Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The thing that journalists fail to understand is most of the time it’s not you who finds a story, it’s the story that finds you. I had got in my car and went in search of some facts to base my story on. From interviewing the street boy who was apparently more ill-mannered and naughty than Denis the Menace and conducting numerous interviews with inspirational community souls from church leaders to animal saviors, I realized that it was a rather daunting task being in search of a story or more so discovering a lead character for my story. One lazy afternoon while visiting a friend, a house on the street behind hers had caught on fire. Needless to say a story begin to write itself when the chocking smoke filled the humid air, when the red light on top of fire engines signaled danger and when the hoses washed away the flames in an attempt to salvage the remains of the already burnt out double-storey. That’s when I came to grips with the fact that my story would find me rather than me finding my perfect story and I was right.

Granny Marsha had excitedly called me up, mum had mentioned I was searching high and low for some story information and she was eager to help.

She was sending through letters she had found when she and granddad purchased their dream house about fifty years ago. According to grams Marsha the letters were tattered, torn and fading as if they existed for over hundred years before she had found it, from way back when their country was named after a flower.  I never knew much about the country Begonia and it barely featured in my history textbooks. Granny Marsha’s enthusiasm shone through her comforting voice but I was unsure as to what to expect. Initially the story of some lady who faced the brutality of the war that destroyed her country yet still managed to find love among the chaos didn’t stir up any interest. Yet I pretended for Granny’s sake to be overly enthused to avoid hurting her fragile heart.

The parcel arrived two weeks after my chat with granny Marsha. She had included a thorn-less pure white rose in the parcel. Gran Marsha included a note that read: Read your heart out, enjoy and let the past inspire you. Remember a rose without thorns never pricks, don’t hate the rose.

It was from grans’ note that I concluded my journalistic talents were inherited from mum’s side of the family more so from my grandmother as opposed to my mum who was a math’s wiz and found it queer that I was fascinated by words. It was in my final year of my schooling feat that I decided that I wanted to pursue a career as a journalist and even though my parents never understood why I would chose that career path they supported me anyway. At age eighteen I was accepted at university and begun my journalistic journey and I was already discovering how rewarding this journey would be. I got to write peoples stories for them, reveal their guilt in my stories and by simply using words I could prove their innocence.  My first story would have to be the one derived from the letters that Gran Marsha had so helpfully sent for me.

“Leah!” my friend Melanie had shouted out of her car window as her beetle’s engine jerked to life, “good luck with your ‘antique of a story’.” I gave her a cynical smile as her mocking eyes winked one last time before she sped out of our drive way. Melanie had always euphemistically mocked my chosen career. She saw me as being so much more than just a “writer”. However I was confident that when “Leah Clearwater” appeared as the byline on the much talked-about magazine and newspaper articles, everyone would understand why I had chose to be a journalist.

I had put off reading the letters for the entire weekend. I guess part of me was afraid the letters would not contain anything resembling what I was in search of. I trusted Granny Marsha but I did not always agree with her taste in many things and neither was her choice my cup of tea so trusting her taste for my first feature piece was risky business. However in the dark of the night when insomnia begun to win the midnight battle, I opened my eyes to the hope that the contents of those letters would be a solution to my writers’ block. I quieted my inner hesitant thoughts and reached for the switch on my bedside lamp. Its funny, when I can’t sleep reading often causes my eyelids to tinge after at most fifty words, allowing sleep to overcome even the most stubborn of insomnia. However this wasn’t the case tonight…

To whoever finds this…..

My life is slipping through my fingers like beach sand on a windy day. He let me live and I have no inclination as to why exactly he did that. I have reason to believe that a worst fate awaits me, the others were lucky to have escaped the torture quickly. I am imprisoned in a cell of fear, danger, anxiety and hopelessness. He should have ended my life with theirs; instead his locked me up in my own house. The four walls of our “safe” home is now a torturous prison filled with lifeless bodies and the nauseating stench of fresh blood. The memories of this house haunt me as the night engulfs our lightless house filling it with pure darkness. Tonight I will relive my fears of the darkness that I had courageously learnt to overcome.  My guiding light has been buried and tomorrow I will be buried too. Till I reach my end like the rest of my Begonian community I will write these letters that captures my memories better than any portrait ever can. When my end approaches at least my soul will rest easy knowing that someone will find this letter and know my story or at least some of it. You will understand my helplessness and empathize with my pain. We were innocent and we were victims but it’s rather rare that the victims end up triumphant. I won’t be triumphant in this battle, I have succumb to the torture without any willingness to put up a fight.

My name is Clarity Wintermoore and this is my story…

“Caution”, just a simple word but it meant a lot to me. I had always lived life cautiously. That was probably the reason why even though our community was so close knit, I only trusted and had one real friend.  Isa Adam had saved me from much darkness. He was the orphan son of my late aunt and uncle. Albeit he was years elder and wiser than me he understood me like no other. When I had reached the age of five my mum and dad realized I was getting “too long” to fit in their double bed. Needless to say I got shifted to my own bedroom. My bedroom was spacious yet cozy. It was painted an ice cream pink colour and had two French windows that opened out into our huge secret garden. A raw metallic silk curtain had eloquently covered my French windows. For two years after my departure from my parent’s room I suffered much torture and torment. Being alone in darkness frightened me. In the dead stillness of the night my idle mind would irritate the peace and quiet. My inner voice would stir up a ruckus in my head causing my made-up fears to eat away at my bravery. Even the shadows the trees would cast on walls would be made out to be monstrous figurines out to get me. My parents had said when I would yell due to fear in the middle of the night it would be such torturous screams that even the listener would begin to feel scared. When Isa had come to spend the summer with us to learn the art of gracious horse riding he had become the glow light I clang to during the torturous nights. He used to lay in bed with me holding my hand gently but firmly and make fun of all the things I found to be the scariest. He had made me laugh by insulting the tree monster and showing me that it looked more like a fluffy teddy bear than a monster. The ticking of the clock that became louder in the quietness of the night had initially scared me but Isa had reduced that frightful noise to the sound of the beating hearts of two lovers. Isa would hold my hand until I fell asleep and thereafter return to his own room. It was because of Isa that I was able to seal my eyes without any fear or any hesitation. By the time the wintery season had marked Isa’s departure, I didn’t need his hand anymore. I was brave. Isa stayed my closest companion as he had brought light into my life and he had eliminated the fear. As long as Isa was around my life was filled with light.

‘Caution’. My days of caution and cautious living were beginning to be numbered when I reached my eighteenth birthday two weeks ago. The summer rains that poured down on the day of my eighteenth birthday brought with it risk. The rain would wash away my childhood and my maturity would start to blossom just like the flowers in our garden had. Choosing to take the risk in itself was a sign of maturity. My engagement was set in stone three months before my eighteenth birthday. The eligible suitor, Nate Sliverstone was a few moths elder than me but was rather mature and responsible.  He was dad’s choice and he was selected for me because of dads close friendship and business relationship with his father. All it took for the arrangement for marriage was a trip to the farmers’ market. A small discussion of their children had inevitably led to a larger discussion of marriage between their children. Before the engagement I had never caught so much as a glimpse of the lad yet I had heard his praises from both my parents. In a short span of time they had grown so fond of him that he was talked about as their future son as opposed to their future son-in-law. I cannot say that I wasn’t expecting to be engaged when my life had just begun to reach its peak. In Begonia it was law for girls to wed as early as possible since it was just  better this way.  There were no memorable love stories or long term relationships just tales of brief moments of romantic eye contact and electrifying touches when engagement rings exchanged hands, it was for the best like this. I was glad dad had found a suitor for me, since I could never have found anyone better or brighter than Nathan. Besides parents’ choices and decisions ought to be respected. My parents choices had gotten me thus far and to rebel against their decisions would be unwise and to doubt their choices would be sinful.

Two days before my engagement a bright yellow butterfly had nestled on my shoulder. I believe the delicate, beautiful creature would bring me luck. When I narrated this incident to my mum she said that the butterfly symbolized my transition from a caterpillar to a butterfly. My mum and sister had seen the beauty in me that I had failed to see. Mum had often compared me to a porcelain doll because of my condense-milk creamish coloured skin, my cherry-red lips, my lengthy eyelashes and my hazelnut brown eyes. She had always said it was the simplicity of my beauty that had made me all the more appealing. I remembered her words, “The fact that you fail to see how beautiful you are makes you more beautiful.”  My sister Sapphire had been born with a huge birthmark that spread across her left cheek. Not many people became admirers of her because of it; people would often ridicule and mock her because of it. People like that were fickle; she was the most beautiful soul I had ever known. I wonder if my outer beauty was the reason he had chosen to keep me alive, to torture me more or even rape me….

My mind had flashed back to the day I realized I had actually become a lady- my engagement day. For my engagement, I had taken a bath in silky, smooth goat milk. Nana (our helper) had said that bathing in milk brings your inner beauty to the fore. As pure as milk that’s how pure we were. I remember how my silky red and white engagement dress hugged me in all the right places, accentuating my curvaceous body. I wore mum’s pendent that was encrusted with a ruby red stone right in the middle. I still remember how my teardrop diamond earrings added a sparkle to my eyes and brightened my face. Nana and Sapphire had told me that I had never looked more angelic. I remember the butterflies that had dwelled in my tummy that day and the nervousness I felt. I remember walking into the engagement hall at a snail’s pace trying desperately to catch a glimpse of my fiancée before I reached him. My hungry gaze had met the enthused gazes of Isa and Sapphire. I remember the glimmer in Sapphire’s eyes as she gave me her mischievous wink. Sapphires winks had always put me at ease. I so needed one of her winks right now. Flash backs of my engagement day reminds me of how I had blushed uncontrollably until I had reached Nathan who was perched against our table. Once I had reached Nathan, introductions were made. I remember the pride that filled dad’s voice when he introduced me to Nathan. When I had lifted my gaze which was initially fixed on Nathan’s well-polished black shoes, I remember I had blushed even more. Nathan was equally as fair as I was neither a shade paler nor a tone darker than me. He had emerald green eyes that weakened the knees and tugged at the heart strings. My heart had beated faster than ever. His lips were a thin line of pink glory and I knew no girl would ever forget the taste of them. I wish I could have felt them against mines just one more time before they had wiped him out of my life too. I recall blinking uncontrollably to capture the scene of Nathan-perfection that stood before me. Nathan was the perfect soul that would complete me and make me wholly perfect. The night of my engagement ended with a storm brewing outside. Dad had always said that a strong storm in one’s country was a sign that the Gods are vexed with the sins and ways of people of the country. “Thunder is God’s way of lashing out at us,” he had said.  Well a worst anger was outside our doors, the soldiers scarier than the thunder of that night.  Morning is approaching and I am uncertain as to what he will do to me. I will hide this letter in case he finds it and gets angry and does something worst than he had planned. If you find this, remember we were innocent and our innocence was violated.

I had finished reading and rereading that letter around two in the morning. Just then a flash of lightning had cut through my beige curtains and I wondered if the storm was a sign that change was coming to me too. What storm was she facing? How come there were so many letters if “HE” had done the unthinkable to her? These questions that her letter had failed to answer had baffled me and I wanted to know more. I picked up the next letter and goose bumps had filled my skin.