Galerians Fan Fiction ❯ Phoenix ❯ Thirteen ( Chapter 2 )

During these administrations, I try to put myself somewhere else. Push my mind from my body and leave the horrors of my reality for the comfort of memory. I'm not entirely sure that the memories I find sanctuary in are entirely real. It seems very odd that I can remember detailed aspects of a previous life- names and faces and smells and sounds- but mot my own name, my own face, the sound of my own voice. These “memories” or whatever they are- dreams maybe- are all beautiful and bright. They are filled with experiences that may very well be normal or even drab to those actually living them. The smells of cooking food or the voices of people or even they sound of a dog barking seem magnificent to the not-quite-true senses housed within my head. Anything is better that the metal-scraping, machine-humming, perpetually painful, but otherwise sensory deprivation of … this place!.

None of these “memories” seem recent. They all seem far off. Like I had them when I was younger. Much younger. They all have that rosy warmth of childhood.

I see things in snatches. Each “memory” is a little vignette. Merely a single paragraph out of the story that seems to want to play out before me. I can never keep hold of these memories for more than what seem like a few minutes before I am torn out by what is occurring in my reality.

In one of my “memories” my parents, faces I never see, are going out to some party. A fundraiser I think. Something that involves “charitable gambling.” My faceless but stern-voiced father calls it. And I can't go.

 

“But why not?” I plead for probably the thousandth time.

“Because,” the kinder but no less stern voice of my mother explains. “You are too young. Thirteen is just too young to be exposed to such things.”

“But-,“ I try to protest more but my father put his hand on my shoulder. It is tanned and muscular. The grip is tight. But the fingers are soft and couldn't belong to a thin man. Then don't appear to have ever felt a day of hard work. My present day observer mind draws the conclusion that we lived a comfortable life.

“Tell you what, sport, when your older I'll take you to Vegas and you can try it out. It'll just be the two of us. Guy's outing.” Before I can convey any response to this my mother conveniently notices the time and that they would be late if they didn't go. She kisses me on the cheek and the door shuts behind them before I can even say goodbye.

I sink into the couch and begin to moan about my age and how thirteen sucks and I don't get to do anything fun.

 

(What I would give to be there right now! Ain't perspective a bitch?)

 

I tell myself that if it were the middle ages right now I would be married, drinking, and own three oxen by now.

“But it's not the middle ages and you don't know the first thing about livestock,” an Irish voice tells me from behind. My thirteen year old self, recognizing this voice without much enthusiasm, turns to face Mary, our maid, carrying a pile of laundry down the stairs.

 

(Damn! A live-in maid. Comfortable doesn't nearly cut it.)

 

“C'mon! Don' just sit there like a lump feelin' sorry for y'self. Come into the kitchen an' have a fresh choc'late chip cookie. I just made pulled `em out an hour ago. They should be cool by nae. I have a glass o' milk sittin' out for y' already.”

“ Oh thanks.” I grumble, “why don't you just pin a diaper on me!” Nevertheless, I stand and make my way to the kitchen. When I arrive I stop dead in my tracks. Before me in the center of the room Mary had set up a card table. She was sitting down at the far end and shuffling a deck of cards.

“Nae don't just stand there with y'mouth hangin' open like a tunnel. You'll catch flies. Sit down.” I obey, mouth and all. The table is covered with green felt and we each have stacks of different cookies placed in front of us. “Ante is one Oreo.” She throws in one of her Oreos, “maximum bet is two Samoas.” I'm about to throw in my Oreo when something hits me.

“We're using cookies because you think I'm a little kid don't you?” I accuse, childishly crossing my arms.

“Well, no. I was just under the impression that cookies taste a wee bit better that paper money.”

I pause to consider this. “Point taken.” And toss in two Oreos.