Raw
As I sat in my arm chair, not thinking of the horrors that brought me here, I looked around at the magnificent pieces precisely placed upon the walls. There were miraculous paintings of the landscape that I so dearly treasure. Grasses, leaves, insects, and flowers eloquently placed in frames. The walls were painted the perfect shade of green that made me feel like I was in the deep wilderness of Canada that seems so distant from where I now reside in the heart of Toronto. I was surrounded by all the things that bring me joy. There was not the every flowing faucet of chaos, the chest full of supposedly sarcastic comments, or floors that seemed to radiate anxiety. Floor to ceiling, this was my home, my safe space. This is a miracle.
There was always something going on in my house. Mom was always in a knot about something; the laundry needed done; the dishes needed dried and put away; the floor could always use another sweeping, and she was probably mad at me for being home five minutes late from school. She spent her days at home, so I assume that she was just jealous that I got to get out of the house. All I ever saw her doing were little random projects that never seemed to be the things important to the functioning of daily life. It was probably her way of experiencing some satisfaction in life.
“Bill, it’s dinner time. Come join us for a meal,” she would tell my father with no emotion in her voice.
“Honey, you know you are supposed to bring me dinner on the couch,” he would reply or he would at least say something similar.
“Bill, I’m telling you that dinner is hot at the table. Please unglue yourself from the sofa and spend some time with your family. You are gone everyday from 7a.m. to 7p.m. Your kids would like to see you.”
He would reply to her hoping to gloss over the issue, “Oh honey, don’t be silly; You know that I would never expect you to serve me on the sofa. You have done enough already.”
“I’m tired of hearing you bicker at each other! I can’t wait to get out of here! College is calling my name,” I inserted myself into the conversation.
“Jane, a young lady like you isn’t made for college. You better get on with finding yourself a nice young man with a good job!” my father rebutted attempting to put me in my place.
It was then that I ate my dinner quickly and started toward the back door passing the grime that was forever plastered on everything. My mom and dad seemed to play this game pretty often. Conflict and resolution lived on a revolving door in my house; there was never a real solution between the two, though. Sarcasm always seemed to take the blame, or me, and the night would continue with only tension lurking in the air.
After dinner, I always found myself, for one reason or another, in the backyard that was not well kept but suited my search for a weird leaf or insect. I would take my place between two overgrown bushes, or if my parents were too busy bickering I would venture off into the woods that surrounded our house. I did that long enough to know my way home but if it were someone else, they wouldn’t survive with the lack of civilization.
The end of high school came without warning, the nights and day ran together as they all looked the same, and it wasn’t long after that I packed my things and headed for the University of Toronto. I committed on the terms that I would have the opportunity to travel through the wilderness with Professor Mack for all 4 years studying biology. My days of travel consisted of pure fulfillment; the sounds of nature were a symphony to my ears; the little shops sparsely placed along our route that we stopped at just for the art of it started my collection of painting; I studied, too, collecting pieces of nature that represented its raw unfiltered beauty. While I wasn’t paid to do as much as I did, not a minute wasn’t worth it. I was free.
An emulation of Margaret Atwood's writing style
By: Mia Ratajczak