ten•der adj: 1: marked by, responding to, or expressing the softer emotions : fond, loving; 2a : showing care : considerate, solicitous

I stare into his dark brown eyes. He stares back at me. The room is empty except for the two of us. I sit with my back against the fridge and he sits next to me. Neither of us makes a sound, and the kitchen is filled with a comfortable silence. He whimpers, a hushed poignant noise, and lays his head on my lap. I stroke his soft ears.
I wish that I had a camera to capture the scene. The girl, sitting in the shadows, head bent, her long hair obscuring her face; the dog, resting on her lap, looking peaceful and content, her hand cradling his head gently. Tenderly. I wish I had someone to hold me like that.
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ter•ror n: 1: a state of intense fear; 2a : one that inspires fear : scourge 2b : a frightening aspect 2c : a cause of anxiety : worry

Hundreds of arms are holding me tightly. But I am not afraid. I know that they are hugging me and I feel secure and content in their grasp. Then, one by one, the arms pop and disappear, until I am on my own, suspended in the darkness. The gloom engulfs me in a breath stopping embrace. This time I am afraid, but I am alone and there is no one to help me.
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si•lent adj: 1a : making no utterance : mute, speechless 1b : indisposed to speak : not loquacious 2 : free from sound or noise : still 3 : not widely or generally known or appreciated 4 : not exhibiting the usual signs or symptoms of presence

The sun rests on the horizon, the rich golden color of ripe, juicy mangoes. The street is silent as I trudge up my block, my backpack weighing me down. The school building looms ahead, a mean angry face, with barred windows and flushed red bricks. As I head into the main corridor, the sound crushes me. Everyone around me is talking loudly on their cell phones or screaming across the crowd to their friends.
“Hey Kathy!”
“Wanna come over to my house later?”
“Tell me about it in bio…”
Snippets of other people’s conversations reach me as I shove my stuff into my locker. No one greets me; no best friend is waiting by my locker to chat. I walk to my first period class and slide into a seat at the back of the classroom. Chemistry. Most people find it complex and bewildering, but I find it fascinating. The way the molecules bond together to make a new substance, like the way words come together to form a sentence.
The day passes quickly in a blur of flashing pens and murmuring loose-leaf. I go through the motions, hardly paying any attention to the lessons, just on what I am about to do. At lunch, I take my bag and sit at the base of a huge oak tree with a carpet of lush spring grass. Under the branches, I feel secure, as if the ancient tree is protecting me from malicious high school gossip and rumors.
In my bag were the contents of my locker: three textbooks, two binders, three taped up pictures of Prince Charming, my favorite feathery pen and a worn down copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I stare at these relics of the past and toy with the pen absentmindedly. My thoughts wander aimlessly and through the tree’s leaves, I glimpse a flash of orange.
Orange. The color of carrots and clementines, of candy corn and Kraft cheese. And of my mother. She wore orange in all of the pictures that I have of her. Maybe she still does, but I don’t know. Maybe she wears an orange dress when she goes to wild parties on the beach. Maybe she wears orange hair ties when she goes to work. I don’t know. Every time I see that color, a little piece of my heart crumbles to dust.
In many ways, I am as good as an orphan. I can just imagine what my file would look like.
Name: Arianna Brooks

Date of birth: August 31st, 1992

Mother: Amy Wildman

Father: Peter Brooks

Situation: Only child, financially well off. High school junior at Greenwood High School. Parents separated at age two. Father, has single custody of child, successful businessman (banker at private firm), often on extended business trips. Mother, left family after divorce, air hostess (Lufthansa), no contact with daughter or ex-husband.

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re•sign v: 1a: relegate, consign; 1b: to give (oneself) over without resistance 2a: to give up deliberately


The walk home is short and silent, but I take my time and walk slowly. Tripping over my own shoelaces, I fall face first onto the cracked sidewalk, right next to an abandoned bird nest. Cradling it in my arms, I continue home to prepare for what I am about to do.








January 29th, 2008
I am tired of this. I want to leave all of it behind. I am sick of being teased of, of living on my own every day. Sometimes I’m scared that I’ve lost my voice because I never speak; that when I open my mouth, all that will come out is a hoarse sigh. I want to know that someone out there cares for me. What about your parents, you might say. I would just look at you and raise an eyebrow. As far as I am concerned, I don’t have parents. Not unless you count a successful businessman who flies around the world in a day, leaving his daughter home alone with the dog, never mind how she feels, never mind she might miss him. Business is business. And my mother? A former beauty pageant queen, she got pregnant in college, “didn’t want a family quite yet,” and left my dad and me a few years later. Sixteen years. You think she could write at least one letter, even maybe just a postcard, to ask how I was doing. Never once has she. No letters, no phone calls, no e-mails, nothing.
When the police find me missing, I doubt anyone will cry. My teachers might say, “Oh, Arianna? She was such a sweet, studious student who took her work very seriously.” But no one will cry. They’ll make an announcement in the morning, but 20 seconds later, people will be chatting again, having completely forgotten what was just said. I don’t care anymore. When I jump, I’m going to throw this into the river, and let the fish feast on my feelings, rather than leave it in my room, where it will become evidence, and the police officers will read what I have written. Good bye, good bye, good bye…
-
Arianna
I close my diary abruptly, and survey my room. The walls are a cool, crisp blue, and several dreamy paintings of the ocean hang in pretty white frames. The bed is neatly made and an organized desk sits in the corner, the papers and books in order. No posters on the walls, no pictures next to the bed, no ribbons or medals hanging on the desk. Nothing personal to show that I have spent 13 years of my life in this room; that I’ve spent many silent nights crying into my pillow. It could’ve passed for a hotel room in a fancy resort.
I take Prince Charming out for one final walk, and try to savor every minute of it. Nose pointed, tail straight as a pole, he freezes, his wet nose twitching. Then, yanking the leash so hard it nearly dislocates my shoulder, he bolts, nose to the ground following a new scent. The cold winter air streams past me fast until my eyes tear up and I can hardly see where I am going. My hair floats above my head in a rich auburn halo and the tip of my nose is pink with the cold. I gasp for breathe but pump my legs a little harder to keep up with my dog’s race. I pause doubled over, my lungs on fire, and we slow to a walk. I find a park bench and rest a while, Prince lying on his belly by my feet. I stroke his head and he rolls over for a tummy rub. I oblige and he wiggles with pleasure. A sigh escapes my mouth and I sit back, trying to just enjoy the moment. I push away thoughts of tonight and play with Prince Charming a little more.
Hair knotted by the wind and cheeks rosy, I return home to tidy up the house one last time. I walk around through the empty rooms, and think of all the unhappy memories I have here. In the kitchen, the time I cut my finger and there was blood all over the counter, seeping into the wood, and my father never heard me scream in pain, he didn’t even look up from his newspaper; in the living room, when my father was hosting a reception for his colleagues, and I was supposed to serve cocktails and he yelled at me for spilling some champaign on the carpet in front of everyone.
I reach my room and find Prince Charming curled up on my bed, his feet tucked under his head. When I enter the room, he picks up his head and seems to smile in his own canine way. I sit on the bed next to him and hold him in my arms so tightly that for a moment, I am afraid that I am strangling him but then he turns around and covers my face in slobbery kisses. I start to cry and soon my tears are mingling with his saliva. I bury my face in his soft curly hair and cry and cry and cry until there are no more tears left inside of me.
I dry my eyes and sit down to write a letter to my father, though I doubt it would be several days until he noticed my absence.








January 29th, 2008
Dear Father,
By the time you read this (if ever), I will be gone and the river will hide me from your search. I am tired of this, of living on my own everyday and don’t want to go on. You are never home, and my mother, well my mother, as you and I know both know doesn’t want anything to do with me. School is no refuge, only worse. There, I ignored and taunted alternately. Please take care of darling Prince Charming for me, he is very gentle and loves to be scratched on the belly.
-
Arianna

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de•ter•mi•na•tion n: 1a : the act of deciding definitely and firmly; also : the result of such an act of decision 2b : firm or fixed intention to achieve a desired end
I stand by the railing; a cool wind ruffles my hair. The moon is full, and shines brightly overhead. The city below looks like a fairytale, bathed in the moonlight. It is silent and all I can hear is the steady rush of water below. Swish, swish swish… I think of the thousands of people, asleep in bed right now. They will wake up tomorrow, and continue their dull contented lives; taking the children to school, going to work, attending boring business meetings, collapsing in bed exhausted, to wake up to another day, just like the last. Day after day, month after month, year after year.
Unsure of quite what to do, I stand there, and fill my lungs with crisp winter air. This is it, I thought. No going back now. I steel my nerves and swiftly hoist myself up on the edge of the railing. It is late and the bridge is deserted. The wind picks up and soon wrappers and dirty newspapers dance on the pavement. I stand there, on the cusp of life and death, of land and air, waiting. Waiting for a sign to jump, to cut the thread of life, to plunge myself in icy darkness.
Splash! Splash! Splash! Noises down below catches my attention. In the darkness, I can just make out a figure thrashing about wildly in the water. Hesitating, I don’t move until the figure whimpers. The cries of fear, desperation, hopelessness, and anguish mix with that of the rushing of the river. I stand there, on the edge of the bridge, ready to jump, but I can’t bring myself to. I can’t take that final step into thin air. Not yet. The dog’s cries become more plaintive and desperate. It struggles even harder against the cold water and fast moving tide.
Before I know what I am doing, my feet are carrying me off the bridge and towards the banks of the river. Shivering, I strip down to my t-shirt and jeans and plunge into the icy water. The cold hits me like a tsunami wave, and for a minute, I am paralyzed and my limbs are frozen. The whimpers reached me through the noise of the river and spur me on. A strange fire courses through my veins and I begin to swim quickly and forcefully. For a moment there is silence, and I am terrified that the dog has given up, has succumbed to the river. I begin to panic and swim faster, hoping that I am wrong, that the dog has kept hope, is still fighting. Soon, I see a head struggling to stay above water. I grab the dog who is too weak to resist, and begin to tow it to shore. My body is numb and every stroke is a battle. I am exhausted and the dog isn’t strong enough to swim anymore, just hanging in my arms like a sack of wet clothes. I fight to breath and soon I can feel myself sinking below the water, the river sucking me in. My legs move sluggishly, trying to fight the current, but my strength is failing. An hour ago perhaps I would have embraced the watery kiss of death. But now, I had a life other than my own to save. I had to get the dog to shore before we both died of exhaustion and hypothermia.
After what seemed like hours of laborious swimming, I feel the ground slip under my feet. In the faint light of the moon, I can see the shore ahead and the dim lights of the city. The mud underfoot is slippery and the dog, now longer moving, is like a dead weight in my arms. I trip several times and fall into the water, but I am not giving up. We will make it; there is no way that this dog is going to die tonight. Every time I fall, I get back up slowly, not letting the treacherous river win this battle. I get up telling myself that this dog is going to live, that we both are.
Soon, I feel solid earth under my feet and I collapse on the shore. The dog tries to stand, but crashes into a soggy heap next to me. I lie on the cold ground, shivering violently and my teeth chattering so hard I worry that I might break my jaw. I crawl over to the shivering animal. It lies motionless on the hard soil and I begin to search frantically for a sign of life. Dear God please don’t let this dog be dead. I have never asked anything of you, but please just this one time hear me out. Let this dog live. Please, please, please. Tears stream down my face and I desperately hope that if there is a God out there, he has heard my silent prayer. Cursing my stiff fingers, I try to find a pulse. I nearly collapse with relief when I feel a faint flutter under my fingers.
I lie down on the ground and doze a little, my bunched up jacket serving as a pillow. I curl myself around the dog and I can feel its heartbeat beating gently between its ribs. When I awake, the sky is tinted a soft rosy pink, and fluffy clouds dance across the sky. The dog is still sleeping peacefully next to me, and upon closer examination, I can tell that he’s a stray. He is a midsize dog, thin, with matted chestnut fur and several half healed scars crisscrossing his belly.
As the sun peeks shyly over the horizon like a small forest rabbit, I bundle the dog in up my jacket and start heading home. People look at me strangely; they take in my wet clothes, my dirty face and the rangy mutt sleeping in my arms, but I don’t care. I am dead tired and can hardly place one foot in front of the other. My mind is blank and I don’t know how I got home in one piece. But somehow I do, and I fall onto my bed gratefully and fall into a deep slumber.
I feel a weight on my chest and begin to thrash about wildly until I realize that it is only my blanket, not the river. Someone must have come and put me to bed because all I remember is curling up in a ball and sleeping. My newfound companion is nowhere to be found, but Prince Charming is sitting on my bed next to me, imperturbably licking my toes.
An hour or so later, showered and dressed, I make my way to the kitchen, my stomach growling ravenously. I see a note stuck to the fridge.
- Went to the vet to get the dog checked for rabies, and to get adoption papers.
The writing is rushed and scrawled and only after staring at it for a few minutes do I realize that it’s my father’s handwriting. I run out of the house and jump onto my bike towards the vet’s office. My father is there, standing next to the vet who is grooming my stray. Funny how that sounds, “my stray.” My father looks so calm and relaxed and he is not dressed for work. I am slightly taken aback but stand next to him a bit awkwardly.
“Well,” said the vet, “it seems you’ve got yourself a handsome dog here. What are you going to name him?” He looked at my dad then me. My father shrugs and looks at me. I think for a moment then say,
“How about Teddy? He looks like a big teddy bear with that big bow around his neck.”
“Sounds good to me,” my father replies.
Several hours later, with Teddy trotting ahead of us on a purple leash and adoption papers in hand, I walk next to my dad. He puts his arm around my shoulders and surprised by this moment of affection, I don’t step away.
“I am so proud of you,” he said smiling in Teddy’s direction. I nod and just appreciate the feel of the wind in my hair and the weak winter sun on my face. He gives me a real hug, the first time in a very long time and embarrassed, I crouch down next to the dog and busy myself with scratching him under the chin. My father crouches down next to Teddy and the dog licks my face with a wet pink tongue and my father and I laugh until our sides hurt. It feels good to laugh again.