In my 23 years of age, I cannot claim that I have experienced all sort of things an old man would be but proud to tell. It is in these short years of my life that I have smelled all things grand, of the beauty of the grotesque violet-painted sky, the very resemblance of any cotton candy, reminding me of my older brother’s common sense. It is in these short years of my life I have been exposed to the very tenderness of sensibility, of its curses and maladies, that almost tore me apart—by bones and my soul. It is in these short years of my life that I have admitted such despicable and infuriating feelings in the depth of my heart to someone I, with all my senses, had refused to acknowledge in my sobriety. And it is in these short years of my life that I have learnt that there are people out there, that are not of my blood, that I can proudly call my kin; I have learnt that there are greater attachment, fondness, pride, and affinity that one could bear towards others, that one could feel and reflect, every second of it, and that one could feel no more passionate yet desperate when torn apart.
I would firstly introduce one thing of all, that inspired me to write this excerpt from anything that I would ever write if I ever have; the one of whom I introduced first and foremost, without whom I might lose a part of myself. It is actually an act of romance, in which I will indeed romanticize some aspects of our lives that I wouldn’t even dare to write or even speak at the first place, in this very manner that does not speak of my own. It will be an overview of our friendship, a gentleman and a lady of very different backgrounds, not any resemblance in character if I might say so myself, which will be quizzical if one does not spare their time to read all of the reasons and stories. In this case, I would only spare a few reasons and stories, hopefully chronologically if I am not too distracted with other things, as I am one distracted gentleman for all that matter.
My life began as soon as the letter arrived.
I don’t think I will retell all of the things from beginning, however, as it will change the sound of this excerpt to anything but how I want to deliver. All in all, in my eleven years of age, I had not so very many remarkable encounters, for every encounter with other people was only due to my mum’s not very assuring pleas, most of it was forceful, to be honest. My journal would have been nothing of fashion, it’d been bored to death with all of the repetitive activities required of such gentlemen like my brother and myself. The words, if I had ever been too humble to spell them one by one, would have wilted and died at the end of my quill. I somehow think that in these early years I had developed a sense of melancholy, that actually still surprises me even if I have grown along with it. My soul was purely that of a child, dreaming and beaming at every culinary parade and shenanigans that my innocence would not have, if I was ever innocent to begin with.
I couldn’t keep up to the calmness within the house once I got ahold of the letter, once I realized that everything would never be the same again, once I recognized the glimpse of mischief and chaos that I had only imagined in my head, and once I acknowledged the letter as my own personal breaker of chains.
And there I met her.
Mallory and I—that’s her name, Mallory Rose—were never really the closest of friends. I had acknowledged every one of my housemate as my best friend, and Mallory was simply included. How do I begin to describe her? She was not like any of the girls you would glance once and for all. There was some depth in every inch of her appearance and presence, some heavy vibes that was not likely to wash off if you would ever take a look at her for more than one second. If you would ever dare to breathe her in, to comprehend the meaning of her existence.
I think in my youthful years I would acknowledge Mallory as a daunting girl. Her presence was pretty much eerie for my cup of tea, and somehow I knew that she absorbed energy from people—much, much energy—and I was never known as having too little energy, so I was wary with the thoughts that she would wear me down to the bones. In my youthful years, there was nothing more scary than living lifelessly.
Then, somehow I traced down the path altogether: down the nightly forest and down the nightly robe she wore to her core. In this sentence, I admit to being very dramatic for my own taste, but one is indeed required to be dramatic in order to grasp the worrisome nightingale. In this sentence, I laugh, imagining how blown away she would be if she conjured up my own image in this unspeakable writing tone. And then I would protest, that I have always been this way, that I’ve matured and not really been kicking my heels off to every beanfest there’d ever be, that I am now merely an old lad with very little income and plentiful memories. We’d speak about the past like it is our friend; we’d speak of it in such tenderness that bursts out into firecrackers, warms us up like in the winter, where the fires burn the wood in the hearth. But I will always speak about the past like it is my friend, for it is mine, and I have carved every inch of my skin with it until it became a part of me. Yet for now, I will speak of her, my dear friend of whom I’m fairly fond.
Mallory never said much about the things that bothered her while she was a child, and I would not dare to tick her off with any problematic questions that would enrage the Ukrainian Ironbelly inside her. I understand that it is not easy to admit the flaws inherited by our families; mine is almost unspeakable as the sickness in my belly, as ugly as sin. I only knew that she was once a nightingale stripped out of her wing. She compromised with the pain of her early years, which she preferred to transform into ashes so she could easily forget. I admired her ability to lash out, for even though I’d declared myself as pretty much an open book, acting as expressive as I could be, now anger always consumes me more yet rests me in its own limbo. My mind will spit out violence, my body and everything, yet I’ll always be too tired to throw a fit. In my early years, yes, it is true that I was once a fiery lad. I lashed out at everything until I got it all out. But as I’ve stated earlier, I have grown. Time changed me and I have grown to be what I am right now. If anything, I’ve grown more composed.
Forgiving was not her nature. I remember how she’d told me about every little thing she’d do to avenge herself. Not once did it shake me, for I have seen the daunting lady as she was. The little girl I was cautious about was no more fragile than a rose without its thorns; she’s living up to her name. What made her so unmistakably dangerous was her own thorns, the ones she cultivated herself, the ones that hurt yet protected her altogether. I was proud of my girl; I was proud of what she had been, what she had become, what she would be.
There were times where nobody believes that a gentleman and a lady could become such intense friends, without any romantic feelings towards each other. I believe that’s true, for I am fond of Mallory; I could never find any word to describe her unromantically. To write her is to conduct a romantic story, as I have been, right to this moment.
I remember her, every tiny bit of her, in my spare times; when my chair is creaking and my roof leaking; when I look down the road as I go home; when things go wrong and I sing a song; when I wave to the old lady in the upper town; when my glasses are tainted with silly finger prints and dust, dampening as I take a sip of my English breakfast; when the postman knocks on my door; when the stairs just won’t stop screaming for repair; when the light goes down and I am on my own, busy with everything and everyone I could only reminisce. I remember her as the ghosty curtain in my chamber, and I cherish her. I’ve always cherished her, for as long as I can remember.
