No title yet, part 1
She sat, sticky from the heat, in the noisy diner. Taking long, slow sips from her cold beer, watching the bubbles float up through the golden liquid. That process of escaping had always fascinated her. She remembered watching in amazement in the dark pubs in Ireland, that smelled of tobacco smoke and beer, and felt like midnight even if it was sunny out. Only she'd watch her coke, not her Dad's thick Guiness that didn't bubble so much as foam. She remembered one time, hopping into the little rowboat and rowing across the channel to a little pub on the other side. Climbing up a steep path through the grass, entering the darkness of the quiet pub. The dust flicked through the sunbeams, making them appear solid. She always wanted to reach across and touch them, but knew it would only make her sad when her hand cut right through. The wooden floorboards had creaked underfoot, and her coke glass had sweated rings onto her beermat. Or maybe she'd had a red lemonade that day, instead. It looked more like the other beers and she could pretend she was a grownup as she listened to her dad chat with the publican and ate her packet of crisps.
The noise of a glass breaking brough her back to the here and now; sitting and sweating in a streetside restaurant in a humid city halfway around the world from home. She stirred her dish of fried noodles idily, her apetite repressed by the heat.
She'd spent months now, travelling through strange countries, eating strange foods, learning words in strange languages; the kind that bent your tongue in foreign ways, that you could never pronounce quite right.
She couldn't sit still. She'd been through 8 or 9 countries now. If she was looking for something she couldn't remember what it was. She'd once read that you don't find yourself, but create yourself. Maybe she was trying to build herself into something better, something stronger. She didn't rely on anyone but herself now, didn't count on any strength but her own. She'd learned the hard way to trust no one. She'd once thought that blood was a trustworthy bond, but a falling out with her parents had proved to her there was no bond that couldn't be broken. If you lived on your own, you'd never feel that sharp knife wound of betrayal, cutting deeper than any flesh wound. Betrayal cut to the soul, left a permenant scar that never properly healed. It was as if it removed part of your ability to forgive and forget.
She'd made one good friend in her journeys, but eventually they'd gone their seperate ways. The other girl had had friends and family and a life to return to, something she envied. Lately she'd been feeling detached, free floating. She was assuming it was because she had no where to call home. Sometimes she envied the people who crowded into the internet cafe's, checking for email or calling home over the computer. Anxious to let people know they were safe, having fun, missed them and wished they were here.
(to be continued)
The noise of a glass breaking brough her back to the here and now; sitting and sweating in a streetside restaurant in a humid city halfway around the world from home. She stirred her dish of fried noodles idily, her apetite repressed by the heat.
She'd spent months now, travelling through strange countries, eating strange foods, learning words in strange languages; the kind that bent your tongue in foreign ways, that you could never pronounce quite right.
She couldn't sit still. She'd been through 8 or 9 countries now. If she was looking for something she couldn't remember what it was. She'd once read that you don't find yourself, but create yourself. Maybe she was trying to build herself into something better, something stronger. She didn't rely on anyone but herself now, didn't count on any strength but her own. She'd learned the hard way to trust no one. She'd once thought that blood was a trustworthy bond, but a falling out with her parents had proved to her there was no bond that couldn't be broken. If you lived on your own, you'd never feel that sharp knife wound of betrayal, cutting deeper than any flesh wound. Betrayal cut to the soul, left a permenant scar that never properly healed. It was as if it removed part of your ability to forgive and forget.
She'd made one good friend in her journeys, but eventually they'd gone their seperate ways. The other girl had had friends and family and a life to return to, something she envied. Lately she'd been feeling detached, free floating. She was assuming it was because she had no where to call home. Sometimes she envied the people who crowded into the internet cafe's, checking for email or calling home over the computer. Anxious to let people know they were safe, having fun, missed them and wished they were here.
(to be continued)
posted by Deirdre at 1:19 p.m.
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