Story #52: More Than A Story

More Than A Story

     “The End,” Alayah Dowers said, looking up from her story, carefully typed and proofed,
and looked around her classroom. The students in her English class clapped
enthusiastically, and a couple even cheered, giving her smiles of wonder and
encouragement as she hurried back to her seat. “Good story, Alayah!” Mrs. Sanders
exclaimed. As Alayah stared down at her feet, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone,
a single tear plopped onto her desktop, and she slid her sweatshirt sleeve over it
before anyone could see it. They still didn’t get it.
     FIVE DAYS EARLIER
     Alayah sat in the dim corner of her bedroom with her blanket held tightly over her ears,
trying to block out the sound of her mom and Eric screeching at each other. She
shouldn’t be surprised. Really, at this point, she should come to expect it. It was late
Saturday night, and it was always around this time that her step-dad wandered in,
drunker than a skunk, smelling of alcohol and sweat, and was then pounced on by her
mother, who was tired and cranky from working third shift and overwhelmed by the
constant mess the house seemed to be in.
     As Alayah tried to block out the sounds of her mother and Eric going at each other like
territorial cats, all of a sudden, a thunderous crash sounded from downstairs, followed
by a loud yelp, and the screaming abruptly stopped. She heard Eric shuffling up the
stairs, and she could almost see him, the way he always looks, with his beer gut
hanging out at the bottom of his smelly, pit-stained tank top, a surly on his unshaven
face, and his breath ragged from the simple act of going up the stairs. Her heart
seeming to skip a beat, Alayah’s breath caught in her throat and she could feel her
skin go pale. Eyes glued to her doorknob, she wished she could sink through the floor
and disappear, off to a faraway land where moms and dads were loving and caring,
where they didn’t act like she didn’t exist, exclude the times when Eric would storm into
her room with that look in his eyes, and she knew she could do nothing to get away
from him and his painful blows. Alayah heard Eric pause outside her door, grunt, and
then keep going, his footsteps heavy. She was safe for tonight. She let out a long,
shaky breath, and rubbed her eyes, one still a little swollen from last Saturday, and
wished she could be anywhere but here. Silently as a mouse, she stood, clutching her
notebook and pen, and crept to the window. She didn’t dare make a sound that might
alert Eric and give him a reason to be mad at her, especially when he was this drunk.
She gently tugged on the windowsill, wincing as it creaked open. She threw a look over
her shoulder at the door, and when it seemed to be that no one was stirring in the
house, she slowly swung her leg over the windowsill, feeling with her foot until it struck
the old, deteriorating garden trellis. She had moved it weeks ago so that it was under
her window, specifically for nights like this. She slowly lowered herself, her notebook
clamped tightly between her teeth and her pen stuck in her dark curly hair, careful not
to trust the rotting wood of the garden trellis to support her weight too much. She
dropped lightly to the ground, and her feet started to trace the walk that they had made
so many times before.
     This was almost a weekly thing now. It didn’t used to be, but ever since Eric had lost
his job, he had been going to the bar more often and coming back more wasted each
time. Alayah would go to the beaten down, weed-infested park a couple blocks away,
write in her notebook until around one in the morning, when Eric was sure to be
knocked out until after three o’clock next afternoon, and then go back to her room to
sleep. Alayah hurried along the cracked sidewalk, glancing up at Eric’s bedroom
window as she passed. His light was still on. She would have to come back later than
usual today.
     As Alayah sat on the rickety, dried out bench at the park, she flipped through her worn
notebook, trying to put herself into her story and remember where she had left off. She
wrote happy stories. She wrote about families with dogs in the backyard and basketball
hoops in the front, with smiles and laughing all the time. At least, she tried. She hadn’t
quite mastered it yet. Alayah could barely remember what it was like to be happy. Her
dad had died when she was six years old, not old enough to completely understand
what had happened, but enough to make it hurt. All that she knew at the time was that
she didn’t have a dad anymore, and that Mommy cried all the time and sometimes
forgot to pick her up from kindergarten. Alayah tried to escape her miserable life by
writing stories where she could pretend she had a normal life. She liked it because she
could invent whatever kind of family she wanted to have. She could give herself a mom
that was waiting for her at the end of the school day with milk and cookies and a smile,
or a baby sister to play with, or sometimes even three baby sisters. Writing was the
only way she could provide herself a brief escape from the nightmare that was her life.
But tonight she couldn’t. She couldn’t write about smiles and laughter. She wiped at
her eyes, expecting tears, but there was nothing there. She couldn’t even cry anymore.
She just felt numb. Alayah stared at the ground in front of the slide across the park,
and as she did, something in the grass glinted in the buzzing yard light and caught her
eye. She crossed to the slide and bent, picking up the object. She wiped the mud off
on her shirt, and held it up to the light. When she realized what it was, she let out a
gasp and dropped it as if it had scalded her. It was a ring, simple but elegant, a silver
band with swirls on it and an emerald in the middle. Eric had given it to her, in one of
his extremely rare moments of sobriety. He was almost nice about it. She had even
worn it for a few days... It was the first gift she’d received in years. Then, a couple
nights later, she learned where it had come from. Eric had stolen it. He’d nicked it from
one of his female “physical therapist visitors,” or so he called them, that Eric brought
home from the bar only when her mom happened to leave town for a business trip or
had to work late. As soon as she found out, Alayah had practically ran to the park and
thrown the ring as far as she could, her body racked with sobs. She should have
known better than to think that any living human being might actually care about her. It
was stupid of her, and suddenly, she hated herself for believing it. There was no one
that cared about her. She had no friends. No other family besides her mom. Teachers
at school tried to be nice, but they didn’t understand. No one understood.
     As Alayah stood in the flickering light looking down at the ring, suddenly, it was all too
much for her. Her knees gave out and dropped to the damp grass, and her skin broke
out in a cold sweat. For some reason, she couldn’t get enough air in her lungs, and
had to pant loudly. Her vision spun in wild circles, and she closed her eyes because it
was making her nauseous. The next thing she knew, she was lying on her back in the
grass. She opened her eyes, and as they adjusted to the bright lights shining down on
her, she knew what she needed to do. She pushed herself up and headed back
towards the bench, where her notebook lay open, pages flipping in the breeze. She
picked up her pen, and began to write. These words flowed out of her, easier than any
words had ever came to her before. She didn’t even have to think about what to say.
This story was already written. It had always been written, somewhere in the back of
her mind, she just put it down on paper yet.
     Alayah stayed at the park the whole night and through the morning, poring over her
notebook the whole time. Eventually tears came, and once they did, she couldn’t stop.
The whole world seemed to be crashing down on her, unbelievable amounts of weight
crushing her chest and making it hard to breathe. She kept writing, and continued to
write all through Sunday and in between classes at school on Monday. She had to get
this story right.
     When Alayah arrived in English class Monday morning and took her seat in the far
back corner, she immediately took out her notebook and started writing, trying to get
as much done as she could before the bell rang and class started. When the bell rang,
her English teacher, a warm, kind-eyed woman named Mrs. Sanders said, “Ok, class,
today we’re going to be starting our unit of creative writing. For this week, we’re going
to be writing a short story. You’ll find details about the assignment and a grading rubric
located in your inbox. I’d like to give you as much time as possible to work on this in
class, so go ahead and get started now.”
     The class grumbled, looking around and making faces at each other, slowly taking out
their laptops and stalling. Timidly, Alayah approached Mrs. Sanders. “Mrs. Sanders?”
she said quietly.
     “Oh, Alayah dear, you snuck up behind me! What do you need, honey?”
     “Well, the thing is... I was just wondering if... well, I’m writing a story right now, and I
was wondering if I could use the one I’ve already been working on for the class?”
     “Of course, Alayah, no problem! I can’t wait to read it!” Mrs. Sanders gushed with an
enthusiastic smile.
     THREE DAYS LATER
     “Ok, class,” Mrs. Sanders bubbled. “Today is the day! Today we’re going to be reading
our short stories aloud in class! Let’s get started! Since I know better than to ask if
there’s going to be any volunteers to go first, I went ahead and made a list of
everyone’s names in a random order. Now let’s see...,” Mrs. Sanders said, consulting
the list in her hand. “Who’s first? Ah, Alayah, you’re first!”
     Alayah, feeling her cheeks redden, slid out of her seat and crept to the front of the
class. She hid her face behind her paper and cleared her throat, looking to Mrs.
Sanders for help. “Whenever you’re ready, dear!” Mrs. Sanders said with a nod.
Alayah began reading, quietly at first, then as she went on and gained confidence, she
read louder. This was the story that she had put hours and hours of work into, and it
poured from her mouth as smoothly as hot caramel. She spoke, and for the first time,
the class listened. It was something that was rare.
     “The End,” Alayah finally said, looking up from her story and looked around her
classroom. Her class clapped enthusiastically, and a couple people even cheered,
giving her smiles of wonder and encouragement as she hurried back to her seat.
“Good story, Alayah!” Mrs. Sanders exclaimed. As Alayah stared down at her feet,
trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, a single tear plopped onto her desktop, and
she slid her sweatshirt sleeve over it before anyone could see it. They still didn’t get it.
Her paper wasn’t merely a story. Her paper was a cry of help. It wasn’t just a character,
a plot line, a climax, and a resolution. Her story was Alayah’s whole life, and how she
struggled everyday. How she had lost herself and didn’t even know who she was
anymore. How she hated who she had become and the decisions that she made.
     Those words were Alayah’s, begging with someone, anyone, to realize what she was
trying to say. She was begging for someone to help her, for someone to understand
the pain she was going through. Alayah had poured her whole soul into that paper.
This was her last-ditch effort to try and make things right.
     But to her English class, it was just words put together into sentences. It was just a
story, cooked up late the night before it was due, hoping at least for a grade above a
C-. For them, it was nothing to think about and determine if there was a second
meaning. It was good entertainment, but that was really it.
     On September 28, 2013, Alayah Dowers left school early, went home, and committed
suicide.