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#Post#: 1123--------------------------------------------------
Stillborn Songs of a Dead Dreamer
By: NyxPsyche Date: August 17, 2012, 2:09 pm
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Sometimes the notes are quiet and old. a lilting melody of a
song long forgotten. Other times, it rages through my head and
spins and brings me to pain, and tears and loathing. I hate you
and all that you've done to me, but I can't bring myself to hurt
you again.
These are the accounts of my trials. I will do my best to
explain them, but the mind has a wonderful habit of blocking out
those things you would do well to forget.
My name is Abigail "Absinthe" Harding-Bellamy, but most people
these days just know me as Absinthe Bellamy. I was born February
19th, 1950, and I am 62 years old, but I don't look a day over
22. I have twisted red hair, brown eyes, and very pale skin.
The year I was born, the world was changing. Everything was
chaotic and beautiful and wonderful. A woman for the first time
in history could have a say. Provided she had enough money, and
the right husband, of course. And that she was spotless and
untarnished. Unfortunately, I was none of these things.
I had a beautiful mother, a strong father, and an adorable baby
sister.
My sister was born in 1957. A beautiful blonde-haired blue-eyed
angel. Healthy. Perfect in every way. Or so I was told. She was
warm. When my mother let me hold her, she would touch my neck
and cuddle my chest. I loved her with all my heart. Her name was
Cynthia.
Until I was fourteen, my mother taught me at home. She said that
the schools were too dangerous to navigate alone.
And then she passed away. She and the baby brother she was
carrying inside. His name would have been Eric. Sometimes I
think I can hear him singing to me.
My father was too busy to teach me at home, so he sent me to
high school. It was loud. And difficult. My only solice was a
kind woman who sounded middle-aged. She was the school's music
teacher, and she accepted me into the school choir with open
arms, even though I couldn't read the sheet music. She worked
with me most days after school on harmonizing and playing the
piano by ear. She sparked in me a love and a fire for music that
I've never known by any man I've bedded.
When I was eighteen, I saw my father for the first time. What I
saw broke my world. Cynthia hushed me that night, hugging me.
She held me into the early mornings, and for once, it was her
comforting me, instead of vice versa. Finally, I dried my tears.
"Cynthia..."I began. I told her that I was going away for a very
long time, and I might not ever be back. I told her that I
needed to find my own way and that I was going to Hollywood to
become a famous singer/actress like Tina Turner. She cried. She
asked how I would find my way there. I told her that Mrs.
Jameson from next door would take me to the bus stop. I lied. I
fibbed. I told her everything would be okay, and that I would
call her as soon as I got myself set up. I shouldn't have lied.
We held each other all night long. Telling each other the little
secrets that only sisters share. She told me that she broke
Mommy's favorite vase. I told her that I had sex for the first
time when I was fourteen. She asked me why I was leaving. I told
her I was running away with my boyfriend. I didn't have a
boyfriend. I shouldn't have lied.
The next morning, I felt my way out of the room and started
walking toward the bus stop with just the clothes on my back,
and five dollars in my pocket. I knew this town like the sound
of a high C. And I was leaving it behind me.
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