Emma

Emma is the story of young woman coping with the irony of both the literal and figurative ills of being raised in a privileged household by an absentee socialite mother.

"Emma sat on the edge of the bed trying her best to breathe steadily in the nauseating silence that pulsed bluntly against her head. It tightened persistently around her throat and rested heavily on her shoulders. The weight of it pressed stiffly against her chest until she was suddenly aware of the oxygen that stuck like cotton balls to the back of her nostrils, catching like lint and refusing to be filtered into her lungs. She found herself bent over and heaving under the sensation; ears ringing from the pressure of the deep, dense quietness. She did not know whether she was drowning or stifling, all she knew was that she was dying. The doctor had not used those exact words, "terminal illness" is what he had said.

"You're dying" is what she had heard and for that she blamed her mother's malignant and poor genes. 

"Damn her!" She spat mentally.

Of all the things that a ridiculously elite absentee mother could give to her love deprived daughter; her bad habits and poor genes.

 Tear inducing bitterness rose sharply at the back of her throat, and the pain forced a sharp cry from the pit of her stomach that cut through the blunt thickness giving her soul an air pocket of relief so that her lungs could take a breath deep enough to give some buoyancy to her sunken spirit. She straightened up and eased herself backward onto the bed until she was lying against the satin cased pillows, giving her lungs ample room to expand. Slowly, slowly, she could feel the universe returning to its normal size. When she was relaxed enough and no longer felt claustrophobic in her own body, she let her mind unhinge and swing freely to a time that she had wished so long and hard to forget. It flung itself as far back as the time she had lived in Norman Lee Hotel with her mother.

When she was little, all that Emma had craved was the luxury of her mother's attention but instead she was deliberately ignored and consistently neglected. She grew up under the supervision of the television and her nosy next door neighbour, Majorie James, because her mother was never at home.

You see, Carolyn Madder - that was her mother's name - had then, been quite the prancer, and was always busy being invited to the most exclusive of events and attending the elitist of galas. Not to mention that her appearances were the single most amusing aspect of each gathering. Carolyn had gained particular notoriety for her effervescent flirtatiousness and fickle femininity - a notoriety that grew among both her male and female colleagues, to whom she was both a temptation and a threat. Known for changing her men as often as she did her hairstyles, her newest beau was always a mystery and a sure topic of saucy gossip among the perpetually bored upperclass dames. Nevertheless, her arrival to these events on the arm of one, sickeningly wealthy, eligible bachelor, or another, was as sure as the rising of the sun.

Carolyn was out so frequently that by the age of nine, Emma had forgotten the look of her mother's face. She could be identified by the child only by the hem of a flambouyant skirt or as the tail of the new evening gown that often fluttered past the bedroom door as she hurriedly left for one of her soirees. Yet, not even clothes were a reliable mark of identification for her mother, for she probably wore each outfit only once. Thus having an outfit as a souvenir from every event that she attended and for every time she went out - and according to her wardrobe - it was in excess. If Emma were to use some other means of identification other than attire to pick her mother from a crowd, it would be by the familiar sillouhette and gait of her perpetually retreating backside - her face remained a blur.

By age fourteen, the mother and daughter had taken an unspoken vow of silence in their relationship. Emma would come home from school to the expectation of an empty hotel room. The only notification of her mother's presence at home was the 3:00 a.m. click of the door when she returned from a night out, and the lingering scent of tobacco and alcohol that clung to the sheets and curtains from when she entertained her many guests and beaus. Other than that, Carolyn Madder remained the faceless ghost that had just happened to haunt the same room in which Emma had resided, and at that very moment, Emma could feel the heavy, unwanted presence looming about. Against her will and her own better judgement, she had become her mother..."

Author's Note

"Emma" is an extract from a short story that I have been working on. Please feel free to proof read and give suggestions about how it can be improved. Tell me what you think and let me know if you would ever be interested in reading the full version. Enjoy.

Reviews

[conversations with her ..]

I really enjoyed this poem, and I’m looking forward to reading more of your pieces.

I'm kind of new on here and it would be an honor if you can review my 4 new recent poems (The world is ours, Nostalgia, Paradise, and You) and others.

Thank you and Keep up the Good work!

[Kris10]

Seems professionally written and polished but the emotional description might be laid on a little thick, thus diminishing the impact.

[Mishael H.R. Martineaux]

Thank you Kris10, I will review

[The Twin Arenas]

Where's this story set? How's she like her mother? I like the bit about cotton balls in nose. That's a good description of that weird thing that happens when things get very real. Good write, throw a little meat on the bones. I'm in.

[Mishael H.R. Martineaux]

Thanks a lot for your feedback! It is much appreciated. I'll update it soon.