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I've been in a Darrow a year.
Just like that.
I wouldn't believe it if not for the date on every calendar I've checked today, every email sent my way. Part of me is proud of the fact that I've made it this long in this strange yet beautiful place. Part of me is terrified that it's been so long since everything changed. I still don't know if it changed for the better, I'm not sure there is such thing as change for the better – I'm starting to think there's just change and you can accept it or live in denial.
Today, I'm done living in denial.
I'd read about the Mailbox to Somewhere Else some time ago. I'd thought about who I might want to write to. My mother, maybe, or a friend from back on Earth. I like to think that I'd reached a point of closure with them though. I like to think that I left them on good terms even if they didn't all agree with what I was doing.
At least they accepted my right to.
Somebody didn't. A person on my mind almost every minute of every hour of every day, even when I try to push him away. How do you forget the person who woke you up to an indescribably lonely fate? Somebody who decided they knew you well enough to mess up your life forever? How do you forgive that person?
I've given it a lot of thinking.
And I've come to realize that there's no forgiveness for them. There's no forgiveness for Jim. He might as well have murdered me when he hacked into my hibernation pod. He kept a lie from me for an entire year I was awake – a different kind of anniversary but a significant one all the same. His intentions might not have been cruel but his actions were irrevocably so.
I've decided to forgive him anyway, because it's exhausting carrying around this anger. This grief. I can't say there won't be days when I don't feel the ache of missing him and anger at myself for feeling that way. I can't guarantee anything, only that the moment I drop this letter into this box to elsewhere, I will no longer be beholden to Jim Preston.
When I find myself faced with the colourful box, though, I can't help but hesitate for a moment or maybe it's a minute. I don't think this will ever find him, but I imagine his face as he reads the words. The anguish. The regret. Everything he would have felt when I drunkenly told him that I never, ever would have loved him.
I still wonder sometimes if I did.
It doesn't matter any more. I drop the letter and turn away to walk back through the park, not realizing I'm crying until the salt of tears reach my mouth.
Just like that.
I wouldn't believe it if not for the date on every calendar I've checked today, every email sent my way. Part of me is proud of the fact that I've made it this long in this strange yet beautiful place. Part of me is terrified that it's been so long since everything changed. I still don't know if it changed for the better, I'm not sure there is such thing as change for the better – I'm starting to think there's just change and you can accept it or live in denial.
Today, I'm done living in denial.
I'd read about the Mailbox to Somewhere Else some time ago. I'd thought about who I might want to write to. My mother, maybe, or a friend from back on Earth. I like to think that I'd reached a point of closure with them though. I like to think that I left them on good terms even if they didn't all agree with what I was doing.
At least they accepted my right to.
Somebody didn't. A person on my mind almost every minute of every hour of every day, even when I try to push him away. How do you forget the person who woke you up to an indescribably lonely fate? Somebody who decided they knew you well enough to mess up your life forever? How do you forgive that person?
I've given it a lot of thinking.
And I've come to realize that there's no forgiveness for them. There's no forgiveness for Jim. He might as well have murdered me when he hacked into my hibernation pod. He kept a lie from me for an entire year I was awake – a different kind of anniversary but a significant one all the same. His intentions might not have been cruel but his actions were irrevocably so.
I've decided to forgive him anyway, because it's exhausting carrying around this anger. This grief. I can't say there won't be days when I don't feel the ache of missing him and anger at myself for feeling that way. I can't guarantee anything, only that the moment I drop this letter into this box to elsewhere, I will no longer be beholden to Jim Preston.
When I find myself faced with the colourful box, though, I can't help but hesitate for a moment or maybe it's a minute. I don't think this will ever find him, but I imagine his face as he reads the words. The anguish. The regret. Everything he would have felt when I drunkenly told him that I never, ever would have loved him.
I still wonder sometimes if I did.
It doesn't matter any more. I drop the letter and turn away to walk back through the park, not realizing I'm crying until the salt of tears reach my mouth.
[For Buffy]
Mar. 6th, 2018 08:18 pmI don't know why I don't come to the mall more often. I love shopping, I always have. It's not even about coming home with something in a bag. Sometimes I just look and wind my way through the aisles without real purpose.
Of course, it might be the amount of people who tend to hang around such places. Especially after school, it seems like there's nowhere that teenagers would rather be and they're as purposeless as me in the presence, sitting on benches and laughing more at their phones than at each other.
It's a little overwhelming, even seeing people have fun. Though I've been in Darrow close to a year now I still find myself caught off guard by crowds, longing for the silence and space that came with being all-but-alone on the Avalon. I'd never really want to go back but there are still days that are harder than others when it comes to adjusting to Darrow's population.
I find my way into a bookstore at first just for the quiet but then I spend more than a half hour perusing the shelves, reading poetry, and wondering whether my name will ever be on the cover of a book in this city or if my legacy ended when I wound up in the strange saviour of a place.
Of course, it might be the amount of people who tend to hang around such places. Especially after school, it seems like there's nowhere that teenagers would rather be and they're as purposeless as me in the presence, sitting on benches and laughing more at their phones than at each other.
It's a little overwhelming, even seeing people have fun. Though I've been in Darrow close to a year now I still find myself caught off guard by crowds, longing for the silence and space that came with being all-but-alone on the Avalon. I'd never really want to go back but there are still days that are harder than others when it comes to adjusting to Darrow's population.
I find my way into a bookstore at first just for the quiet but then I spend more than a half hour perusing the shelves, reading poetry, and wondering whether my name will ever be on the cover of a book in this city or if my legacy ended when I wound up in the strange saviour of a place.
wear your heart on your skin in this life
Feb. 18th, 2018 07:00 pmI can't stop looking at my arm, which is a strange kind of vanity given that it's my body but not my art.
I'd told the artist the general idea of what I wanted, an illustration of Earth to anyone else but to me a representation of all I'd left behind, all the places my father and I had been and all the things I'll never again see. It's odd that the design came so easily to me, more easily than the placement on the inside of my arm – impossibly delicate and yet permanent.
I love it, and I love Tris for coming with me. Though I'd watched in wonder while the artist put the permanent art onto my skin, it had helped to have someone to talk to and someone who knew what I was going through. And it had hurt, maybe as much but in a different way than I expected. A scratching instead of a stabbing that did strange, wonderful things to my adrenalin.
There's clear wrap around it right now and I'm anxious for time to pass so I can see my tattoo better, as if I don't have a lifetime to look at it forever. I never thought I'd be someone who would wound up tattooed but, well, I've never been any good at commitment... except for the type that's forced on me, apparently.
Maybe that's what this is about. This is my choice, a decision I've made for myself. So much of my life has been out of control ever since I awoke on the Avalon. Jim, Darrow – trying to figure out where my writing fits in here. Where I fit in here.
Lifting my gaze from my arm I'm so caught in my own world, smiling, that I don't realize someone's spoken to me until I see the expectant look on their face. I can't help but grin more broadly in turn. "I'm sorry," I say. "What did you say?"
[Find Aurora with a tattoo similar to the one linked above, wrapped in plastic, somewhere around Stick 'em Ink. She's happy. I can't find a specific tattoo I like better but you get the idea.]
I'd told the artist the general idea of what I wanted, an illustration of Earth to anyone else but to me a representation of all I'd left behind, all the places my father and I had been and all the things I'll never again see. It's odd that the design came so easily to me, more easily than the placement on the inside of my arm – impossibly delicate and yet permanent.
I love it, and I love Tris for coming with me. Though I'd watched in wonder while the artist put the permanent art onto my skin, it had helped to have someone to talk to and someone who knew what I was going through. And it had hurt, maybe as much but in a different way than I expected. A scratching instead of a stabbing that did strange, wonderful things to my adrenalin.
There's clear wrap around it right now and I'm anxious for time to pass so I can see my tattoo better, as if I don't have a lifetime to look at it forever. I never thought I'd be someone who would wound up tattooed but, well, I've never been any good at commitment... except for the type that's forced on me, apparently.
Maybe that's what this is about. This is my choice, a decision I've made for myself. So much of my life has been out of control ever since I awoke on the Avalon. Jim, Darrow – trying to figure out where my writing fits in here. Where I fit in here.
Lifting my gaze from my arm I'm so caught in my own world, smiling, that I don't realize someone's spoken to me until I see the expectant look on their face. I can't help but grin more broadly in turn. "I'm sorry," I say. "What did you say?"
[Find Aurora with a tattoo similar to the one linked above, wrapped in plastic, somewhere around Stick 'em Ink. She's happy. I can't find a specific tattoo I like better but you get the idea.]
Part of me wonders if I have a right to be sad at all. Hawkeye were friends, sure, and we slept together often – but we weren't in a relationship. He saved my life and I showed him the stars from the Avalon. We danced. We laughed. We had too much to drink. We spent hours comparing stories from our worlds, everything I had that he didn't and vice versa.
And now he's gone.
I know that people come to and go from Darrow without word or warning. I guess I'm lucky that this was that kind of disappearance and not one of the disappearances caused by the Purge. I know that if he's gone anywhere, it's likely home, and I hope that it's to Crabapple Cove instead of Korea. I hope that wherever he is, he's happy. I hope that he remembers me in some small way – even if it seems an impossibility.
All of this is an impossibility. I should let myself believe what I want to believe and hope what I need to hope.
All I want to do when I find out he's gone, though, is get drunk. I'm sure he'd approve although my poison is a mixture of cosmopolitans and old fashioneds instead of his favored martini. I don't think I can drink a martini just yet. Without him at my side, it just wouldn't feel right. Not that any of this is right. Hawkeye might not have been the most prolific texter but as I fiddle with my phone, all I want to do is send him a message, offering a drink or company or maybe just my body.
I turn my phone over and then off. Whatever I sent would be met with a message about that number being dead, just like if I were to go to his apartment it would be empty of everything he brought and bought here. I don't dare to go there. Not yet, at least. I always say I won't do a thing and then go on and do it anyway. I said I wouldn't keep the model Jim made me.
Well, it's in my living room.
I order a water so that my brain doesn't go fuzzy too soon. I expect to feel better for the alcohol in me but, well, it never could save Jim from his sadness, could it? I still feel sad – I imagine a handful of the other people occupying this bar are here for the same reason. I want to ask them about their sadness but I don't think I'd be able to bear it on top of my own. Instead I just sip my water and glance around, too tired to think like a writer – like my dad always demanded – and instead simply feel like a person who feels broken inside.
I won't say my heart is broken, this time. I won't let another man have that kind of power.
And now he's gone.
I know that people come to and go from Darrow without word or warning. I guess I'm lucky that this was that kind of disappearance and not one of the disappearances caused by the Purge. I know that if he's gone anywhere, it's likely home, and I hope that it's to Crabapple Cove instead of Korea. I hope that wherever he is, he's happy. I hope that he remembers me in some small way – even if it seems an impossibility.
All of this is an impossibility. I should let myself believe what I want to believe and hope what I need to hope.
All I want to do when I find out he's gone, though, is get drunk. I'm sure he'd approve although my poison is a mixture of cosmopolitans and old fashioneds instead of his favored martini. I don't think I can drink a martini just yet. Without him at my side, it just wouldn't feel right. Not that any of this is right. Hawkeye might not have been the most prolific texter but as I fiddle with my phone, all I want to do is send him a message, offering a drink or company or maybe just my body.
I turn my phone over and then off. Whatever I sent would be met with a message about that number being dead, just like if I were to go to his apartment it would be empty of everything he brought and bought here. I don't dare to go there. Not yet, at least. I always say I won't do a thing and then go on and do it anyway. I said I wouldn't keep the model Jim made me.
Well, it's in my living room.
I order a water so that my brain doesn't go fuzzy too soon. I expect to feel better for the alcohol in me but, well, it never could save Jim from his sadness, could it? I still feel sad – I imagine a handful of the other people occupying this bar are here for the same reason. I want to ask them about their sadness but I don't think I'd be able to bear it on top of my own. Instead I just sip my water and glance around, too tired to think like a writer – like my dad always demanded – and instead simply feel like a person who feels broken inside.
I won't say my heart is broken, this time. I won't let another man have that kind of power.
we'll never sleep (god knows we'll try)
Nov. 21st, 2017 05:14 pmI can't remember how many extra shots of espresso I ordered in my coffee today, I only know that it isn't quite enough to keep my eyelids from drooping as I sit at a table and alternate between reading the newspaper someone's left behind and typing notes on my computer. To an outsider, it might look like I'm being productive but really, all I have is nonsense.
Because all I can think is nonsense. The 'Purge', as they called it, was nonsense. Darrow is nonsense. There's no logic to be found in the fact that people agreed to a night without consequences. A night that, according to this paper, had all kinds of terrible consequences. Death. Theft. Utter devastation.
I'd hidden throughout the night in my apartment and guilt still gnaws at me when I think about it. Hawkeye had gone into the hospital and worked without question. I don't know what I could have contributed, though. It seems too soon to write about it even now, several days after the fact. Maybe that's why I can't make the words work. Maybe I never will or maybe it's just a matter of time. There's no way of knowing now.
As a result I feel restless. I'm sure the caffeine isn't helping even if it's not doing much to keep me awake. I yawn before I can stop myself then dart my eyes back to the paper. To another obituary. When I was young, it was a morbid fascination of mine – searching through the listings and speculating on the lives that each deceased had lived.
Now, though, I can't bear to read on and quickly turn the page.
Because all I can think is nonsense. The 'Purge', as they called it, was nonsense. Darrow is nonsense. There's no logic to be found in the fact that people agreed to a night without consequences. A night that, according to this paper, had all kinds of terrible consequences. Death. Theft. Utter devastation.
I'd hidden throughout the night in my apartment and guilt still gnaws at me when I think about it. Hawkeye had gone into the hospital and worked without question. I don't know what I could have contributed, though. It seems too soon to write about it even now, several days after the fact. Maybe that's why I can't make the words work. Maybe I never will or maybe it's just a matter of time. There's no way of knowing now.
As a result I feel restless. I'm sure the caffeine isn't helping even if it's not doing much to keep me awake. I yawn before I can stop myself then dart my eyes back to the paper. To another obituary. When I was young, it was a morbid fascination of mine – searching through the listings and speculating on the lives that each deceased had lived.
Now, though, I can't bear to read on and quickly turn the page.
[November]
Nov. 7th, 2017 08:48 pmHawkeye had been one of the first people I messaged when the chaos started, and then again when it ended – although I'm not sure it has, yet. It's been a handful of days but people are still recovering and recuperating, and some people simply aren't ever coming back again. When the Purge was announced, I'd known there would be casualties.
I just hadn't quite grasped the reality. Like a lot of things in Darrow, it had been easy to feel detached from until it happened. I'd started writing about it beforehand and come up with nothing. Now I'm still struggling to come up with anything. It feels too soon. It feels too close. People have lost loved ones, people are nursing injuries they'll carry with them for the rest of their lives. And Hawkeye is carrying the memories of a bloody nightmare that I was privileged enough to stay away from.
I'm worried about him, even though I know this is something he's used to. He'd been a surgeon in a war, and a surgeon in general before that, so he's used to the blood and the fear and the chaos. The Purge and the war surely have something in common, the systematic destruction of human beings for a political agenda. The victims – both dead and surviving.
My immediate want is to go straight to him when I know he's back, but I know it's not my place and it's not the time. He needs space. Sleep. Time. I think we all do. After a few days, though, I send through a message and agree to meet up at his place. I feel almost sick as I make my way over, wondering what to say – if there's anything. Wondering if I should bring something. But there's nothing, and when he opens his door to me I'm at a loss except for three words. "I'm so sorry."
I just hadn't quite grasped the reality. Like a lot of things in Darrow, it had been easy to feel detached from until it happened. I'd started writing about it beforehand and come up with nothing. Now I'm still struggling to come up with anything. It feels too soon. It feels too close. People have lost loved ones, people are nursing injuries they'll carry with them for the rest of their lives. And Hawkeye is carrying the memories of a bloody nightmare that I was privileged enough to stay away from.
I'm worried about him, even though I know this is something he's used to. He'd been a surgeon in a war, and a surgeon in general before that, so he's used to the blood and the fear and the chaos. The Purge and the war surely have something in common, the systematic destruction of human beings for a political agenda. The victims – both dead and surviving.
My immediate want is to go straight to him when I know he's back, but I know it's not my place and it's not the time. He needs space. Sleep. Time. I think we all do. After a few days, though, I send through a message and agree to meet up at his place. I feel almost sick as I make my way over, wondering what to say – if there's anything. Wondering if I should bring something. But there's nothing, and when he opens his door to me I'm at a loss except for three words. "I'm so sorry."
I know before I even open my eyes. There's the overwhelming nausea, like awakening from anaesthesia which I guess this isn't too far removed from.
I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want for this to be happening again. Two times in less than two years that I've been forced into a reality I wasn't prepared for, never to reach my intended destination. Once, it was a man's fault. The other, I'm still trying to figure out. Or I was. I know I'm not in Darrow anymore, the hard back of my pod enough to bring me back to the moment I thought we were only four months away from Homestead II.
When I do open my eyes, the light is almost blinding. I'm reaching to cover them as a voice asks me how I'm feeling, tells it's normal to feel confused. I don't think she has the slightest clue. I'm told, then, that I've just spent 120 years in suspended animation and I almost want to laugh but then my hands cover my mouth instead and I try not to cry. I don't know what I've done to deserve this, and I'm scared to move and see if Jim is going to be waiting somewhere, pretending that he had no part in it.
The propaganda spiel never comes, though, and instead the voice falls silent as the pod's door opens. There's no mention of my cabin. There's no warning of the side effects of travel sickness. I stand on my own and look around, unsurprised to see no one but me seems to be awake. I'm surprised, though, to realize I don't struggle to walk like I did the first time. I don't know how long I've been asleep. Just moments ago I thought I was in bed in Darrow.
Something's gone wrong all over again and I don't even seem to have a second-rate mechanic with a guilt complex to help me this time.
I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want for this to be happening again. Two times in less than two years that I've been forced into a reality I wasn't prepared for, never to reach my intended destination. Once, it was a man's fault. The other, I'm still trying to figure out. Or I was. I know I'm not in Darrow anymore, the hard back of my pod enough to bring me back to the moment I thought we were only four months away from Homestead II.
When I do open my eyes, the light is almost blinding. I'm reaching to cover them as a voice asks me how I'm feeling, tells it's normal to feel confused. I don't think she has the slightest clue. I'm told, then, that I've just spent 120 years in suspended animation and I almost want to laugh but then my hands cover my mouth instead and I try not to cry. I don't know what I've done to deserve this, and I'm scared to move and see if Jim is going to be waiting somewhere, pretending that he had no part in it.
The propaganda spiel never comes, though, and instead the voice falls silent as the pod's door opens. There's no mention of my cabin. There's no warning of the side effects of travel sickness. I stand on my own and look around, unsurprised to see no one but me seems to be awake. I'm surprised, though, to realize I don't struggle to walk like I did the first time. I don't know how long I've been asleep. Just moments ago I thought I was in bed in Darrow.
Something's gone wrong all over again and I don't even seem to have a second-rate mechanic with a guilt complex to help me this time.
I wind up carrying the stupid thing home.
The biggest part of me had wanted to leave it behind, give it the same regard as what Jim had for my life, but I can't bring myself to. Even if he made it, it's the only piece I have of that part of my life – the part of my life before it all fell to pieces. After all, when I'd received it, I'd been elated. Flattered. It might have been the sweetest thing a person had ever done for me since I was a little girl and my father would dedicate books to me, thanking me for simply being me.
Now, it's not so sweet. I can see the parts of the metal that are still jagged, that could cut me if I wasn't careful. I should have looked more closely to begin with. Instead I live in hindsight, focusing on all the places things went wrong. I still can't decide if it began when I met Jim or if it began when I agreed to cross the stars aboard the Avalon.
I could have lived out my life with my mother, my friends, on an overcrowded Earth. I could have fallen in love with someone there. Instead, somehow, I'm here. And somehow still reminded of what I've left behind – up in the sky.
I barely remember the trip home by the time I arrive. I feel like I'm in the same fog I'd been in when I awoke from my thirty-year-sleep. I can't figure out if I'm angry or sad. Or both. I can't tell if the grief I feel is for Jim or for myself. I find myself wishing that love were less complex. That it were easier to dive into indifference, as easy as I dive into the pool. I wish that I could swim away my grief. Or run. God knows I tried on the ship. I've tried here, too, immersing myself in Darrow's lack of history and practically begging for jobs. Fucking Hawkeye. Talking to strangers.
But my mind floats back to Jim and I'm doing myself no favors at all by carrying his work up to my apartment, setting it across the room on my vanity. The setting sun hits it and the glare hurts my eyes until I shift to sit on my bed, staring at it. I can't count how many hours I looked up at the Chrysler Building as I wrote. It's a monument to New York, the first and maybe only city I ever loved. A city I'll never see again (except when I let myself pretend.)
I start to cry. In the park, I hadn't had a chance to really let myself go. To give in to the grief. Help was there too soon. That's the thing about Darrow. There's always somewhere there for you. But right now, all I need is myself and more than just a moment to reflect on the reality of what's happening. I'd convinced myself that in leaving Jim behind, I'd left my feelings for Jim behind, but of course it doesn't work that way.
Just like you can't cross the stars and expect to find happiness on the other side – if you even manage to get there in the first place.
After a while I feel my legs starting to grow heavy with exhaustion and I force myself to turn away from the model. Curling up on my side, I shut my eyes, pushing away a want for someone else to be there. I keep my eyes closed and just for a few minutes I imagine I'm in my hibernation pod, awaiting a sleep that will carry me into the future and away from the hurt.
The biggest part of me had wanted to leave it behind, give it the same regard as what Jim had for my life, but I can't bring myself to. Even if he made it, it's the only piece I have of that part of my life – the part of my life before it all fell to pieces. After all, when I'd received it, I'd been elated. Flattered. It might have been the sweetest thing a person had ever done for me since I was a little girl and my father would dedicate books to me, thanking me for simply being me.
Now, it's not so sweet. I can see the parts of the metal that are still jagged, that could cut me if I wasn't careful. I should have looked more closely to begin with. Instead I live in hindsight, focusing on all the places things went wrong. I still can't decide if it began when I met Jim or if it began when I agreed to cross the stars aboard the Avalon.
I could have lived out my life with my mother, my friends, on an overcrowded Earth. I could have fallen in love with someone there. Instead, somehow, I'm here. And somehow still reminded of what I've left behind – up in the sky.
I barely remember the trip home by the time I arrive. I feel like I'm in the same fog I'd been in when I awoke from my thirty-year-sleep. I can't figure out if I'm angry or sad. Or both. I can't tell if the grief I feel is for Jim or for myself. I find myself wishing that love were less complex. That it were easier to dive into indifference, as easy as I dive into the pool. I wish that I could swim away my grief. Or run. God knows I tried on the ship. I've tried here, too, immersing myself in Darrow's lack of history and practically begging for jobs. Fucking Hawkeye. Talking to strangers.
But my mind floats back to Jim and I'm doing myself no favors at all by carrying his work up to my apartment, setting it across the room on my vanity. The setting sun hits it and the glare hurts my eyes until I shift to sit on my bed, staring at it. I can't count how many hours I looked up at the Chrysler Building as I wrote. It's a monument to New York, the first and maybe only city I ever loved. A city I'll never see again (except when I let myself pretend.)
I start to cry. In the park, I hadn't had a chance to really let myself go. To give in to the grief. Help was there too soon. That's the thing about Darrow. There's always somewhere there for you. But right now, all I need is myself and more than just a moment to reflect on the reality of what's happening. I'd convinced myself that in leaving Jim behind, I'd left my feelings for Jim behind, but of course it doesn't work that way.
Just like you can't cross the stars and expect to find happiness on the other side – if you even manage to get there in the first place.
After a while I feel my legs starting to grow heavy with exhaustion and I force myself to turn away from the model. Curling up on my side, I shut my eyes, pushing away a want for someone else to be there. I keep my eyes closed and just for a few minutes I imagine I'm in my hibernation pod, awaiting a sleep that will carry me into the future and away from the hurt.
(no subject)
Jun. 1st, 2017 08:05 pmThis isn't the story I thought I'd be writing, but maybe it's not as different as I'd first thought.
Darrow's new arrivals haven't necessarily chosen to start over, to begin a new life, but the outcome is more or less the same. They've been thrust into a new world and they've had even less preparation than we'd had for Homestead II. I have to remind myself of that when I think of Jim, when I think of life on the Avalon and I get mad. I had made the choice to get into that hibernation pod. I had chosen change.
It just turned out that change looked nothing like I'd told myself it would.
Ever since I last closed my eyes on Earth, nothing has. But there's also nothing I can do about that. And it's not like Darrow hasn't granted me some good. I've met incredible people. I've been given a chance to reinvent myself as a writer.
To be Aurora and not a ghost of my father.
It's not until one day I'm into my thirteenth lap of my gym's pool, writing paragraphs in my head that I'm sure to forget, that I realize how the hell I'm going to go about that.
Whatever I have with Hawkeye is casual and natural and I'm in no rush to change that, but he's still the first person I rush to with my epiphany. I'm damp from the pool, hair stringy with chlorine, when I find him not far from his apartment. He's certainly seen me looking worse.
"A book," I tell him before he can say anything. "About... everybody here. That's what I'm going to write."
Darrow's new arrivals haven't necessarily chosen to start over, to begin a new life, but the outcome is more or less the same. They've been thrust into a new world and they've had even less preparation than we'd had for Homestead II. I have to remind myself of that when I think of Jim, when I think of life on the Avalon and I get mad. I had made the choice to get into that hibernation pod. I had chosen change.
It just turned out that change looked nothing like I'd told myself it would.
Ever since I last closed my eyes on Earth, nothing has. But there's also nothing I can do about that. And it's not like Darrow hasn't granted me some good. I've met incredible people. I've been given a chance to reinvent myself as a writer.
To be Aurora and not a ghost of my father.
It's not until one day I'm into my thirteenth lap of my gym's pool, writing paragraphs in my head that I'm sure to forget, that I realize how the hell I'm going to go about that.
Whatever I have with Hawkeye is casual and natural and I'm in no rush to change that, but he's still the first person I rush to with my epiphany. I'm damp from the pool, hair stringy with chlorine, when I find him not far from his apartment. He's certainly seen me looking worse.
"A book," I tell him before he can say anything. "About... everybody here. That's what I'm going to write."
slowly breaking through the daylight
Apr. 26th, 2017 10:03 pmIt's my birthday apparently.
It's hard to treat it as such when I've only just arrived and it wasn't April according to the calendar on the Avalon. The last birthday I'd celebrated hadn't really been a birthday, either, but instead a celebration of my awakening on the ship which turned out to be anything but worth celebrating. It's hard not to think about that day today and how if Arthur hadn't let it slip, I could have spent a lifetime believing what happened to Jim and I was fate.
I don't know how I feel about fate and I don't know how I feel about birthdays. I don't feel any older and I certainly don't feel any wiser. At least I feel stronger. My hands have all but healed and the pain in my arm is gone. Soon, I think I'll start running. I've only bought a few supplies so far, some shirts and dresses. I still need something for exercise.
And a bathing suit.
Maybe I'll treat myself to that today – even if it's an arbitrary date and I don't know how much impact it has on my biological age.
I'm thinking just that, about treating myself, when I pass a bakery and spot a cupcake. In my head, I can hear the robots singing.
Happy Birthday, dear Aurora...
I shake my head as if I can shake the memory away with it and go in.
[Dated 27/4, find her shopping, at the bakery or just eating a cupcake. Open.]
It's hard to treat it as such when I've only just arrived and it wasn't April according to the calendar on the Avalon. The last birthday I'd celebrated hadn't really been a birthday, either, but instead a celebration of my awakening on the ship which turned out to be anything but worth celebrating. It's hard not to think about that day today and how if Arthur hadn't let it slip, I could have spent a lifetime believing what happened to Jim and I was fate.
I don't know how I feel about fate and I don't know how I feel about birthdays. I don't feel any older and I certainly don't feel any wiser. At least I feel stronger. My hands have all but healed and the pain in my arm is gone. Soon, I think I'll start running. I've only bought a few supplies so far, some shirts and dresses. I still need something for exercise.
And a bathing suit.
Maybe I'll treat myself to that today – even if it's an arbitrary date and I don't know how much impact it has on my biological age.
I'm thinking just that, about treating myself, when I pass a bakery and spot a cupcake. In my head, I can hear the robots singing.
Happy Birthday, dear Aurora...
I shake my head as if I can shake the memory away with it and go in.
[Dated 27/4, find her shopping, at the bakery or just eating a cupcake. Open.]
I can't figure out what the hell I'm doing in this place. I ask so many questions but wind up back where I've started, my arrival here not any one person's fault like my awakening on the Avalon but rather something magical, mysterious.
I could spend my whole life here trying to figure out why I'm here, but I know there has to be more than that. At least, that's the conclusion I reached when I was on the ship and I don't see why it should be any different now.
So I start swimming again, and then running. I run until my chest hurts and I swim until my arms go weak. I wake up early for sunrises because it's been so long since I've seen them from an Earth-like sky. I drink coffee. I try to write.
But I don't know what to write about. When I thought I'd never meet another person again, I started to write about myself. My life and my struggle. My fury. Here, it's not so easy. There are so many other things, so many other people and they've all led much more meaningful lives. I want to write about them but I don't know where or how to start.
Nobody knows who Aurora Lane is here. Nobody's heard of my father. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I get to start again – and wasn't that the idea of going to Homestead II, anyway?
There are a few publishers in town that I put in calls with and hear nothing from. That's nothing new. Writing is rejection, over and over again. If I gave up every time someone didn't want to read my writing or put it out there for the masses, well.
I wouldn't have been writing for the New Yorker.
I decide on a new approach. Face to face. It's still overwhelming conversing with so many people and being surrounded by the chaos of crowds, but it's getting easier. I make my way to a local newspaper with my resume in hand though it hasn't gotten me very far, speaking briefly with a receptionist who says she can't guarantee a meeting but she'll see what she can do.
I find a seat and wait. That's one thing I've gotten good at.
I could spend my whole life here trying to figure out why I'm here, but I know there has to be more than that. At least, that's the conclusion I reached when I was on the ship and I don't see why it should be any different now.
So I start swimming again, and then running. I run until my chest hurts and I swim until my arms go weak. I wake up early for sunrises because it's been so long since I've seen them from an Earth-like sky. I drink coffee. I try to write.
But I don't know what to write about. When I thought I'd never meet another person again, I started to write about myself. My life and my struggle. My fury. Here, it's not so easy. There are so many other things, so many other people and they've all led much more meaningful lives. I want to write about them but I don't know where or how to start.
Nobody knows who Aurora Lane is here. Nobody's heard of my father. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I get to start again – and wasn't that the idea of going to Homestead II, anyway?
There are a few publishers in town that I put in calls with and hear nothing from. That's nothing new. Writing is rejection, over and over again. If I gave up every time someone didn't want to read my writing or put it out there for the masses, well.
I wouldn't have been writing for the New Yorker.
I decide on a new approach. Face to face. It's still overwhelming conversing with so many people and being surrounded by the chaos of crowds, but it's getting easier. I make my way to a local newspaper with my resume in hand though it hasn't gotten me very far, speaking briefly with a receptionist who says she can't guarantee a meeting but she'll see what she can do.
I find a seat and wait. That's one thing I've gotten good at.
hell of a life
Apr. 12th, 2017 09:07 pmThe heat should be overwhelming but I can't feel anything. Jim's gone, shot out into space and I've just pulled the trigger. I shouldn't feel guilt, I know, given that he'd all but sealed my fate when he woke me up. I should hold onto the anger that's been inside me for months, let it stop the sadness that's sure to come.
But I can't.
Maybe that makes me weak. Maybe that's all I've ever been and I'll ever be. But the one person I held dear for over a year has disappeared into the darkness of the sky, and I don't know how to get to him.
I say his name over and over, and he doesn't respond. I don't even know if he's alive. All I know is that I was the one that did this, that I should have searched for another solution. I close my eyes, grit my teeth. I shouldn't have opened the vent. I shouldn't have—
"Aurora?"
My eyes open and widen, and I search for the source of the voice. He's out there, somewhere, he's still alive. I can fix this, I—
I have no idea where I am. There's no metal beneath my feet. It's ground. Earth. Grass. I gasp. I haven't felt grass in over a year. Longer, maybe. I think of the rose Jim brought me and that's what makes me try to stand up, start looking for him.
But I forget for a moment about the wound in my arm and when I try to push myself up with it, I scream. The pain's so intense that for a moment my vision goes dark again and I can feel hot tears filling my eyes under their lids.
I inhale sharply and realize it's cold, here. I think for the second time in my life I'm waking up where I can't possibly be.
But I can't.
Maybe that makes me weak. Maybe that's all I've ever been and I'll ever be. But the one person I held dear for over a year has disappeared into the darkness of the sky, and I don't know how to get to him.
I say his name over and over, and he doesn't respond. I don't even know if he's alive. All I know is that I was the one that did this, that I should have searched for another solution. I close my eyes, grit my teeth. I shouldn't have opened the vent. I shouldn't have—
"Aurora?"
My eyes open and widen, and I search for the source of the voice. He's out there, somewhere, he's still alive. I can fix this, I—
I have no idea where I am. There's no metal beneath my feet. It's ground. Earth. Grass. I gasp. I haven't felt grass in over a year. Longer, maybe. I think of the rose Jim brought me and that's what makes me try to stand up, start looking for him.
But I forget for a moment about the wound in my arm and when I try to push myself up with it, I scream. The pain's so intense that for a moment my vision goes dark again and I can feel hot tears filling my eyes under their lids.
I inhale sharply and realize it's cold, here. I think for the second time in my life I'm waking up where I can't possibly be.
