*story in progress*
I am young. The year is 1965, and spring explodes in tiny bursts out of the tiny yellow flowers popping up in trees all around Paris. Sadly, I am allergic to these colorful blooms, so I spend a large part of my time outside sneezing and taking care of my runny nose. I continue to go outside because I cannot avoid beauty. I learn to cope. I learn to not breathe so much.
I have never experienced this flower-filled season before with such great ambivalence. Before, I would lie in the rolling fields of grass surrounding my neighbor's home in my home of Wisconsin, awkward limbs sprawling about, my mouth breathing in in the fresh air of the fields clear and even. Though it felt wonderful, I did it to avoid my parents. But at the moment I have no reason to.
Grandmother is taking care of me right now. Both me and Mari, that is. Mari and I do not know when mother and father will return, but Grandmother assures us that they will be back within the month. I trust Grandmother, with her big, crinkly face and leather eyes that squint and wink at me whenever she is telling a joke. I don't laugh at her jokes, but I trust her. Mother and father will return.
Mari and I stay with grandmother or elderly relative for a month or two.
Lots of exploring, lots of character development.
Fancy architecture everywhere. Why is this important?
See two staircases frequently but never take the one on the left leading to who knows where. It looks like it leads to a double-door that goes beyond somewhere. I am intrigued by it. It looks exotic because I do not know where it leads. The entire veranda and staircase area is downright gorgeous, the base of the veranda is covered in vines and the handles of the staircase is made of dark wood (between chocolate brown and black), but the base of the veranda and the steps of the staircase are made of either stucco or warm cream wood/material covered in that color paint.
Also am towards end of tale followed by man and posse. About 5-6 of them. Leader is tall, but not too tall, blonde, kind of like the man in Moulin Rouge. Angry face, but crazy. Very variable. He and his men surround me as I am going to the staircases alone to decide which one to take by myself. I am scared. I try to get away, I try to say mean things to make them go away, finally I try to fight them off, but their leader gets the best of me. The other men are there to solely intimidate, and it works. He forcefully wraps around my mouth and head with a single fraying thin strip of duct tape a couple times. I am bound and voiceless. I cannot do anything. I am full of so many words. But he hurts me and begins to rape me. I do not know if he continues to rape me or if his men had a turn as well, for I have blocked out this memory. But I awake afterwards in my bed and it is like nothing has changed but I. I am afraid and bear a body and heart full of pain. I am ashamed and lack the ability to speak. My grandmother and sister do not know.
At the end of the tale, I return to the place with my grandmother and sister, hoping that their presence will spare me from the men who inflicted such pain and suffering on me. We are there and I still cannot make a decision. Finally, I choose to go up the mysterious staircase because what lies beyond intrigues me. And it cannot be as bad as experiencing the same fate of these men over again, a monotonous life, a life that is predetermined for me. But as I am standing on the raised veranda, my grandmother and sister start to go down short set of stairs to the courtyard below (with gardens and walkways and large areas to congregate in) and a man appears, pushing past my grandmother and sister. They object but have no idea why he is here. I do not either, but I may vaguely place him as one of Andre's henchmen. He is slightly round in his face and he looks at me as if I am a piece of meat. I now know what he wants and I become very afraid. I try to side step his thorough moves to get to me. In my dream, I know what may soon be repeating itself and I forcefully wake myself because I cannot live through the same hell of such a real version of rape again. However, the dream could have gone either way. It could've been that I was raped and subjected to the same fate yet again as my grandmother and sister looked on in fear, powerless, or were also raped, or ran away in fear. I'd like to hope that this time, since I had made my decision, I was able to push past the man's huge, grabbing hands, and run up the straight stucco staircase, push the large wooden doors open, and go into my future in some unknown place that I hope is better than the one I was experiencing.
