literature

Monday's Child: Chapter 1

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The rainy gray morning looked back at her through the tear-speckled window of the cold bus. It smelled like cobwebs, dirt, coffee, but mostly the dewy smell of rain on the interior of the bus. The zombie-eyed men and women shuffled down the aisle, some with children attached to their hand or hips. It must’ve been either very late or very early, but the cloud-filled sky made it difficult to tell. After a moment—which felt like it was surely an eternity—she decided it was the morning. A very young morning, still teething, perhaps. The rain ran calmly down the skyline of the strange, alien city—but she sensed that something worse was to come. Something louder, something more devious and frightening. She imagined thunder and lighting everywhere, scattered and playing among the skyscrapers and monolithic edifices. It would come, no doubt, and she grew excited, for she loved nothing more than great storms. She thought of it as the beauty of nature, and was surely one of the few who found beauty in it.
     As she looked out the window, a fear suddenly punched her in the chest. What is my name? She couldn’t remember. Wait, no, it will come, give it time. It’s buried somewhere in there among my school schedule and socks. Any moment now, it will come as easily as it ever did, but only when the panic subsides because names and panic are very terrible enemies. But the panic would not leave her, no matter how hard she tried to will it away. Have I lost my mind? Am I dreaming? She looked very carefully for witches on broomsticks out the window, or for a unicorn to board the bus, so she could identify this existence as merely dream or hallucination. But there came no witches, and there came no unicorns. Perhaps this is normal and I have nothing to worry about. I’m tired. I got no sleep last night. It’s very early in the morning. It’s raining out, after all.
     She drew in a deep breath of the stale, moist air. People must forget their names all the time; they’re very fragile things, names. Quite easy to lose, or so I’d imagine. I suppose it’s not going to kill me to live without one for a bit until I can remember it. No reason to worry. Besides, if it’s completely lost, I can always get a new one. Just like books and nail clippers.
     Now a gray woman came onto the bus, matching the color and tone of the city sky. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she wore a faded pink cardigan with a black skirt. She couldn’t see the woman’s shoes just yet. But the older woman walked slowly through the dark aisle, and came to gently and gracefully sit down in the seat next to her. The old woman kissed the head of the girl next to her, the nameless girl, and then folded her hands in her lap and rested her head on the back of the seat.
     Who is this woman? Why does she kiss me and say nothing? Do I know her? Is she my grandmother? Well, she’s probably not quite that old. But still, old enough.
     “M’ija,” the old woman whispered in a gentle voice that sounded like the autumn wind carrying leaves through the forest, “I almost didn’t think I’d catch it. I ran a bit. Díos mio, I’m getting too old to chase busses. And, not only that, but, ay, the rain! ¡Qué chubasco!”
     Fittingly, the bus began to move as she spoke. She had indeed been the last person on the bus, and our nameless heroine felt empathetic towards her. But nowhere in her memory could she find who this woman was, who this woman was to her, or why she was even on the bus to begin with.
     “I was starting to worry that I’d have to go alone,” the girl spoke, the words that left her mouth were beyond her control. “And I’m kinda worried that maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
     “Yes, m’ija, I’m starting to think you’re right. I’ll let you and Reynaldo do the thinking from now on. Next time I say, ‘let’s go shopping early in the rain to beat the crowd,’ tell me, ‘Madre, ¿dónde está tu cabeza?’ And I will tell you, ‘No sé, m’ija. Not here.’”
     “Yeah, you lost your head a long time ago, mom.”
     So she’s my mother. Why didn’t I know this earlier? Why am I saying these things? Why am I saying them in such a nonchalant manner? Who is putting these words in my mouth? Why am I not jumping and hanging from the overhead compartments and screaming like a wild animal, taking hostages and demanding to know my name? She was deeply troubled.
     The gray woman began to gently hum along with the sound of the singing bus wheels beneath them and the protesting cries of tired children. Her song was sweet and lilting, like the sound of rose petals brushing against your cheek. The nameless girl looked into the gray woman’s face and found that the light hit her face at just the right angle so as to make the older woman’s eyes look white. But only for a brief moment.
     A lightning bolt snapped aggressively nearby; a quick flash of white outside their window. A few moments later, thunder growled at them.
The first chapter of the book I'm writing. It will probably end up as a novella--or, worst case scenario--some sort of short story. But I know where I'm going with this one, and because summer's coming, I'm not going to let it die (like most of my attempts at novel-writing.)

Before you read this, you'll want to read the preceeding chapters, and take a look at the chapters that follow this one:

Prologue: [link]
Chapter 1: [link]
Chapter 2: [link]
Chapter 3: [link]
Chapter 4: [link]
Chapter 5: [link]
Chapter 6: [link]
Chapter 7: [link]
Chapter 8: [link]
Chapter 9: [link]
Chapter 10: [link]
Chapter 11: [link]
Chapter 12: [link]
Chapter 13: [link]
Chapter 14: [link]
Chapter 15: [link]
Chapter 16: [link]
Chapter 17: [link]
Chapter 18: [link]
© 2006 - 2024 LightningRodOfHate
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ForsakenProdigy's avatar
I'm a little confused. Is the person speaking Amber, or someone else who doesn't remember anything?

Wonderfully written, great use of figurative language.