Rising From the Ashes
By: Rebecca "Sinead"
Written
on: November 22, 2003
Written
for: Those who are in need
Dedicated
to: M.M.F., my mother . . . she who
always handed me the Kleenex, the “cuppa comfort” commonly known as a cup
of tea, and who gave me her love and her arms to embrace, when the pain was
too much to handle anymore.
One
year . . .
One
year, two months . . .
One
year, two months, and twenty-five days . . .
It
had been one year, two months, and twenty-five days since a man had been
killed by my father’s actions.
I
have been a coward, I know. I’ve been hiding from some truth or another, and
I knew that it had to stop. There was nothing that I could do about it, I had
been thinking. It was in the past, and I can’t do anything about it.
Now,
I know that I was wrong, that I was acting upon cowardice, and not like a
warrior. And that hurts, now that I think about it. I want to be . . . I am
a warrior, but . . . on that day, August 27, 2002, I lost my path. I lost my
guiding light. I lost something within me that I had looked to for
assurance, comfort, and strength.
I
lost a piece of my faith in God.
And
it hurt.
November
22, 2003
I
woke up at nine-ish, and made a cup of Earl Grey tea. After I changed, I
picked up the bag of books I was finished reading, then went to the library. I
spent about an hour there, then went back to the apartment, signed onto AIM,
and immediately wanted to squeal with joy. Friends from around the United
States were on, but especially my dear sister-in-spirit from South
Africa was also online. We started talking, able to pick up easily from barely
being able to get in touch with each other once a week, and then entered an
AIM chat with other authors.
By
the time I had to leave about another hour later, I was talking with Sapphire,
Pacerpaw, Skyfire, Miss Special, Amber, and Nurannoniel. I missed talking with
them all. They might be so far away, but I know that they’re here, with me,
as close as another soul, when we’re talking like this. We don’t care
about what we look like, or how we dress, or what social standing we’re
supposed to be from. All we care about, is that we’re in a place where
we’re accepted unconditionally, loved for who we are, and who we can
be, without regard to mistakes or small character flaws. It’s a good
feeling, it is. Knowing that even though none of them live even remotely close
by, but knowing that you’re home when you’re talking with them
. . . it’s something to be treasured, cherished for all of time.
We
had to go to the mall, since I had to find a store that sold boken, or
the Japanese wooden practice swords. A friend of mine told me about the store,
and I We actually entered in, and
immediately saw it. I had to tie my shoe, so I was a minute or so getting into
the store, but that’s okay. Dad was coming out, saying that he didn’t see
any wooden swords, but I walked in, and asked specifically for the boken.
The man reached behind him, and pulled it out from a corner.
It
was fifteen dollars, and I was debating getting it, when Dad said to wait
until later. Meaning: I was going to get it for Christmas. Grinning to myself,
we rambled around for a while, before I spotted a bookstore. I told Dad that
I’d meet him in the store that he would be getting a DVD in, and bee-lined
it to Walden Books. Aah, heaven . . . I got Rurouni Kenshin manga,
along with the third book in the second Cardcaptor Sakura series. I was going to
get a third manga, but no, the clerk had to be an idiot, and
wouldn’t help me out with eleven measly cents that I didn’t have from
getting all three. Blah. Stupid tax. But not getting that third manga
ended up turning out for the better, since I had something else I needed to
get later.
After
going to the mall, we went and got food for dinner: Chicken croquets. Sounds
like something you’d hit with a club, I know, but they’re pretty decent.
As soon as I left the car when we were back at Dad’s house, I knew I had to
take a bike ride before I could eat.
To
where? I probed silently, not
knowing that I would get an answer.
There
. . .
My
hands began shaking . . . albeit it was more like trembling. I felt that my
whole being would vibrate apart, falling to pieces at any moment.
Are
you sure? I was thinking. Can
I handle seeing that place?
You’ll
be fine . . .
No
words had actually been spoken, but instead, there was a picture floating
through my head of the intersection, when He had said, There . . .
And
when He said, You’ll be fine . . . I knew that I was safe,
that I would be fine, and that nothing would happen to me.
I
prepared the bike, pumping up the tires, and changing the pedals so that I
could use regular shoes, and then grabbed an extra helmet. I had my cell phone
on me, and on, so that if Dad needed me back at the house, apartment,
whatever, I’d be able to be reached.
Instead
of the usual route that I took, by going around the lake once, then returning
to Dad’s, I went up the hill, and started to work my way to where I knew
where the site was. I didn’t exactly remember the roads that I took, but I
relied upon my instincts . . . actually, now that I think of it, it wasn’t just my
instincts.
He
who spoke to me, I believe, was God, helping me along to my decision. I knew that
if I didn’t go today, I wouldn’t be able to go at all. This . . . this
fear, this pain that I’ve been carrying around within me for the past year .
. . I’ve had enough of it. I knew that I was starting well on my way to
becoming clinically depressed. I knew that I was already slightly depressed,
and that I had to break this before it went any further. I
couldn’t let myself hurt my friends by being depressed, by losing my love of
life, by not remaining me.
God
. . . He talked to me . . . it’s . . . wow. You can’t describe it. You
never will find words to explain the feelings of wholeness . . . of
fulfillment. . . . Nothing can capture it with letters or words.
He
reassured me, as I was making my way up hills, taking to myself, telling
myself that I was going to do fine. That I can do this.
It
didn’t help all that much. I knew my hands were still trembling.
I
began to imagine that Rattrap would keep pace behind and slightly to the left
of me, jokingly making fun of me for being a slowpoke, while Sapphire would
gently chide for him to be nice to the “stranger.” Neither would know who
I was, since they wouldn’t be able to see my face from the angle they were
coming from. Starath and Megatron would be above us, with Starath calling down
to Sapph, wondering who I was . . . why I was moving with such an urgency that
I felt coursing through my veins with every downward pump of the pedal.
Nurannonial and Optimus would be up ahead, waiting there . . . at that fateful
intersection . . . with Dinobot, who would embrace me warmly, perfectly,
shielding me from the breeze and from sight when we finally meet face-to-face
. . . knowing that we were soulmates, and that we would never leave each other
for the rest of our lives . . . But that would be after I confronted my
memories, my fears, and my nightmare.
When
they would see me stop at that cross, they would know who I am, but they would
give me space to have my own thoughts. They would come over later, and they
would sit with me, talking with me, making me smile, as they always have, and
just . . . be friends . . . be who we are . . .
Be
family.
But
that wasn’t what had happened. I was daydreaming, and it helped pass the
time. I slowed, after remembering how the telephone posts looked against the
backdrop of a field . . . and how close that had been to the intersection. I
knew that it was around the next bend. And it was.
After
crossing the street, I got off of the bike, hearing cars whizz by behind me,
and looked at the white cross. A lantern was hanging off of an iron post
leaning slightly on the right arm, as I faced the small memorial. There was a
few candle stubs within it. A pair of wrap-around sunglasses had writing in
pink paint upon it saying, “GONE RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES” was resting upon
the joint where the arms of the cross meet the main post.
Hyeah, I
wanted to say, I know, believe me.
Some
piece of cloth tied an oddly-shaped piece of metal right below those glasses,
on the other side of the cross’ arms. A pink bandana was tied around that
other cloth, and I realized that it was the brake handle from this man’s
bike.
I
know his name was written upon the cross. I know it was. I don’t remember
it. I don’t think that I want to. It would make it . . . just that bit more
unbearable. There was a pumpkin upon the ground, all decrepit and sunken . . .
I think it must have been from before Halloween. There were other things
resting upon the ground around it, but I can’t remember them now. There was
a purple cloth, tied around the top of the cross, a loose end gently flapping
in a soft, slightly-chilly breeze that kicked up sparingly.
I
sat upon the grass, left leg tucked up, so that I could rest my left arm upon
it, right leg almost stretched out, but still remaining relaxed, right hand
scrolling down two saved numbers on my Tracfone, then hitting the “send”
key. I had to call Mom. I was prompted by that soft inner voice to call her.
The
voice mail picked up. She wasn’t home. People were looking at me, watching
me as I was sitting next to this ramshackle memorial, an old Nokia pressed up
against my ear. When the beep went off, I began talking. “Hi Mom, it’s
Becka . . . I decided to go for a bike ride, I don’t know what time it is
right now, you’ll probably know what time it is when you hear it. But um . .
. I decided to go back to the site of the accident, and . . . I dunno.
“I-i-it’s
. . . it’s kinda odd the way I-I remember it compared to now; nothing has
changed. I mean, it was August and all, and you could definitely see that the
trees were alive and all, but I don’t remember ’em like that. I remember
them as they are now: bare of leaves . . . dead in-a-in-a in a sense . . .
“Um
. . . I don’t– I dunno if I . . . I’ll prob’ly see you later and all I
know your probably out um, eh, groceries or something or another but uh . . .
It’s just kinda odd and I know that I’m wasting minutes on this, I know
that I am, but I’ve got minutes to waste.”
I
sighed, after a pause, watching an SUV rocket past.
“Heh.
I don’t even remember the grass being all so green. That picture I drew,
definitely, definitely, you know, it definitely reflects that day. And I think
that this is going to work out, maybe, you know?
“I
wish that I brought a– brought my camera . . .
“It’s
. . . it’s been a really odd, different day. And I don’t mind. An-and I
know that I’m rambling on, because it’s
fun. I can ramble on. And I didn’t know until now that what I was
going to do, was come here. And I don’t think that I’m all that afraid
anymore.”
The
service cut off, saying that I’ve reached the limit for calls, and I called
back, saying that I’ll probably go to an old friend’s house before going
back to Dad’s. That didn’t happen, as I went to a CVS down the street, and
got black-and-white film for a project and a Vanilla Pepsi. As I write this,
I’m sipping away still at that bottle of caffeine and sugar. It helps ease
the headache I’ve had since morning just a bit.
As
I left the small store, my phone went off, and I picked it up, not knowing who
it was. My phone is so old, that I don’t even had a caller-I.D. on it, like
all the new ones. The call turned out to be from Mom, who had just missed me.
She had listened to my message, and her voice . . . it was raspy. She had
cried over the message, I knew. Hearing her speak about it, I knew that this
time of mourning was finally over.
It
was over.
I
would come back next year, on the date that man died, and leave a candle.
My
fear was broken today.
My
depression, however slight and hidden it had been, was broken today.
Today
I died. I became ashes, looking at that white cross. But I rose again, like
that Phoenix of myths, and I became a new person all over again, looking at
that site. The skidmarks might have been gone from the pavement from time, the
blood all washed away from the rain . . . but in my mind, on a wound that had
the stitches removed from it just today . . . they’re still there, but
dulled, thankfully. I remember it all, and I remember that it will never be
changed. But I will never, ever forget what it did to me.
It
reforged me.
I
might have been a rusted piece of metal before . . . but now I’ve been
melted back down, folded again and again back upon myself, until I was a
shining new blade, the edge just put on, and ready to strike . . . to help . .
. to free others who have seen horrors like mine . . . even if I have never
been in their shoes . . . I can try. I’ll be their crying shoulder, I’ll
be their support, when there is no longer anything solid to hold onto. I’ll
be their cousin, sister, mother, daughter . . . whatever they need me to be at
the moment.
Is
this what a warrior feels like? This sense of . . . of the fact that I’ve
seen death, that I’ve witnessed it, and that I’ve come out altered . . .
less afraid? Maybe it is . . . and maybe I’m just starting out on the path
that I’ve been searching for . . .
.
. . realizing that I began walking upon it a long time ago.
I
biked home in the twilight, knowing that my “Loving to Learn, Learning to
Love” series hadn’t been finished after all. It was missing one song. Its
ending wasn’t really its ending. And the ending that it will hold, will be
the beginning of a new time for not only my character that represents me in
that fictional world, but for me as well. As I pedaled back towards the center
of town, I sang to myself the song “Tourniquet,” smiling, completely
free for the first time in over a year.
For this is my life; my story. Tell it to who needs to hear it, whether they want to know about it or not. Tell all about me . . . tell them about my mistakes as well as the carefree times I’ve had. Let them think of me as they will, for I will care not about their opinions. I am who I choose to be, knowing that my fate is set, that I cannot change who I choose to be, and that the choice had been made by God. He knows where my feet will tread, where my sword will fall, where my wing shall shelter others in times of fear and doubt. And only He knows about what lies beyond tomorrow’s bright dawn.