Jungle

A privileged british girl becomes the ward of her genius uncle in the Amazon. Due to unfortunate circumstances, Anne becomes lost in the jungle and has to learn to survive.

The pale canvas blew like the flame of a candle, wild with the wind. All my belongings, my beautiful objects, shiny and decorated all perfectly in line. Tufts of grass peaked up over the edges of the laid out rug, a dark red beetle climbed calmly across the coffee colored wood of my desk. My nails were chewed and raw, victim to my inevitable anxiety. I bent my fingers over each other so that they were folded in my lap, hidden from view to save my embarrassment. My whole body swayed slightly, aligning with my pulse, but still very tense. I read about it once, my body’s way of self comfort, and dependence. I was told to sit and stay with all the embellishments an owner would command their dog with. Swirls of dark lines patterned the bench I was placed on, the mass of my suitcase sat next to me. With little self control I had, the tip of my thumb disappeared into my lips again, only to grew more red with irritation. Where is he! I began to get furious with my uncle. Not only did he lack the decency to attend his brother’s funeral, but now he was late meeting his freshly orphaned niece, and new responsibility. Tears stung at my red rimmed eyes, as they had now for past two days. My father’s death wasn’t unexpected, he was sick for years on end, but the impact still hit with the force of a tsunami, rushing over me without rest. I felt empty. Empty of thoughts, of words, of opinion. All I had to offer the world just drained out of me, like they had pulled my stopper out and everything I had disappeared into the pipes. I guess they did the same to my father, when they pulled the plug. The funeral had been a very dull affair, although I don’t remember much of it. I sat in the front row, full view of the casket, and refused to speak although I had promised to. I don’t why I swore to in the first place, to seem mature, collected, like I knew myself at all? My aunt had put on a great show of sighing and tear wiping. I knew it wasn’t real though, this was a public affair after all, and when Auntie cries she does so in an unruly manner. With blistering red cheeks, veiny eyes, and throaty coughing. So, all this was her own pretending, to grasp at attention. She never truly cared for father, he came from a wealthy family and thus peaked her interest. Granny told me once, that my mother, Rosie, loved my father once, but it had soon faded just like the allure of new money folk. Which is what my father’s family was. I believe grandfather worked on the railroad, while granny raised two sons, until a friend and former business partner of grandpa’s from school followed his dream of pharmaceutical production, which my grandfather pitched to him years ago. A dozen new ideas, and a few well placed stocks later, the payoff was greatly imagined. Thus, my father’s family ascended into a life of bank accounts and tailored suits. My mother’s family on the other hand, came from a long line of business men ripe with trust funds. My mother and aunt were rotten with privilege, but so am I. Being spoiled doesn’t have to mean you’re a bad person, I can’t help my luck, and i’m quite grateful for it. The way I see it, I should not be expected to apologize for my personal advantage. Auntie married a solemn, careless man native of Britain like my mother. My father’s side was admittedly American, through and through. Auntie’s husband wasn’t much for small talk, and I have no recollection of him ever being courteous, in fact he threw money around like it flowed endlessly from his pockets. He died three years ago, on a boat sailing along the European coast, a freak storm I heard. Auntie sniffled just as gently at his funeral as well. The thought of funerals lulled me back to reality, away from reminiscence. I was forced to wait alone, in the dismal weather for a stranger who may very well never show up. Auntie was quite bitter about the whole arrangement and her abandonment of me now was my punishment. My late father is to blame truly. Hidden away his last will and testament, nullified days before his demise, announced a stunning judgement. You see I, like everyone else, assumed that my own custody would fall into the hands of Auntie. She certainly stood firm in adopting me, and with no prior warning it was read that I had been assigned to someone else. Someone I had only met once, and long ago. Harry Wells, my pitifully estranged uncle, that kept little affection among our family. In fact, his name had almost been taboo, and no pictures of him hung. He was an outsider, so different from the refinements of home. What I know about him, I only discovered from my aunt’s constant ranting after the judge finalized the decision. She argued with him, huffing and puffing. ‘He isn’t suitable! he’s never known the child, what kind of caretaker would such a man prove to be!’. But, since the judge had no reason to doubt Uncle Harry’s character, my father’s last decision stood firm. “Your uncle is an unnatural man!” she spewed, “Of little faith and lack of judgement,” Auntie snarled spitefully, before ascending into a chauffeur driven shiny Maserati, packed full of her three other sullen looking children. So, there I was, on a bench chipped with white paint outside a funeral home, my father freshly buried in the cemetery across the road. My tan brown suitcase stuffed tight with my belongings. Apparently my uncle had spoken on the phone with social services shortly after my father’s will was read yesterday, he informed them that he would pick me up shortly at the funeral home, I assumed he would be there early enough to watch the actual funeral. He also left a short list of instructions for me to follow, barely an hour he’s been announced my guardian and he’s already ordering me around, that specified me to pack a single suitcase of items to bring with me. I’ll have you know that I’ve lived all fourteen years of my life surrounded by the expensive objects I constantly received, another perk of being rich I suppose. The prospect of selecting which precious momentums, outfits, jewelry, books, dolls, and countless artifacts of my existence to take or leave behind was outraging, it was my own Sophie’s Choice.

Author's Note

Never got to the jungle part, sorry.