Hello all. I've began to write again after a while of not writing, partly due to lack of motivation and partly due to other issues taking precedence. Today I resolved to write an autobiographical piece. It's certainly not polished, and I am more than certainly rusty, but I'd like to show it to you to hear your thoughts. Without further ado, here is the first section of what I've got.
Una Mariposa
I’d first met what was to be the first and last of a dynasty in my 8th Grade first period English class. Esther had captivated me from the moment my eyes made the first contact to when my fingertips made the last. She was small in stature, standing at just under five feet tall. I was taller at the time, but also much heavier, partly due to athletics and partly due to sheer stupidity.
The first detail about her that struck me was her hair. It was draped about her head as a curtain of black silk, neatly combed each day. She carried herself with the mannerisms of a wounded deer. She limped; she would flee at the first sight of a predator on the same four legs. I was enthralled by the way she carried the burdens of her backpack and her conscience.
While I did feel a particular attraction to her, we only spoke briefly in passing. She was very quiet, but enthusiastic; she would begin to speak at such a pace that I pictured tiny engineers inside her skull throwing coal into a burner, shouting “Faster! We need more heat!”
From speaking with her I was able to discern that her parents were immigrants and her home life was not good. We bonded over our experiences of terrible parenting, as though it were some perverse common interest.
The next year, which was to be my Freshman year of high school, she reached out to me. We began to speak more regularly, and before I knew it, we would see each other regularly. These initial ‘dates’ were not particularly serious. We would find a suitable location and sit, preferably on the ground. We spoke of our lives. I used the opportunity to get to know her better. She opened the floodgates of her heart. She pulled out all the stitches holding it shut, and I stood directly in the path of the waves.
She was scarred tremendously, on her skin and her soul. Her memory was selective. She would choose to forget the details of traumatic experiences, but the one thing she never forgot was the pain. She would ask to be held, and I would oblige. I believe I have an innate ability to smell out the wounded, and in that moment, I’d found her and taken care of her. For a time, I was happy. We were happy. But she was to me a butterfly, captive in a jar. I could not set her free. I knew if I were to keep her, she would die. But I didn’t care about that, not then. All I cared about was the warmth between my arms with its head resting on my chest.
