The Identity of the Nameless

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is my first posting on this website. I submitted my first writing piece, which was this exert, to StoryMash and haven't been getting any reviews. I've always been a closet writer and I feel I should at least try and put some things out there for the world to read. Hope you guys like it, if you do, comment, if you don't.... well keep it to yourself. Thanks! :)

Submitted: October 31, 2015

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Submitted: October 31, 2015

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The reflection of her face looked back at her as she looked out the car window into the shimmering water. The freckles were gone, her pale blonde hair looked white, and her green eyes were emeralds in the frothy ponds green water.

She opens the door, and steps out, placing one foot on the soggy grass. Her heel digs deep into the mossy marsh causing her to teeter as she stepped from the metallic door way. She leaned and placed one knee on the ground staining her cleated suit pants. The reflection stared at her, those eyes keeping in constant connection. A finger, nail polish in the color of light pink reached out and the perfectly manicured finger dipped into the water. Waves curled around her slim pointer finger, then dispersed, running from her as fast as they could. They carried out farther and farther until they were too tiny to see, and they slowly disappeared. They had momentarily blocked the reflection and she had lost sight of those eyes, but they were shimmering back as the waves fled in seek of existence.

Who is that? Is that me? What have they done to me?

These are the questions that race through my head as I look at myself, except that’s not me. I mean it is me, but, it’s not, deep down, I know it’s not.

“Are you ready?”

Am I ready? To do what she brought me out here to do? But what did she want me to do? “Yeah.”

The reflection disappeared as I turned around, and that's when I saw her face peeking at me from behind the cars large frame. It’s a hollow smile on the face of a woman who was once beautiful, but long since had lost that beauty. She smiled a lot, and her face got tired of pushing back, sagging until smiling was just second nature for it. You can see them, the age, though this woman has tried to hide it. Her creased forehead is pushed out with enough botox to kill a rabid dog and that sad clown smile is purely a work of fiction done by a sculptor with a medical degree and the keys to a ferrari.

This woman is my mother. My mother, what a term, what a distinct and simplistic term. Mother, mom, ma, any colloquial term for caregiver. Mother, no not a mother, a woman, a person who sleeps in a bedroom not locked to me, not locked to what she held dear enough to allow in her house. That’s what they all are, people who feel comfortable allowing me to sleep in an unlocked bedroom, in the same house as their unlocked bedrooms. I’m simply someone who lives in their house, eats their food, sits next to them on the couch, watches the same reality t.v shows. I am just a person who appears in family vacation pictures. That’s all I am, all I will ever be, a person in their world, that they trust not to kill them in their sleep.

“This way, babe.” She winks at me, her eye twitching closed and then open. I hate when she calls me that.

She is a nice woman, very high paternal levels, kind, inclusive, funny at times, and warm. But a woman, and not a mom; not my mom.

“I’m coming.”

 


© Copyright 2020 RhetButler. All rights reserved.

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