Accelerated Adolescence

Amy

I warn anyone who chooses to read past this caveat that this is not whole and that whatever you read here will not have any conclusion (or plot for that matter). I am, however, trying to satisfy those who would pressure me to get on with it. Here's an attempt at prose:

The chatter of cicadas rustled the leaves in the old oaks next to the house. Or, maybe it was rain. Amy was too afraid to look outside to determine the actual cause. In another room, Amy�s parents were quarreling again. Their marriage took a rocky turn when Amy graduated from high school and it became clear that she would be unable to pursue a college education. All Amy could do was hug her knees and stare at the wall that butted up against the head of her bed. A train began churning its wheels against a squeaky iron track, slowly gaining momentum.
Amy tries to clear the cicadas, the fighting, and the train from her head. She stared at her wall and tried to imagine what it was like when she was little. Was she different then? But she couldn�t remember. The only images she could conjure up were of the young girl living just down the street. In the summer she would come to spend time with Amy. Sometimes they would knit, play cat�s cradle, or think of riddles to fool one another. The girl�s mother disapproved of Amy but that didn�t stop the girl, Melissa, from coming over. Amy�s mother would even bring them milk and cookies.
The train was getting louder; it always got louder. There was no fighting the train, ever, as it sped down the track until it was boiling like an angry kettle, shrieking at Amy. The track began to moan under the weight and temper of the runaway freight. Amy knew what was going to happen; she�d seen it a million times. She didn�t want to look but she always had to. Every time the scene was just as horrific and knowing what was to come only made the experience worse. The silhouette of her mother hovered on the left end of the bed, by the window.
Her parents were still fighting in the living room. She didn�t know what it was about, or how her parents would get into the yard, but the train was so close now that it overpowered any other sound. It drowned out Amy�s thoughts and overcame her terrifying fear that maybe if she didn�t look, it wouldn�t happen. Her eyes were slowly drawn to the floating shadow of her mother that, like phosphorescence, seemed to lead the eye. The cool lake wind blew into the room and the curtains parted. Amy shivered but could do nothing but slowly swivel her head around to the open window. The rain was more torrential than she had remembered.
Her parents stood near the tracks, soaked to the bone. Her mother�s soaking pink dress clung to her body and her nipples stood hard on her chest. The driving rain caused her father�s soaked undershirt to show his belly and thick hair. For a moment, Amy was transfixed by their abdomens and flailing appendages. Their fight had grown to such a rage that it mimicked the storm and was as hate-filled as the wailing train. And at the moment of climax Amy�s father pushed her mother onto the train tracks. A fleeting look of desperation crossed her mother�s face and she reached an arm towards Amy.
Amy tried to close her eyes but they were wrenched open and she watched as the train devoured her mother. Her mother disappeared under the train and Amy knew that this was somehow her fault. Her guilt had little time to nag her, though, before the train turned on its track and plowed, head on, into Amy�s window. The engine always seemed to turn into a leering malicious face right before Amy blacked out. The face, half human and half train, haunted her into darkness.
As the laughing of the train echoed away in Amy�s head and its wretched noise faded into the distance, a peaceful calm washed over her. The blackness shrouded Amy�s frail body and she felt the sturdy arms of sleep embrace her. Perhaps, she thought, that sleep would be her only lover. Her tormented life at home seemed interminable and gloomy. Who would ever want to touch Amy? She had forgotten what it was like to be touched gently. Her mother was always rough with her, when she had to touch her. And her father? She couldn�t remember her father ever having even looked at her. At least, not since she graduated. But sleep held her tightly, caressed her body, and kissed her face. Sleep would be her lover, her confidant, her only comforter. Even these thoughts faded and Amy slipped away into oblivion.
�Amy, I�ve been calling you for five minutes, why haven�t you responded?� Her mother�s voice cut through the darkness with the crispness of recently sharpened sewing scissors. �You�ve been staring at that wall again,� she brusquely informed Amy, �what�s wrong with you?� Amy�s mother was obviously agitated about the fight that she�d just had with her husband and was wringing her hands as she eyed her daughter. Amy saw a look of anxiety and confusion turn to a look of compassion as she met her mother�s gaze.
�I�m sorry mother, I guess that I was lost, daydreaming.� Amy worried that she used that response too frequently, though she couldn�t quite remember how often. It seemed, lately, that the days were getting shorter, that her time was slipping by. She couldn�t remember what she�d done two weeks ago with any precision; maybe it was two years ago. Only her mother�s pestering seemed to pass slowly.
�Why do you always have the curtains closed? It seems that when most people stare they do it looking out their window.� After whisking the curtains open it was clear that Amy�s mother was visibly annoyed. Her nervous pacing only seemed to agitate her more and her deep breaths followed by sighs indicated that she was preparing herself for a lecture. Amy had heard this very lecture many times before. She knew that her mother had dreamt that Amy wouldn�t spend the rest of her life living in her childhood bedroom. She had hopes and dreams; hopes and dreams that, no matter how hard Amy had struggled to achieve them, she could not.
Amy�s mother would begin the lecture by telling Amy that they needed to have a chat. Then she would discuss the difficulty with which success had come into the household. Her mother would beseech Amy to listen to her pleas. She would end in tears, sobbing on Amy, who sat listening and observing her mother through all of this. Overcome with grief she would often become indignant, curse at Amy for being a disaster of a child, and then storm out to, presumably, cry alone.
Mid way through her mother�s speech, just when she was beginning to expound upon the hardships of her youngest years, Amy noticed that she was still sitting in the position she had been before she passed out. She shifted to sitting cross legged so that she could face her mother and make eye contact with her. The motion jarred her mother and she stopped speaking and simply stared at her daughter briefly before returning to her lecture. However, once she began again, she didn�t seem to have possession of the words and simply stopped talking.
�Mom,� Amy looked searchingly in her mother�s eyes, �I know that I can�t be what you want me to be but maybe I can get a job at the local coffee shop?� Her apologetic tone softened her mother�s harsher features. Amy hadn�t had a job for several years but would often go down to the local coffee shop. She would buy one of the espresso drinks and then sit, pensively, for hours. She was confident that she knew how to make all of the drinks and that the old woman who owned the shop would welcome a break in her wearisome schedule. Besides, she figured that employment was likely to get her mother off of her back for a little while.
�That�s fine,� her mother finally said after a long silence. As she left the room she said something about making dinner. Her mother�s odd behavior recently had begun to worry Amy and she wondered if there was something that her father was doing that was causing this. She was unable to conjure an image of anything he might do that would warrant such a reaction from her mother.
Her mind wandered briefly before she noticed a book that she had been reading earlier that day. She picked up the novel and let herself be swept away by sweeping Victorian pastures and a tragically romantic heroine. She could almost feel herself basking in the warm sun of southern England on a clear day. Watching the farm hands go back and forth cutting the hay. The sweet scent of the cut grasses and the fragrance of wildflowers tantalized her olfactory senses. The story told of a beautiful young lady and her father.
She had put her father out of her mind since the argument this morning. The two rarely spoke. She was convinced that he was so ashamed of her that he hid his embarrassment with anger. Perhaps she ought to go talk to him; someone in the family needed to communicate. She put down the book and walked out into the living room. There always seemed to be a different piece of artwork on the wall opposite her door. She wasn�t sure if she�d seen the painting of the children playing before.
She turned and walked through the kitchen past her mother, who was lightly frying something, and opened the door to the garage. Three steps led down to the cold cement floor of the two car garage. In the center of the room was her father�s hot rod, draped in a protective bed sheet. Forgetting her father�s temper, she pulled off the sheet. It shone in the darkened room, its vibrant red, sleek and lithe, full of the youthfulness her father so desperately grasped for.
Easing open the door she slid into the leather driver�s seat and gripped the steering wheel. It was smooth and cool in her hands and she felt the power of the vehicle ripple through her. It was electrical; she no longer wondered why her father coveted the car so much. The interior of the car was entirely black leather. The seats were comfortably cushioned. Everything about the car spoke of luxury and authority. She looked up from the dials on the dashboard to see her father standing at the end of the car, arms folded, smiling smugly.
�I�m sorry Daddy�� she began but he cut her off. She was frozen with fear. Never had she been so audacious as to sit in the car without her father�s permission. She knew his anger too well to approach the car. Often, when he was working on the car, tweaking something in the engine, she would avoid the garage altogether just to avoid any unpleasant situations.
�Don�t worry about it, Kiddo,� his voice was soft and reassuring, �It�s practically yours and besides, why wouldn�t I want my only beloved daughter to be driving it?� Amy just stared at her father. She was baffled by his response. Was he sober? She didn�t have any memories of her father behaving civilly to her. She could barely remember her father talking to her; he was too busy fighting with her mother to pay her any heed.
�What are you looking at Kiddo? You look like you�ve seen a ghost,� he paused for a moment, then added, �Listen, I know I�ve hardly been a father but I want you to know that, no matter what your mother thinks, I really love you. All these years, we�ve been quibbling over stupid things and I just realized how stupid I�ve been. Now, I hear that you�re going to get a job.� He�d been moving closer to her and was now leaning in through the window. Gently nudging her with his elbow, he smiled playfully at her as he had done when she was little.
Amy couldn�t detect any hostility in her father but, nonetheless, answered the question guardedly. �I thought I�d see if Maggie at the coffee shop wanted any help,� she offered. The honesty of her own words startled her. She couldn�t remember having a candid discussion with her father for years. Perhaps the last time she told him anything that wasn�t a half-truth was in sixth grade. She came home that day with a perfect score on her spelling test and marveled at it with her parents. They�d taken her out to get ice cream that night to celebrate. She added, �I�ve been going down to her shop ever other day for almost two years, I�m surprised that she never thought to offer me a job.�
A beeping noise in the kitchen, followed by the oven opening, interrupted their conversation. Amy turned her head to look at the kitchen door and, as she swiveled her head back, caught a glimpse of her father walking towards the back door of the garage in the mirror. He opened the door and went out into the back yard. The click of heeled shoes on the wood floor of the kitchen could be heard. Amy�s mother opened the door and the warm glow of the kitchen crept into the garage. She poked her head into the gloom.
�Amy? Dinner is ready. And, put the sheet back on your father�s car; I don�t want it getting dirty.�