feet up the mountain using our skis and poles as a ladder in the knee-deep snow, we made it out of the trees with soaked socks and frozen toes.