Incandescence

Incandescence

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She doesn't like people.

For some odd reason, people make every attempt to be her friend. She doesn't really pay any attention. Sometimes they tell her funny jokes and make her smile slightly, but it's never because the jokes of funny (because she never thinks they are), it's because they try so hard and it's so very funny to watch them fail.

People always ask her if she was born like this. "Like what?" she replies, looking down at her tattered shoes that he Uncle Fred and Aunt Angelina gave her. The people, they mutter lightly, and walk away under black umbrellas and she sits there, looking at nobody and nothing in particular, yet everything and everybody all at once.

It's looking in the mirror that hurts the most. She hates to look at the long red locks that are unbelievably messy and so curly that she has to use a special shampoo to make it stay flat enough to put in a ponytail. She hates the dull brown of her eyes that reminds her of dirt after the first rain of the autumn season and the freckles that mar her nose and cheeks. Her uncle Ron says that she's beautiful, but she doesn't think he knows anything.

She blames Uncle Ron for everything, really. She knows exactly what happened with her mother and Ron. She knows that her family was happy before Uncle Ron came back from who knows where. She saw her mother and Ron and the little things they did together, and she saw them that night when Ron told her mother that he had never stopped loving her. She had wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to hit him, but she had simply stood there, immobile as her mother and Ron kissed. Maybe if Ron hadn't come back her mother and father wouldn't have left that night, yelling and screaming, in the cold black car that had tires with too little traction...

She knows that she's never going to see her mother and father again. People tell her every single day that as long as she remembers them, they will never really die. Uncle Ron tries to tell her that her mother and father still love her from the afterlife, and that they've moved on to a better place. He says this with tears in his eyes and on his shirt, and she begins to feel a little guilty for hating him so much.

She goes to church every now and then. No, she doesn't believe in a god, she knows that there can't be one because how could a soul be so cruel to somebody only ten years in age, but she goes nonetheless. She always sits in the front pew, right in front of the minister who she's seen in the pub across from her home drinking heavy ales and groping the barmaid who never got a college education and deals with "that type" everyday. The minister knows that she knows, and every time she comes in she sighs with satisfaction, knowing.

Sometimes she goes to the marina when the evenings are calm. She doesn't wait around to tell Uncle Ron, nor does he expect any kind of notice. They've learned to tolerate one another, her and Ron. He knows that he shouldn't force her to comply with any kind of guidelines, so he doesn't. As long as she doesn't hurt herself, he's contented.

Today she slips and falls to the ground. She tripped on a large piece of glass that punctured her side and made her gasp in pain. Uncle Ron is there, and he lifts her into his long arms and runs with his long legs until they are in the hospital. His nice white shirt is ruined, stained with crimson blood and salty tears that escaped her eyes.

The doctor looks worried when he comes back, after checking her over. He says she needs a blood transfusion immediately and that the blood bank doesn't carry her type of blood. Uncle Ron winces slightly, and then clears his throat, words spilling out that visibly shake him.

"I have her blood type," he whispers lightly, patting her gently on the forehead. The doctor looks confused for a moment, and then widens his eyes.

Uncle Ron whispers again. "I can do the transfusion".

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She dreams that night, after the tubes are pulled out of her arms and she can breathe without a machine. She dreams of her mother and father. They smile and wave at her and tell her that they love her very much. She tries to run to them, run into their arms and hug them, but they move farther and farther away, waving and smiling, smiling and waving. She starts to cry, and suddenly Uncle Ron is there, and he holds her just like her father used to do.

She wakes up the next morning with a headache, and slightly disturbed by the seemingly all-encompassing darkness. She moans lightly, "Uncle Ron? Where are you?" and suddenly her Uncle Ron is there, holding her hand like her mother used to do.

"I'm still here," he whispers lightly, stroking her dark red hair that looks so much like his own. His brown eyes look intently at her. "I'm still here."

He remains there for a long time. He is tired from watching her sleep all night, and soon drifts off into a fitful sleep.

She is still. "I love you, daddy," she whispers, and for the first time since she saw the twisted wreckage of her mother's car, cries carelessly because she knows the truth, and though the truth hurts, she knows that she has a father who can go through the hurt with her.

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Questions? Concerns? Marriage Proposals?