One girl's tale of premature obsession, love and seperation...
Lemmie, know wha'choo think, huh?
As I lie flat on my stomach in the clearing, watching those ringlets of red dancing spells around me, I remember the first time I saw those wretched blue depths of eternity. I remember the first time I saw that fiery-haired princess, all red-faced rage in her cushioned perambulator as she squalled out indignities into the golden autumn sunset. I recall the sound of her crying for the first time as she demanded her way into my heart, forced herself into my childhood games and fantasies. I remember the tang of her name on my puckered, unready lips as I drew closer to the perambulator, transfixed by the child, cooing her name, calling Whit, Whit, Whit.
I remember her weary mother leaning on the gate outside my little red brick house, pouring out worries and grievances to my own mother, whilst I slipped into dreams of the copper-haired baby, whilst I fell in love with that raging mass of beauty. I recall the scent of her, that scent that every newborn possesses, yet none as sweet and inviting as my own Whit’s, cocoa and milk and cream and love. I can see that scene before me now, as if my mother is still clutching at her knees in laughter, unaware that I am slowly losing my soul to the demands of this insistent mass of rage.
I blink, then, and suddenly I remember unlocking the tight wooden gate with my careful hands, leading the peachy mass of noise by the chubby hand from her toys and her baby brother. I remember keeping both eyes on her three year old form as she bounced and trilled her way down the worn path away from the house and the safety of her mother’s gaze. I recall the danger and possibilities that exploded before my young eyes as I took this child into my own possession. I recall the thrill of it, the feel of her hand in mine as she thrashed and protested and set my heart alive.
I led her to the old creek in the woods, to where my brother broke his leg and where my mother made me promise never to go. Today was different though, today I had Whit. Today she was screaming and wailing and each tear was a mark of my obsession and devotion to her, each was a pearly drop of her life that she was giving to me. I could have told her to be silent, yet I had not the resolution to halt her thrilling protests. Each time her balled fists connected with my stomach, I felt an exciting pull of fear for the forbidden.
I knelt by the trees, plaited grass into a short rope with which I bound together our joined hands. I told her, then, that I belonged to her and she to me, we belonged only to each other. We sat by the creek, her protests quietened, and I took off her buckled shoes, her knee-length socks with inexperienced hands, and we dropped our legs into the water. I remember the sound of her teasing laugh. I remember making the thrilling discovery that her skin was white all over, peachy white from her dimpled stomach to her tiny curling toes.
I recall, too, the hum of worry that swept around me as I returned, triumphant, with the child of their panic hanging onto my hand, trusting. The sound of her mother, sobbing, haunts my ears, as I remember the pang of regret and rage when the screeching woman wrenched my own sweet one from my hands. I can almost taste the fear as I felt my skin parting with hers, white all over.
Later I can remember my own mother shouting and crying and repeating over and over the same dull argument. All I recall is the buzz of excitement that I received from her disapproving words. I remember the forbidden thoughts that flooded my head, even as she screamed at me. Apples that bobbed to the surface, leering at me. Taunting me with the taboo thoughts, fruits of doom and heavenly thrills. Whit, those deep blue depths, her fiery hair, her soft skin, white all over, and tasting of milk and cream.
Milk and cream. They would sit us together, even after that day at the creek, by the fire in the winter, as our mothers rocked at the table, weaving and knitting and darning socks. I remember the excitement and that ancient fear as I touched Whit’s pearly skin, dancing with patterns from the fire, whilst our mothers lost themselves to conversation. I recall each and every detail of her perfect form as if I memorised her in those early days spent locked in fascination.
I remember the wrench in my stomach as I stole into the nursery whilst our mothers crowed together by the fire. The thrill of stepping into that very room where Whit slept, wrapped in scented blankets, unknowing that I watched her with such hunger. I recall the thoughts that spilled around my head, almost crippling me with the possibilities, sending me dizzy with restraint and admiration. I listened attentively to the cackle of our mothers below, whilst my other senses were captivated by the soft, white skin that I ached to touch. Five long years had passed since the day at the creek, since I had promised myself to this child, since I had taken liberty of her promise, and I longed to know if her skin was still the white that I needed.
I remember the softness of her baby bed as I knelt first, then lay, beside her. I recall that she did not stir, she knew me. My hands at her shoulders, hooking aside the restraints of her plaid nightgown. Then, almost at once, my hands over her bare waist, and the explosive knowledge in my mind that still her skin gleamed white, forever mine. The hurry and knot of fear as I assured her of that day at the creek, and she turned over and over in my hands, twisted in my heart. She was Whit, she was here, she was mine. Milk and cream as I pulled her closer, kissing and teasing with my frightened words. Milk and cream as I hungered for her.
And though I would crave to forget, I remember the hiss of surprise from the door and the sight of our two mothers, standing there, white faced. White skinned, but ugly and terrifying from the anger and disappointment on their stricken faces. Fear, as I gripped her closer to me, unwilling to part from her. Sudden modesty, as she tugged the nightgown back over her shoulders, my mind alight with panic.
Then their howls and cries as I was ripped from the soft baby bed, thrown in disgust onto the floor and Whit was crying, protesting, her white skin going red with rage. The aching all over as her face drowned in hot, inviting, salty tears, and my tongue hissed to reach her. No more, my mother was crying, no more.
Next came the loneliness, the coldness, the sharp stab of wanting as I faced years innumerable apart from her. In anger and confusion, lost and spinning darkly in circles, seeing in my young dreams those red curls and her forbidden body. The fullness of adolescence left me choking on desire, thirsting for milk and cream. All the time in the world would not abate my hunger for the soft-skinned princess to whom I had given my childhood dreams.
And now the waiting, the impatience as I lie on the grassy bank, watching her hair dance about her shoulders. Years have passed, too many, too far away, and her white skin is rounder with experience, her wretched eyes wide with excitement and vigour. Her scent of milk and cream, that no other should ever know, keeps me paralysed on the bank, drinking, remembering. She has not seen me. Her rise-and-fall laughter as she romps with the brown puppy on the grass makes me weak to the very heart. I have wanted her, body and soul, in all our separation and now my eyes are melting.
In this grassy clearing, away from the watchful eyes of mothers, I shall have her now, again and again, mine forever. I shall remind her of the day at the creek, reacquaint myself with the milky contours of her body, rounded with adolescence. She is sixteen years old, and more beautiful to me than ever. I know that she shall recognise me, will see some similarity in my eyes with the young girl who enthused her childhood. She has dreamed of me, has wanted those stolen kisses, has begged for years to be reunited with the object of her obsessions. But no more.
I shall obey my heart and drowning eyes, for I shall never know possession and rage and fascination again unless it is milk and cream, and pearly white skin, and a red-haired princess named Whit.
- Title: Whit
- Artist: LilyLouu
- Description: This story came into my head as I realised that not many stories of childhood portray the actual truth of how strong and possessive your first love can be. I hope I did the story line justice, and I'll happily take any constructive critiscism.
- Date: 10/07/2009
- Tags: whit love childhood friendship shortstory