I wrote this story with the lovely and very talented Ashley Arabian. It was part of a challenge, but it was a lot more than that for me. I admire her talents so much and to be able to create just a little piece of something with her was incredible. If you want to read more from her, check out:
http://arabianwrites.com/
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I was ten years old when I won the talk show my mother forced me to appear on. She said it would be a good move for the whole family. I was scared, shy, but smart and answered all the questions right. The audience applauded and roared. I sat still, my hands folded in my lap, waiting for the show to end.
There isn’t a day when I don’t regret standing up to my mother. I should have never done it. I shouldn’t have listened. I should have kicked and screamed. She knew what she was doing, though, and winning that prize turned everyone into a complete mess. Mother became the epitome of entitlement; her actions shown greatly throughout her outer appearance. I was never like her. I never wanted to be like her, but when we were in public, she’d force me to be the perfect daughter. She enrolled me in etiquette classes and ballet, drilling into my head that a woman should always be graceful. When she spoke, the way she moved, they should all show her as eloquent and nothing less.
The more time passed, the more I’d come to hate those classes. I disliked the idea of some woman sitting down with a group of girls and telling us what was right and what was wrong. Who cares which one was the salad fork? “Elbows down, girl,” or “Cross your legs at the ankle and smile,” she would always say to me and I’d do it only because I so desperately wanted it to just be over with.
Up until I was fourteen, there were dozens of competitions I’d gotten entered into. I had always wanted to kick and scream my way out of them, but a part of me yearned to hear my parents tell me they were so proud of me. So, I’d participate. I’d participate and I’d win. Money became no object to my family. We were very well off, but I noticed that the more money we made, the bigger monsters my family became. Namely, my parents.
I tried. I did. I tried so hard to get my parents back, to pull them out of that money hole where everything materialistic mattered, but it was to no avail. They were so wrapped up and surrounded by fame and fortune that they’d slowly pushed me aside. I made my way through high school, graduated near the top of my class and when the time came for me to leave, to venture out and start my own life, I hit the ground running. My father sat me down the night before I left, told me to enjoy myself, wrote me a check and said, “We thought you should have some play money. After all, it was you who brought us to this point.”
No hug. No see you soon. No good luck or I’m proud of you. Nothing. Just a check and a pat on the back.
At least, they were gracious enough to pay my college tuition.
Now, I’m twenty-two years old, a recent graduate of Kansas State University and I’m currently on my way to becoming my own person. I haven’t spoken to my parents since my freshmen year of college, but I’ve heard they’re living lavishly. Sometimes, I miss them, but then I find myself looking at my life now and I realize that I’m okay. Of course, there’s always that hope that someday they’ll come around, but …
…well, I wouldn’t bet money on it.
http://arabianwrites.com/
___________________________________________________________________
I was ten years old when I won the talk show my mother forced me to appear on. She said it would be a good move for the whole family. I was scared, shy, but smart and answered all the questions right. The audience applauded and roared. I sat still, my hands folded in my lap, waiting for the show to end.
There isn’t a day when I don’t regret standing up to my mother. I should have never done it. I shouldn’t have listened. I should have kicked and screamed. She knew what she was doing, though, and winning that prize turned everyone into a complete mess. Mother became the epitome of entitlement; her actions shown greatly throughout her outer appearance. I was never like her. I never wanted to be like her, but when we were in public, she’d force me to be the perfect daughter. She enrolled me in etiquette classes and ballet, drilling into my head that a woman should always be graceful. When she spoke, the way she moved, they should all show her as eloquent and nothing less.
The more time passed, the more I’d come to hate those classes. I disliked the idea of some woman sitting down with a group of girls and telling us what was right and what was wrong. Who cares which one was the salad fork? “Elbows down, girl,” or “Cross your legs at the ankle and smile,” she would always say to me and I’d do it only because I so desperately wanted it to just be over with.
Up until I was fourteen, there were dozens of competitions I’d gotten entered into. I had always wanted to kick and scream my way out of them, but a part of me yearned to hear my parents tell me they were so proud of me. So, I’d participate. I’d participate and I’d win. Money became no object to my family. We were very well off, but I noticed that the more money we made, the bigger monsters my family became. Namely, my parents.
I tried. I did. I tried so hard to get my parents back, to pull them out of that money hole where everything materialistic mattered, but it was to no avail. They were so wrapped up and surrounded by fame and fortune that they’d slowly pushed me aside. I made my way through high school, graduated near the top of my class and when the time came for me to leave, to venture out and start my own life, I hit the ground running. My father sat me down the night before I left, told me to enjoy myself, wrote me a check and said, “We thought you should have some play money. After all, it was you who brought us to this point.”
No hug. No see you soon. No good luck or I’m proud of you. Nothing. Just a check and a pat on the back.
At least, they were gracious enough to pay my college tuition.
Now, I’m twenty-two years old, a recent graduate of Kansas State University and I’m currently on my way to becoming my own person. I haven’t spoken to my parents since my freshmen year of college, but I’ve heard they’re living lavishly. Sometimes, I miss them, but then I find myself looking at my life now and I realize that I’m okay. Of course, there’s always that hope that someday they’ll come around, but …
…well, I wouldn’t bet money on it.