Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Write on: That was me..before I knew.

I'm sure ya'll are use to seeing odd things from me by now so this shouldn't be a surprise. :)
This is kind of a character outline for...well...I'm not really sure. At one point I was going to use her in a story my friend and I started, but like all the others the story changed to another story so I'm left with Poor Delilah. I'm sure I'll find a spot for her somewhere. If we ever decide to go back to this particular storyline, or in another who knows.

Delilah Weston: A Profile
I have lived all my life in small towns. A small town to me is one that consist of 1,000 people or less The closeness of the people in the towns is something I always loved. You can just walk down streets and know the people you walk by.  You can't do that in big cities. In big cities people are in so much of a rush they don't have time to stop and say hello to their neighbors. Anyways, it's funny though I never thought I'd be back here In Foster Ridge, Nevada. I was born here well technically I was born in the hospital in the big city next to Foster Ridge, but that's only because it didn't have the technology at the time.  It didn't have the big, fancy hospital that my parents felt the need to use. My mom always told me I was a big baby.  Apparently, she felt the need to have the drugs on stand by.  We left F.R when I was about one so I don't remember what it was like back then. 
    My parents had moved us to some small town in Oregon. They had later told me they did so because of my dads job. How was I suppose to know that it wasn't exactly the reason. It didn't matter then though because I liked that town, the air was so clean, the mountains that were near us were so magical looking, all the trees that surrounded the town were always so green and in the fall the leaves would turn beautiful colors:reds,yellows, browns, oranges. Then running outside in them when they were falling, jumping in piles just after my dad had finished raking them up and watching them fly everywhere.Then he'd have to rake again just for me to repeat it. He never yelled at me for it, but I could tell he wasn't thrilled when I did.  Hey what can I say I was like 3 or 4. Forget the terrible twos. So we lived there for a few years until my dads job decided to relocate us AGAIN.
    This time it was to a small town out in West Texas. I was beginning to think this was going to be the pattern of my life ever so often we'd move to another small town, but again I was little and I loved it and I didn't really know any better. All I knew was when we got there I would have a new room, a new home to explore, new friends to meet, and new adventures.  The summers there weren't like the other places I had lived. They were hot,humid, and dry. I soon learned though that the kids there had their way of keeping cool  turning on the sprinklers and running through them. Playing on what they called a "slip N slide" where you'd run and dive belly first onto a plastic slippery,wet tarp thing and slide through a fountain of water shooting up at the end.It sounds like it would hurt, but after awhile you got use to it. That was pretty much our daily excitement. In the winters, we would build snowmen, snow fortresses, and have snowball fights. I never did to well during those snowball fights I was always the first down I guess its cause I was younger than most of the other kids, and I never liked hitting people with snow even if it didn't actually hurt them. Yes, I know what your thinking, snow in Texas right? It does happen I promise. I was amazed the first time I saw the flurries come down. I thought it was a rarity down here in the South. To my suprise though those flurries became actual flakes and they stuck to the ground just like I had seen up North. I wasn't buried in it like I could be up North, but still it was enough. It by far was my favorite place I had lived, it had all the seasons. The town was great too. No one there was really rich either, they made do with what God gave them, and in my opinion they were all pretty happy with it. They were a family, a community that loved each other, and I too became a part of that family. That is where I lived from the time I was five until THE day.
    That day, I came home from school and walked into the living room where both my parents sat quietly on the couch staring blankly at the ground. My dad had then looked up and over at me, gotten up off the couch and walked over to me, hugged me, and had me come over and sit down next to mom who by the way still had her focus on the floor. So I sat there beside her quietly waiting for one of them to speak to tell me what was happening all the while my stomach started to churn and make gurgling noises. That was never a good sign.  So I tried to focus on something else. I stared at the couch instead, ok so this had to be the ugliest, brown and tan, striped looking couch I'd ever seen. How come I was just now realizing this. That's when my mom looked over at me and then my dad and nodded to him I guess to let him know it was time to talk. My dad bent down on his knees next to me and begin 1 of the 3 what I liked to call "Enough Said talks." You know the ones; the s-e-x talk, the sick & dying talk, and the one which I was about to get the Big "D". Not to bore you with anymore details then necessary let's just say they told me that as much as they loved each other they weren't...how'd they put it.... in love with each other anymore. I was 10 at the time so I had no clue as to what the heck that meant, or maybe I did in the back of my mind I just chose to block it out. Besides, who wants to hear that kind of bologna from their parents. After that talk I watched in silence as my dad packed his things up and loaded his SUV, and he came over to the door where I stood still completely oblivious to the fact that my happy ending was about to not be so happy anymore. He bent down on his knees and held my head  down, kissing me on the forehead, and whispering in my ear how he loved me and always would,and that no matter what else happened I was and always would be his little princess, the light in his life, his baby girl. That was last time I ever saw my father. 

     I guess after a few weeks I realized that he truly wasn't coming back not for my mom not for me. He was no longer interested in the life we all once shared. So for the next couple of weeks after that everything kind of went by in a blur. I just went through the motions of my life as I always had, but it's like I wasn't doing them I was just watching myself on repeat everyday. That probably wasn't a very good thing for a 10 year old to do. So I just finally gave up. I stopped going outside and riding bikes with my friends, I isolated myself from everyone at school. I no longer wanted to be me. I didn't want to sit there at school and pretend to be happy for all my other classmates whose families were still together and happy.  I didn't want to listen to them talk about how they were getting a new sibling, or their dad just got this awesome job, or about their family planned vacation to Disneyland on spring break. I...just...wanted...to...be....invisible. I didn't want to feel this way all the anger, the sadness, the hurt, the pain, every possible crappy feeling that there was well it was in me. It was all I could do to just tune out everything. I think my teachers finally realized that something wasn't quite right with me when I finally broke down, snotty face with tears pouring down my face yelling at some poor girl in my art class that her picture lacked what real life truly was and that it wasn't all rainbows and smiley face suns and family all holding hands together smiling next to their perfect little house and their little dog and blah blah blah.  That was when my teachers had pulled me aside at recess and tried talking to me, tried to understand why a small little girl like myself, once so vibrant, so cheerful, so optimistic about life had just stopped, cut everyone out, and had yelled at a classmate for no reason. I  for one didn't feel like explaining to a bunch of adults that everything had been ruined and by their kind. I mean weren't adults suppose to be perfect? Weren't they suppose to be what kept the world in order? So instead of drowning them with my worries knowing that it wouldn't do any good anyways and to get them to stop trying to act like Dr.Phil I simply lied to them telling them that I was upset and sad because I had just lost my pet goldfish and my parents didn't even give Mango, that's what I called the fish for affect,  the proper burial that he so rightfully deserved, but truth be told they knew exactly why I had been like that. They didn't need to go all Dr. Phil on me like they hadn't the slightest clue, it was a small town everyone knew everyone's business.  That's just the way it was. What was even worse was that my mom had tried to talk to me too. She wanted to know or should I say wanted to believe that I was okay. That everything was going to be okay.  That what the teachers had told her about my actions or lack there of at school were false.  That I sat with my friends at lunch, that I hadn't yelled at some girl, that I played those childish games at recess of tag, hide n seek, and any other ridiculous game that children had made up. She knew though that I wasn't okay. She had seen my moods change over the weeks, and had watched my whole attitude change slowly as I grasped the concept of what had happened. My mother was a smart and intelligent woman she  had to have known that I probably never would be okay with it because my dad was my hero, my protector from all that was bad, the one who no matter what kind of crappy day he had at the office would always come home smiling, the one person who always knew the right spot to tickle me in to make me laugh so hard that I snorted like a pig which in return would make him laugh and snort then you had both of us on the floor laughing and snorting so hard we'd start crying. The whole snorting thing came from my dad we were both pretty much dorks when it came to our laughter. It always had a way of brightening up our household. I missed that so much, but you got to move on and forget about the past because now was the present...and the future wasn't going to wait. 
    So like clock work everyday I would ride my bike home. Walk up those crickety steps to the front porch, go inside and walk right up the wooden stair case, past the kitchen where my mother would be waiting to ask me how my day was, and let me know that she had made me a snack.  Not once did I ever stop and have the snack or talk to her about my day because I knew that nothing good would come from it. I just wanted to get to the comfort of my own room, to the one place I knew would always be mine and would always be the same unless I myself had changed it. With the door locked I would toss my bags over on my bean bag, go to my bookshelf and pick a book I hadn't read in awhile, go to either my bed or my reading spot on the windowsill where I could look out and see the tree tops, and in the very far distance mountain tops, and I would just read. 
    I would read of pirates and their ships and the search for the buried treasure, romances between the most unlikely couples, detectives who by the end of the book had always caught the bad guys and usually the love of a girl or two, tragic tales of the lost,  journeys to lands that only a few knew about, dragons and trainers, the creatures of the night,  but by far my favorite reading was of magic: it's history, the rituals, witches/wizards/sorcerers, and the forgotten tales of the the "old worlds." How people would be born into families with powers that could only be explained as "black magic" the evil ones as they were known. Some books were written by some people claiming that there were families whose intentions were only that of the "white magic" the goodness of the craft. Although I knew it was all just here say and make believe from either side. Somewhere inside my mind I wanted it to be real I wanted to be one of those people. I wanted to be able to change my life back to the way it was suppose to be and those powers, those spells they could do it for me. As I would finish with the book I put it up and returned to my bed and there I would spend endless nights in my dream world pretending that I, Delilah Rose Weston was a witch.


  1. I really love the name Delilah and I think there's heaps of potential in this story. Why not put it ALL together into one story? Vampires Vs witches? That would be completely cool.

  2. Aww, thank you. This is my problem I write parts to stories and then that's it.


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Happy Reading and Blogging, Ashley

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