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luckytalebluebird · 3 years ago

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Chapter 2- Roses

“So, you feel that you want to follow him?”

“No, I just feel like I should”

“And why is that, may I guess why?”

Looking over at her, beyond the mane of blonde curls, and a green crochet sweater veiled in cat fur, Genie knew her trusted therapist was correct. And without a single word escaping her lips, they both arrived at the same conclusion.

“ You describe yourself on several occasions as being the type of person who dominates decision making in your relationships, often early on, but nearing their end you have felt a repeated feeling of lending over your responsibility because you somehow lose faith in it which I assume is why you’re here?”, she asked.

By now Genie had positioned herself in such a way where the bay windows appeared a vast distance from her leather cushion, despite their proximity. They hadn’t been cleaned in weeks and peeking from the side of the window boxes hung Tudor roses. She wondered how it felt to be so lucky to be inanimate, like the roses. Free of a need to be in constant deliberation of her every move, while having intangible beauty and sophistication enough to capture the attention of all who admired them.

“ Yes, but I’m not losing my faith in my relationship, I’m losing faith in myself”

“ In what way”, her therapist asked.

“ In the way that I fear having everything I wanted, and somehow not wanting it”. “When I was with Ted, I suppose I never had a chance to make my presence known, I was like your roses outside, minus the admiration. I trusted myself to leave because I was leaving purely from instinct, to remove myself from danger. With Bow there is no danger, in fact I know everything that will happen. I suppose I want something I’m not entitled to have I’ve got that habit my mum does, over-egging the pudding now then”.

“ I suppose I must ask you, Genie have you a Chemis-“

“ Mrs. Bonneville your 9:30 is just outside, they’ve been waiting here for some time”, an anxious intern repeated.

“Oh yes, thank you, inform them I will be out immediately”

“Very good mam”, the intern nodded.

Genie slowly stepping through the long hall adorned with portraits of practicing professionals of the clinic, glanced only at the clock facing towards her. Fumbling through her purse seconds later it occurred to her how many transformations had taken place in that country clinic. Simple ones, like how she used to stare at the clock when her therapist went over her weekly notes with her only to find Genie visibly far away from the conversation and drifting at the mantle where the clock was in her office.

“ I didn’t realize you were coming in today, I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting long”, Ms. Bonneville said. Her contrition as genuine as always had made Genie a returning patient.

Suddenly a bell interrupted Genie’s thought, she turned around from the door from which she was about exit. Standing across the hall walking into Ms. Bonneville’s office was the back of stranger, one Genie had never seen before. What Genie did see was him holding an umbrella. Not a drop of rain from the morning sky was visible on it, and certainly not one that a keen observer like Genie could see. It hadn’t rained in days, Tudor roses were growing weary, the flooding seen in ponds had abated months ago. With a forceful push the wooden door opened. A bright and unforgivable heat welcomed her on the walk home. With it, questions lingered about a boy, an umbrella, clocks, therapists, and chemistry.

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luckytalebluebird · 3 years ago

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Chapter 1- Beginnings

Chapter 1

There is a horrible truth we all inevitably acknowledge one day that none of us are overwhelmingly special. And it’s not an ephemeral notion to continue to believe this because very few souls in the world tell us we are special. Me, for instance, I am not special. I realized this when every living soul around me seemed to tell me I was special. To me, Avery Bryne, special was someone who in every way had all the common features that you or I have, but for some reason they differed in their ability to somehow manipulate that commonality. To let it be awed by those around them or lusted or decorated like kings and queens of old. My kind of special, the antiqued kind, was when somebody talked to me and surprisingly no sound escaped from my lips. A special needs case. That kind of special. This is usually followed by a stare on my behalf and an annoyance or the pity from a curious stranger thinking I’m somehow ignoring them. The funny thing is I’m not irritated that they don’t know they’re addressing a deaf person. What I am irritated by, scathing at the notion of, is that everyone seems to be in a hurry. Faces covered in frown lines, slippery LCD screens fumbling through fingers in leather purses, its all just a little perverse. In my silence I suppose I reflect all of my own frustrations at everything I see. They can hear but they can't or choose not to see just how occupied they are. Maybe there’s clues I see the others can’t? I’d like to be special for that. Voice is hardly everything or even anything. All the special people who can speak are too busy looking important and if they do listen, they tune out. Their natural gifts bestowed to them by the divine to hear are otherwise adequate. Nothing to compare with today’s air pods and Bose and Beats. I’m not usually a cynical type, just ordinary. I take the same train home from work nearly every day, the Jubilee. When am feeling brave I opt for an adventure and find as many shortcuts as I can by biking. And every road leads me to the same place. A small flat in Neasden, a borough in Northwest London. Your mind is putting in extensive effort attempting to envision the rough cobblestone that meets the soles of my shoes in typical London fashion or maybe you picture a large clock far too big to shove inside an old London sitting room. I’ll surprise you; Neasden is nothing of the sort. Once called the most lonesome neighborhood, Neasden was nameless and lived up to its reputation. The buildings were hardly good-looking, the youth had little to do except avoid the extensive air pollution and at times the suburb was a hook to some famous rap song, the place where they bury the body, and nobody would know. Neasden was one of those suburbs that seemingly fits the lives of those who live in it. Lonely, overlooked, resilient and quiet persons. Neasden’s cramped living was not cozy. Its cloudy skies were anything to bring out nostalgia. Dollis Hill, in comparison was a mere four minutes by motor. Green, burgeoning in the presence of her visitors Dollis Hill never disappointed. Not a mate I knew from Dollis Hill, except one. She was her own kind of special.

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