xkristalyn
“I have just one small suggestion, little girl.” Frederick thrust her into the wall, his forearm pressed against her collarbone to keep her in place. “Do your job. Pleasure my son and conceive a boy. You have no need to go outside and bond with anyone. You service Porter and only Porter. Whenever he wants and as often as possible, and –” He shoved his knee into her thigh for emphasis. “– if you do not conceive with him I will make you conceive without anyone being the wiser because you. will. not. speak up. Do you understand?”
Maude forced herself to nod instead of vomit.
“Good. Go to him now. Present yourself.” He flung her away, down the hall. She stumbled and picked herself back up before she found herself in Porter’s room, collapsed on his floor, with Frederick’s ‘suggestion’ running through her mind on a loop.
Isaac was on Porter's left, and she didn't find it at all surprising that, from her view, he was on the right. Since that day through the window he'd always seemed like the right kind of person, but they had both left. Left before they were allowed to talk or continue looking. And when she returned, Porter was where Isaac stood, and she wished now more than ever that their positions could be reversed again.
They play behind the main stage - the orchestra. Their music mocks Maude as she walks towards Porter, but also towards Isaac, and for a moment she wonders if she can change her wording and marry the latter instead. Marry the best man instead of the groom. Marry into his family instead of into Porter's. But she knows she cannot, and she wishes that the orchestra would stop screaming her fate at her for the whole room to hear.
When I was stolen away into the car, I simply let my eyes fall onto the tires of the car beside me. I could barely see over the windowsill, but I still kept my eyes focused. One round - my future. Two rounds - from my past. Three rounds - wherever he's taking me. Four rounds - fear. I forced myself to think of where this car was taking me and what it was taking me from, and tried so hard not to regret anything about it.
It's a sudden downpour of emotions, and explosion within that you can't control. Once a month. The breakdown. The night in which life becomes clear and you cannot handle it. It's been happening to me less and less, maybe because I know he's no longer there to help me through. Maybe because I know he no longer cares. Or maybe he does, but he isn't showing it very well anymore. But hopefully, it's been fading because I'm finally beginning to understand myself. Hopefully. Hopefully.
It was raining harder than Maude had ever seen before. Little drops pushed their way through the solid roof of Timoth Manor, splashing onto the floor, dripping like waterfalls. She was used to the noise, having been in Holding. But Porter was not. His annoyance was clearly written upon his delicate features and he was an absolute pain to be around. She desperately wished that Isaac might show up and save her from him.
Frederick was a combination of friendship and animosity. On the one hand ,you wanted to like him. On the other, he was terrifying. You didn't know what you could say, what you could do, how you could act without him jumping on you for something. The way he spoke and looked, that malicious glint, was overpowering. When near him, it was a combination of fear and hope and expectation.
I struggle with symbolism and the profound in my writing. Most things that seem to be 'deep' in my writing are placed there accidentally. It's something writing teachers often comment on. "The repetition of 'mint green' should be a symbol, but it isn't." (First year, fiction professor).
I don't like things to be forced. Not only is it too much effort for a lazy writer, but it's really easy to tell when someone plants a symbol for you. I don't like being obvious.
Epiphany: I'm not a good writer.
Or. I'm not a motivated writer.
NaNoWriMo will not go well this year, just as it didn't go well last year.
Epiphany: I only have one developed story in my head.
Third year in a row trying to write it? Yeah, probably.
I'm passionate about writing. I love it, it's my life. It's heartbreaking, therefore, to realize that being passionate isn't enough sometimes. Skill and tact come first. I wish it was all just passion. I'm sad about having to leave UVic's writing program next year (completely by choice!), but I'm happy to be switching into something I love just as much - Elementary Education. I'll get to travel and help teach young children to read and write. It's an amazing opportunity. AND, the traveling will allow me to experience and encounter new cultures and new things to write about. So maybe life is just one, big writing class.
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