Rainbow in Mourning

Prologue: Introductions

I am a writer. To say that aloud almost feels laughable. I love to write. I was an English major in college and have won awards in writing competitions. I’ve composed many things from poems to novellas. I even used to while away quiet time in the car in rush-hour traffic by playing little stories in my head but forgot to write them down when I come back to the real world. I suppose I am still a writer at heart but I had once been great. I am now many other things. I am a wife to a military husband. I am a mother to a darling but needy little boy. I am a contributor to the local paper. I am a sister to a disgustingly beautiful and faultless woman. I am daughter-in-law to a horrible wench. I have to be my professional-me at work and my mommy/spouse-me at home. I have to be my bubbly/happy me with friends and family. But I can never just be ME. I have to fit myself into my surroundings like camouflage. I am a chameleon in a land of flamingos. I can see everyone else for exactly what they are from far away but they must never see me. 

It’s exhausting to have to prepare myself emotionally for the day and the people I have to face. No one wants to see the real me. They want to see the smiling and happy mask I put on in the morning. I was diagnosed with depression and a few other things when I was a teenager and I learned from an early age to suppress what others mistake for sullenness or bitterness at the world. I can’t control the pit inside of me that is steadily swallowing me alive. I can’t control my desire to sink into the dirt and disappear. I can’t control my spontaneous fits of anger and hatred. But I can hide them. I can stifle them. No one has to see them. 

When I can sneak a few quiet moments at home, I sit at my computer in solitude and put words to page. It’s not much. I can’t pull myself to produce the masterpieces that once flowed from my fingertips. But, to put a small piece of my soul onto paper is liberating, though a rare occurrence most days. Only in words can I be me. These times are often at night. My son is dreaming peacefully and my husband is far away for some training or deployment or some other career-related thing. The house is still and silent. My bed is cold and empty. Sleep? I have heard her name before. She is a sweet, teasing mistress. She’s a flirt who prefers to stay just out of arm’s reach. Nightly she drifts past my eyes and wiggles her delicate fingers- always tempting- but never allowing me to hold her close. 

So, I rise in the dead of night. I sit at my desk and try to type but it is often futile and I find myself staring at a blank screen, whiling away the time as the cursor flashes like a ticking clock. However, when I am able to successfully put my mind to prose, I feel better, but I know that none of these creations come close to the written works of genius I used to conceive and I become frustrated. I frequently find myself pocketing a small notebook and pen (should revelation happen to find me), tying my tennis shoes, and leaving my house in silence to roam the flowered hills in peace. Purple salvia, also known as sage violets, grows untamed in our hills. While the fresh air and floral aroma are rejuvenating, my escape is not as enjoyable as it used to be. Newcomers are an invasive species in these hills, much like many of the mammalian residents here. Traditional houses sparsely dot the hills but housing developers seek to destroy this peaceful tranquility by taking advantage of the natural beauty as a selling point. Then they insist on ruining it with cheaply built dwellings crammed on top of one another. With these new residents come their vermin. They bring outdoor cats that hunt the native birds and dogs whose incessant barking keeps away the deer and other non-domestic animals that once helped make this such an enjoyable place to live. For now, they are mostly a problem in the valley near the town at the base of the hills. But, like any swarming animal, they are overtaking the hills quickly.

As I walk upwards and away from the commotion and my responsibilities in search of my muse, I contemplate my life. It’s probably not the most mentally healthy thing to do. I think about my amazing husband. He has been nothing but supportive since my career has been in decline. I knew there was something special about him the moment we met. We had mutual acquaintances and would frequently see each other at friendly gatherings when we were in college. One night, at a celebration for a friend who had been invited to study in Greece, things finally came together.

While I have friends, in general, I prefer to stay out of assemblages. Large gatherings are uncomfortable for me but I do my best to appear to have a good time. There’s so much pressure to do the right thing and say the right thing. But right for whom? Honesty feels right but I shouldn’t tell you not to dress like that because you are shaped like a ripe piece of fruit. Even if I were to word it less brusk, you would still be offended. So, I smile and pretend the cellulite squeezing from the bottom of your shorts isn’t causing my stomach to churn. I smile and laugh and act as if I’m there having a good time. You needn’t know I find your husband as mentally stimulating as a potato. All you need to know is that I am smiling, enjoying my wine, and engaging in conversation. Of course, I don’t seem like at any moment I’m going to bolt for freedom and run screaming into the night.

At the party, I looked around the room and I studied the people there. Our host’s girlfriend leaned against the kitchen counter. She was bored. These people were beneath her and she did not like to associate with them any longer than she had to. She pretended to smile, but she clearly didn’t care. She repeatedly gazed up to Heaven to ask when this Hell would be over.

In the corner near the door, there was a cute couple quietly flirting. Their affection for one another was palpable though they tried to hide it. Their sideways glances and secret simpers were obvious to anyone who looked their way. He wasn’t quite a homely lad, but he was very plain. He had watery blue eyes that were set close to a straight nose. The weakness in his chin was not helped by his flat mouth and large, mushroomed ears. To his contrary, she was lovely. Her copper curls were pulled back loosely and tied with a neat white bow. Those that would not be tamed were tucked carefully behind her ears. Under cerulean eyes, her full pink cheeks pulled her lips into a gentle smile.

I didn’t know most of the people who had crammed into that large studio apartment so I stayed close to the friends who had dragged me along. I performed my obligatory smile and laugh as I swirled my wine. That’s when I noticed the reflection in the window.

I caught a glimpse of him gazing at me over his shoulder. He was a little disheveled but handsome, nonetheless. I’d recognized him from other gatherings though we had never been formally introduced. Rather than the lustful look I typically received from men, this was one of gentle affection. I subtly turned to look him head-on. His eyes did not wander below my throat and, in fact, averted their gaze when they met my own. Throughout the evening I watched his reflection in the window. He joked and laughed (a sincere and deep sound) with his friends but would look up occasionally to see if I was looking at him too. Once, I thought he had succumbed to cupid’s arrow as I saw him rise from his seat and amble towards me. Though he didn’t stop for conversation as he passed, he did stumble and lightly brush against me. I felt all of my blood rush to my face and my toes go numb as I saw those crystal blue eyes up close for the first time. He apologized for his merlot-induced inelegance and before I could reply, he hurried away as if afraid I was angry.

When he returned to his friends, I resumed my cautious observation of him. I incorrectly assumed my own friends were too wrapped in gossip to notice I was hardly taking note. They were prattling on about who was trying to seduce our creative writing professor (an attractive man though not my type), who was presumptively going to win a scholarship we had all applied for, and other juicy rumors that I was only half-listening to. I made sure to perform the standard ‘Uh-huh. Really?’ to demonstrate that I wasn’t ENTIRELY ignoring them. 

Finally, towards the end of the evening, I heard one of them yell That’s it! 

She grabbed my hand and dragged me over to the couch where he sat with a few friends who had not left yet. You two have been watching each other all night! Introductions were made and the rest, as they say, is history.

Just thinking about our meeting always puts a smile on my face. Back then, we were different people. It was easier for me to feel something that resembled happiness instead of always pretending. He was far more affectionate and attentive. I can’t say that we became unhappy but happy is far too strong a word. 

Then, there is my sister; my wonderful, faultless, beloved, darling, and infallible sister. She is the type of woman who could make Vesta herself jealous. Her beauty is so unparalleled in my family that sometimes I doubt our relation. She’s never stressed. She’s never sad. The entire atmosphere of a room changes the moment she enters. Her hair is always perfect. Her clothes are always neat. Though her house is always in some sort of disarray, it is an organized chaos. Most importantly, her son is always happy. Whenever I enter their home, there is always the sound of child laughter as if my appearance is the cue for a sound bite. She herself is always fresh from a good night’s sleep. A part of me hates her for it. There has been more than one occasion in which my mind’s eye saw me bashing in her flawless face or setting fire to her magnificent house. I’m not a bad person but there’s only so much perfection a person can stomach. 

She was more than happy to marry young. She and her sweetheart had started dating in their teens and married in their early twenties. She had talked about motherhood since we were children. When her son was born, she felt completeness in her life. That kind of true happiness radiates from a person. Her doting husband makes good money in the city on the other side of the valley below so her entire life can focus on her cherished son and home.

My own son is just five months older than hers. While I love him as a mother should, I can never shake that nagging feeling of remorse that bubbles up inside of me from time to time. My house generally looks like the aftermath of a natural disaster. I never sleep. I survive on a diet of whatever he refuses to eat- typically macaroni, peanut butter and jelly, and vegetables. I gave up on painting my face every morning or even brushing my hair every day when he was still an infant. When we have play dates, my sister always comments that I look ragged and offers to take the boys to the park one afternoon so I can have me time. 

I cannot let her do that. As much as I know I need to focus a little on myself, part of me fears my son will develop a taste for her perfection and no longer love me for the mess of a mother I am. He may live off of fruit loops and chicken fingers and his clothes may not always be clean and I may regret his existence from time to time, but he does love me and I cannot jeopardize that.

She looks at her son with such devotion. I don’t know what my face says when I hold my son, but it isn’t that. He isn’t a bad child but I had given birth to him when I was too young. There was a great deal I had still wanted to do with my life. I had wanted to travel with my military husband and write. I would incorporate the exotic cultures I encountered into my manuscripts and leave a legacy of a well-traveled and happy woman.

Then I got pregnant. I don’t want to say accidents happen but… 

My family was thrilled, of course, and convinced us that traveling was no life for an infant and that I should stay where they could help me raise him and join my husband later. It takes a village! Easy for them to say. They weren’t changing their entire life plan to accommodate a child that wasn’t even wanted. Unlike my sister, I hadn’t had any desire to raise a family. Before I had met my husband, I had planned to move far away and focus on my craft in peace. Then, when I realized that my husband’s military career would keep us constantly moving, the plan was altered slightly, but still did not include children. Against my will, we bought a house in the hills near my family and settled down.

So here I am. The parents who insisted I keep the child so they could help me raise it have moved away. My husband is often sent to other bases across the country for training and other military duties I don’t fully understand since he chose to stay stateside for our benefit. My perfect sister is the only friend I have here. While I love my home and my son, this is not the life I want. My life has become akin to a Greek tragedy.

All of this feeds into my depression.