Framing

Here's a short drabble I wrote a while ago. Happy Holidays and have a great New Year!

The girl and her mother were setting up photos in the master bedroom. They had moved in nearly four years ago and had just now started to put up all the extra decorations they had left to collect dust in the basement or in boxes, almost forgotten. Now, with little else to do, they had decided to hang two wrought iron squares, and the master bathroom had fit their color scheme best. The girl thought she was of minimal use in the project, there mostly to serve as a second opinion and tool fetcher, but she enjoyed the position as it was a distraction from mandatory homework she loathed starting.

"A little bit to the side, I think," the younger woman stated, squinting. "Just a smidge. Other than that, the first one should be good."

"More to the left?" her mother repeated, sliding an almost unnoticeable amount. "Further?"

"Slightly, just a little . . . Yeah, there." Her mother nodded, making a small mark on the wall with a pencil.

"Measuring tape?" When the daughter looked back blankly, she sighed. "In the bag with the screwdriver, down the hall."

"With the screwdriver. I will . . ." she trailed off, brow pinched.

"In the office. In the bag, with the screwdriver."

"Right, right, sorry." With an actual location in mind as opposed to a blurry idea, the young woman found it easily and handed it up. "Here you go, sorry."

"Thank you," the mother hummed, measuring the distance between the epicenter and the new screw. They were framing both iron contraptions around a pre-existing picture, thus making the actual calculation aspect of the job more difficult. "Look about right to you?"

"Yes, it does. And between the two screws?"

"Wait, haven't gotten there yet." Face taunt with concentration, she measured and re-measured the distance between the two screws on the backside of the object, making another small mark on the wall. Soon she was screwing in the tiny strips of metal, sewing them to the drywall. With that complete, she slipped on the wrought iron with minor struggle, fixing it onto the screws and straightening it out by eye. "Hand me the leveler, would you?"

The girl got up and gave her the level, banging her knee in the process. This caused an uncomfortable land on her toe, which had had a plantar's wart for the past two months. No one quite knew how she got it, but it was still sore despite medication and several trips to the pediatrician's office. "Ouch," she said with a wince, though it came out as a yelp of resignation. She was used to injuring herself often, though she wasn't overly clumsy.

"Geez," her mother remarked with a raised eyebrow. "You really are a hypochondriac."

"I hate my toe," she replied instead. "It's a pain." This resulted in another sigh.

"Some things I'm just used to now, you know?" the woman commented, measuring for the wrought iron square on the other side. "Like your toe. I'm starting to think it will never get better. And your face." The girl sat up straighter.

"My face?"

"The acne. I used to think it was getting better, but now I don't know. I mean, maybe we should just go to the dermatologist. I don't want them to put you on oral medication, but something needs to give. I've tried all I can think to do."

"Dad had acne. Sometimes it's just hormonal, and there's nothing you can really do about it."

"Maybe the dermatologist could tell us that, then." The girl looked back at the wall. "Right?"

"Maybe a tiny bit."

"Alright." It inched forwards.

A silence ensued. And then: "You know, it's not that bad. Really. And it has nothing to do with my foot."

"Well I never had acne, and I think that if there's something wrong you should try to fix it. It's your body, and you don't want your face to scar up." The daughter didn't respond right away. "I think you could stand to have more ambition. I'm happy that you're devoted to your academics and that your grades are good -" All As, the girl thought, all As. "- but you need to strive for more than just school. Like fixing your face and helping out around the house. You bring up the laundry but you never sort it. Things like that."

"I'll sort the laundry from now on."

"That was just an example. There's a list of things you could be doing but haven't stepped up to do. You said once that you might start by making dinner once a week. I told you to pick a day. We never discussed it again."

"I don't know. I just . . ." She didn't know what to say. She often had so many things to say; with her mother, few things seemed good enough. "I'll try. I never knew what to make."

"It's just one thing. I'm not your father; he always picks one thing to talk about, one specific thing that you've done and he talks about working on that. I can't do it. I talk about everything all at once, touch all of it." The girl glanced at the nails on the counter, waiting to be placed and pressed. She wanted to squeeze one so badly it cut.

"Yes, you talk about everything. Everything I've ever done wrong or come up short on, not just whatever we were arguing about."

"What?" her mother asked, voice slightly harsher. "You make me sound like some sort of villain. My mom talks to me too, you know. She asks me why you kids aren't doing more chores or more sports. She said I should have been the one to teach you how to wash your face right and I should have lead by example. I get it from her, too."

"I know."

"I don't ever want you to look back at me and say that I didn't give you everything you needed to succeed. That I didn't offer to enroll you in dance lessons when you were younger or help with summer camp or call a dermatologist for your skin. I don't want you to think that, if you're ever disappointed when you're older, that I was the one to let you get that way. That I failed you. Because I only want the best for you, and I don't want you to blame me." She made another scribble on the wall, another dot for the screw.

"It's alright, I know."

"I just don't want you to regret anything. I don't want it to be my fault if you do."

"Who says I'd blame you?" the girl questioned, crossing her arms. "I've always taken responsibility for myself. Always. Why would I try to pin all my problems on you?"

Her mother waved it away. "It's not a personal comment on you or your personality. It's just the nature of the beast. So many people push their problems, their excuses for the way they are, onto their family. Take my brother, for example. He said it was our fault, so many times . . ." She frowned, erasing and rewriting the mark. "Nail?"

The daughter handed it over, frowning at the sharpened point as she did.

"Anyways. I just think you should consider things now instead of regretting them later. You're better than that. Smarter. And I'm sorry if that makes me the bad guy, because apparently all I do is remind you of all the things you did wrong."

"I didn't mean it like that. All I meant was, you bring in every argument we've ever had with similar points and condense them into a singular statement, regardless of what we're debating then and there. You make it impossible to win by citing all the times you've talked before. Dad just talks about whatever it is we're talking about. It was a comment on the way you argue, not a statement on who you are." She felt moisture on the corner of her lashes, and she swiped it away quickly, grateful that her mother was still turned the other way, inches from the paint. "It's different, is all."

"Different," she echoed. "I'm sorry if I sound harsh, but there's always something. You could stand to have clearer skin. And to help out more. You need to try more."

"For what?" The daughter's voice was hollowed out, scooped like it belonged to a shell of a person. A living marionette with drooping strings. Done.

"I don't know. You need to care more about something. You'll see that if you just work towards one thing, better yourself for a goal, and achieve that something, you'll have the motivation to do more in general. Like eating better. You said you'd do that, and you have begun a bit, but you've ate a slice of cheesecake after dinner the past few nights. There needs to be more follow-through."

"You bought cheesecake. I don't know, it was just there. I'll stop eating it." But it's not just cheesecake, is it? she commented wryly in her head. It's never just cheesecake. There's always going to be something. Something I did or did not sink my teeth into. Something I did or did not crave, or even that I just didn't crave enough. Enough, that's the caveat.

"You can say that all you want. It means nothing if you don't work for anything." The woman turned slower, now, frowning. She had been drilling the screw into the wall with a manual screwdriver and suddenly was meeting some resistance.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned. Asking if everybody else was fine was almost a knee jerk reaction. She cared too much, worried too much.

"Nothing, just hit a wooden baseboard. It's fine." Another twist. "The point is that you have to want for something. Anything. I know I could stand to loose some weight, but that means nothing if I've already accepted the situation. If I've just decided that I like cheesecake and don't care, I just want to sit here and eat cheesecake, that's that. Nothing will change. And yes, I could loose some weight, and I want to, but it won't scar my body if I don't. Acne will."

"I get it. I'll be better."

Better.

What an interesting word, better. It implied that you weren't enough, now, and she silently pondered if that was the case.

"It's fine. Just do something for once, okay?" She hung up the second wrought iron square, finally, and twisted it this way and that upon the screws. "Look good?"

"It could be a little lower, I think," the daughter remarked, cocking her head. "Just a bit." Her mother considered the suggestion for a moment.

"I think it's okay, actually. It doesn't have to be perfect." How funny, honestly.

She meant well. She always meant well. But why did that lesson only have to apply to frames?

Perhaps it was because frames did not have feelings. They did not possess the brains or the bleeding hearts with which to talk back, nor the desire to. Their one job was to look nice upon a painted surface, and beyond that all was void. They did not have to sit just right in order to be what they were. People, now they were something else.

"You know what, Mom?" the girl finally said. "I think it looks fine after all. Let's call it." The older woman nodded, satisfied with their handiwork.

"Yeah. We still have to hang the little pictures in the office, though. Do you want to get a head start on your homework before we go?" The homework didn't seem nearly so undesirable anymore. Seeing the shift in features, her mother frowned. "Are you okay? You seem . . . off. Is anything wrong?" The young woman put on her best smile.

"Yup. And homework sounds good. I think I better work on that before anything else." She sat up, adjusted her shorts, and put the level back on the counter. Strange - she hadn't realized she had been toying with it. As her mother left the room, putting the measuring tape and pencil on the desk a room away in order to begin their next project, the girl glanced back at the floor, curious if it would rise up to meet her. Then, like she often did, she shook her head and turned out the light, going back to her calculus.

But Maybe Not

This is late, I know. Sadly, the downside about the holiday season is its tendency to steer people towards procrastination, and I am no exception. I happen to enjoy spending time with my family on occasion, so I got caught up in watching truly awful Hallmark movies and stuffing my face. I regret nothing. 
Here's a short story I threw together after a comment from a friend: "Life isn't a fairytale, but I wish it was. A lot of the time people don't end up together, no matter how hard you wish it would happen. It's not fair." Though that lovely snippet was garnered during a conversation on Voltron: Legendary Defender ending (she ships klance relentlessly and we got wrapped up in a half-hour long complaint-fest about the last season, it inspired me to do this. Know that it's quick and unedited but I had fun writing it. 

                                                             

"What do you think?" she asks, and she's smiling brighter than ever before. She's smiling in all white, head to toe, like a blizzard overtook the clasps in her hair and the cinched gown and the high heels, far too tall for any ordinary person to walk in. But she's Jenna Harper, and you've known her since second grade, and you've seen that she's just about the most un-ordinary person you've ever met, so why wouldn't she be superhuman?

She's asking you this because, despite the makeup and the updo and the dress, that dress that she's had for weeks and wouldn't let you see, she still wants to know what you think, because she's just like that, isn't she? She's constantly working to make everyone else happy, even on the day that's primarily hers. Her maid of honor, however, frowns with mock upset. Lelia Harper, two years younger, the bride's younger sister and, almost, yours.

"No men aloud, Tim, you can't see her before the ceremony," the bridesmaid in question scolds, hunched over and slipping on flats yet still trying to be intimidating, which truly was Lelia at her most essential: always bossing everyone around. She and her sister shared much of the same features - caramel skin, brown eyes, dark hair - but Lelia was a good head shorter and far more authoritative. If she ever reached the president's chair, the world would be damned beneath her iron fists, if not better off as a consequence.

"Shut up, Tim's special," Jenna mumbles with faux concern, waving off her sister. Ever the spirit of maturity, she rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue.

"Whatever, hundreds of years of tradition have been cast aside at your whims, my ladyship. I get it; you're the boss. Just remember that I helped you plan literally everything when you finally reach your honeymoon destination and are besieged by bad luck."

"Mmmm, if any windows break during my debut I'll be sure to summon a witch doctor."

"I better be the first to know, Jen. The instant the other shoe drops. I'll also be arranging your funeral," she warns, poking her sister's shoulder threateningly.

You raise an eyebrow, relaxing for the first time since the utter craze of this morning's preparations. "And how exactly are we predicting her tragic downfall?" She snorts and waves her hands around as if it's obvious, which, to Lelia exclusively, it probably is.

"She's going to get impaled by a lead pipe."

"And why am I getting impaled?" the bride questions, amused all the same.

"Well, it's just like in the movies, right? You'll walk by a construction site with your husband and then, through some convenient deus ex-machina coincidence, something will go horribly wrong and a lead pipe will shoot out of nowhere and strike you down." She grins, but it's more crooked, not quite like Jenna's. "Who's laughing then?"

"Nobody, I'd hope, because you'd be busy crying about the fact that your charming older sister - who you planned a wedding with, might I just say - was currently six feet under."

"Maybe I'll muster up an ounce or two of remorse. But you really brought the untimely death upon yourself, so. I don't know how sorry you expect me to feel."

"Very. I imagine the funeral will be both expensive and a true pain to organize and arrange," Jenna replies, flashing her a triumphant grin. "Your kryptonite." You have to smile, there. You can't help it. She's her, and she's always been utterly unflappable. She never cried when she broke her arm falling off the monkey bars behind the red-brick elementary school, she defiantly punched the boy who dared call her an 'ugly cow' in seventh year, and she fought tooth and nail for merit scholarships when college came calling. She never took no for an answer, not from anyone, and she never gave up on you when you were at your absolute lowest. She was the biggest thorn in your side on the worst damn days of your life because she refused to let you give up on anything, and she was the most faithful companion you'd ever had on your best ones. She witnessed all your bad sides and smoothed over all the clear faceted angles. You are lost without Jenna Harper, you wouldn't be who you are today if not for her, and frankly 'best friend' doesn't begin to describe it. Without her laughs or her sarcasm or her clumsiness or her hair tips or her sunshine, life is hopelessly empty, and looking at her right now is strangling. It slits you right between the ribs and robs you of your ability to think, you've never seen her like this. She's under the absolutely delusional impression that she's just herself in a dress, which couldn't be further from the truth. Jenna was a hurricane aglow, never less than incredible, and anything contrary to that was a lie.

You realize, after a long and diverting bit of personal inner monologue, that the sisters have continued to converse, moving far past casual morbidity and lighthearted death (if such a mortal concept exists) and into the realm of the infamous jitters. Inexplicably, the brunette you know better than yourself is now unspeakably nervous, afraid she isn't good enough, and she asks you yet again the question you failed to answer, breaking the trance:

"What do you think?" she questions, more strained, more panicked, as her moment draws nearer. "Do I look alright? I need another opinion, stat."

"I think . . ." you start, and your throat closes up. There's too much to say. You think that sometimes, she almost looks like the girl you met out on the recess field, twisting your thoughts into knots even then. You think that she's a storybook princess come to life, and that any minute now the animals will start crawling from the inken pages and out of the woodwork to produce her crown. You think that, out of all the people you know, she is the best, most wonderful individual you've ever and will ever meet, and definitely the most beautiful. You think you love he-

"You look great," you finish, because there's always time to tell her later.

"I told you so," Lelia huffs, but that doesn't keep her from patting you on the back and pecking you on the cheek. "Now off you go, you've already cursed us with bad luck. You better get to the other end before the ceremony starts, because if you ruin my schedule, I will end your life. And not with mercy. Copious daggers and fire will be applied with much finesse." Death threats are something of a theme today, you keenly sense, as they often are when Lelia is beginning a rampage.

"Wait," Jenna says, and she sneaks her arms around you and squeezes tightly, and she looks like she might cry. Possibly from stress, but mostly from joy. "Tim, I just -"

"I know." You kiss her on the forehead, so hard it probably leaves a mark, and even though you're a grown-ass man, damnit, there are needles pricking the edges of your eyelids. The last thing you want to do is leave the room - not now, not when there's just the three of you and everything is collected and isolated and home - but you do, because there's a place you need to be, and it's at the other end of an isle.

Your lips taste like cinnamon and nerves, and there's a phantom person beneath them for the next half hour until the organ music swells and her father appears, walking arm-in-arm. She doesn't seem nervous or unsure; she is the happiest you've ever seen her, actually, and the most confident, too. She catches your glance, holding it, smiling brightly as if in absolute shock both of you are still there, still alive and whole. We did it, her eyes say, and you grin back because, truly, you have. When she looks at you, the world is vermilion and harlequin, aguantine and aureate, and all the harsh corners and tugs of the suit fade out, becoming background noise, bleached away static. She is it.

And then she catches the eyes of Nick, the man directly to your left who looks at her as if she's hung the stars, and she glows like a torch in the night. Because she came here to marry Nick Freeman, your roommate in college, the guy you introduced her to. The one who was on the swim team, who helped study with you during finals, who was working to become a pre-med and who was one of the most genuinely nice people you'd had the pleasure of being friends with. He was the six foot dark-eyed guy who had gotten the balls to ask her out, the Jenna you knew since second grade, after eight months, when you never quite knew how to figure it out before he did. And she looked so damn happy, and he was just too damn good, a faux sibling that you loved just as much as you came to love Lelia, so you smiled and basked in the afterglow of Nick+Jenna and you never spoke a word. You smiled, because when Nick said "she's something special" after their first date, you got to hear all about it, and the wanderlust in his tone was agony to sit through. You smiled, because when she told you a year in "I'm going to marry him someday" you wanted to be sick and your stomach was dripping through the floor, but her eyes were too bright and hopeful for you to do anything else about it. You smiled, because Nick asked you to be the best man and it's really the least you can do, for he considers you the brother he never had. So it's torture, absolute and total torture, but you can't stop smiling. Not now. You'll just keep smiling and smiling until one day when it doesn't hurt as much, when you can look at her without thinking I love yo-

You're not aloud to think that, and you almost forgot again.

You've toyed with the idea of saying it so many times, and then you always tell yourself, I'll do it later. When it's right, I'll do it later.

But . . .

But.

But maybe not. Not now. Later, then.

'Later' never comes. And you should have said it when you got to see her in the back room, wearing a dress Nick gets to take off later tonight. You should have said it five years ago, before he got to say it first. You should have said it back in the summer before junior year, when you finally wizened up and figured it out. You should have said it in the second grade, actually, because you may have loved her since the first second you saw her. Now, that right there is the kind of thing that only happens in fairytales, because who the hell falls in love before age ten? You, apparently, but if this were a fairytale you'd get the girl, and frankly you were always too scared of losing her to open up.

(Not really your problem anymore, is it? She's already gone, and you're loosing her as you thinking and breathe and watch, and you're still not saying a damn word. Jenna's slipping away like sand through a cursed hourglass and you're a willing audience.)

But the thing - the true crux of it - is that Jenna Harper never needed a boyfriend. She needed Tim, a friend, a support system and a backup for when she blazed against the world a little too brightly. She had needed a comrade, a confidant, and not someone to cuddle with by the proverbial fireplace. And by the time Jenna had thought to look for a partner as opposed to a whatever-you-were, you didn't know how to become what she wanted without taking away that essential person (that friend) she had relied on. You were stuck, and with no idea how to bridge the gap to 'something more'. Nick never had your problems - he was there, right when she had been sizing up the options. Painful as it is, you never stood a chance.

You love her. That's it, honest and terrible. And you pray to all that is holy that she'll never have to know that her best friend is in love with her, because there is nothing more crushing and resolute than the pain of knowing you had someone's heart between your fingers, than knowing you squeezed it out onto the pavement. There's no surviving that.

So Nick grins like there is nothing but stars and Jenna beams like he's the moon in her sky, and they say their 'I do's and you try not to wonder about what it might have been like, to have her for even one second.

Afterwards, there is the bar. Nothing tastes sweeter than sickening saline, coating the back of your throat with misery, mixed with rich wine, warm and heady with age. It goes down, down, down, staining your lips and blurring the world. Another glass would make three, which isn't so bad, but . . .

Oblivion isn't for you. You're dependable, clever, reliable, and have far too much self-respect than to drown your sorrows with (admittedly, quite high-grade) spirits. It's not like you aren't happy for them, after all, you're just . . . well. You want to die. You want to rip out your brains and your stupid, stupid heart and cast them to the wolves. But that's reckless, and pretty damn selfish, and though you'd much rather be drinking absinthe (or perhaps even cyanide) you should stop and continue trekking on. This is their night, not yours, and by God if you make a scene or hurt them in any way. They don't deserve it. They never did.

(Neither do you, probably, but life's reportedly unfair. Lesson to self: next time, don't fall for your best friend. It's a terrible, damning idea.

The solution is, don't have friends. Then there's no one who will rely on you, then, and thus no self-decency standards to hold yourself to.)

"You doing alright?" a voice calls, and it's compassionate. Understanding, really. Definitely female. "You look pretty miserable. And on that note, you should probably stop. I've seen guys get wasted for less."

"Ah, yeah, no problem. I was planning on ending it here, anyways."

"Something on your mind?"

"Well, my best friend just got married today," you start, clearing your throat. It burns with bitterness. "And it just so happens I never got to tell her that I . . ."

"It sucks, doesn't it?" she says softly. "Yeah. Yeah, I've been there. It's the worst feeling in the world. You want so much, and it just doesn't . . . Well. It doesn't always turn out."

"It sucks," you repeat, clutching your glass a little less tightly. "It really is like dying. But, you know, really slowly. The torture has to be prolonged, or else it isn't a real horror flick." She doesn't smile, not that you're looking up, but she sighs back, and it feels somewhat like kinship.

"Hey, I'm Kenzi," she tells you, and this time you meet her gaze. She's nothing like Jenna, this stranger, and you aren't sure whether that's a relief or a disappointment. She's short, very pale, and has freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair is like a sunrise, red and untameable, probably strong-armed into ringlets. And her eyes - they are not dark and familiar, but so light a hazel that they almost appear stormy, like a windblown day.

She isn't Jenna, but something about those eyes make her feel like someone you'd want to know, and maybe more. Maybe be able to love, in a while.

You sit up straighter, fix your jacket, and manage a half-smile, as if the world isn't falling apart. "Hi. Hi, my name is Tim."

Halfway Between

Halfway girl,

Stuck between what she does and what she should

Trapped in the middle whilst toeing a line,

Weighing sanity behind being 'good'.

(They look, but do not see

The subtle misery;

They listen, but do not hear,

The ringing of her ears . . . )

She's driving herself mad, trying not to fall behind

On all the heavy expectations slowly curling down her spine.  

They don't say her writing is bad,

But nor is it ever good enough

(Expectations, expectations, always to be had -

Well, no one ever claimed life wouldn't be tough).

She wants someone to tell her it is worthy

Her work is worthy

She is worthy

But there are only lukewarm reviews, always, on everything:

Clothes, academics, performances,

Exercises, friends, and conformances,

And it is never more than halfway betweens,

Try again laters,

And piece-yourself-together-agains.

Some girls, you see,

Live in palaces like princesses,

Squalor as surfs,

Or islands in isolation,

But they all know the call.

Here is to us,

And to all the other girls of the halfway between.