Let me hear you call my name.
 Well, we meet again. I'm Alexa, but you already know that. However, you might call me Lexi, which is cool. Like me, cool that is. I make my own friendship bracelets like it's my job. But it's not. I work at a seasonal restaurant. I have an iPhone and we all know that makes me superior or something. Oh yeah, I'm like 21 or something like that. I love photography and have a Nikon D60... which I don't use. What more could you want from me? Just read. More than words.
You know you love me, too.
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A little something...
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Eternal Youth[i]My name is Abigail Wilks-Hughes, and this is my story.[/i] I grew up in London where I was surrounded by all of the socialites. I had everything and anything I wanted except for the freedom that I desired. Growing up a girl was a cursed life to live, especially in the 1800’s. At the age of fifteen, I learned what it meant to be a woman. My father, a lord, had met a perspective business partner, Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes was charming, though his appearance was less than appealing to me. His hair was often slicked back, and looked as if he hadn’t showered for some time. He never smelt so, but his hair was just so oily. He had brown beady eyes that seemed a little too big for his sockets. He was no more than 29, but he looked like he was 35. He also had a beer belly, it was not so protruding that it was obvious, but it would be noticeable. As business talk began around the dinner table, I was to sit there with my mother and entertain our lovely guest. Secret glances were given between my mother and father as Mr. Hughes began to inquire as to how well behaved I was. It seemed that he was quite taken and would often laugh at what my father would usually call “uncivil” behavior. Instead, Mr. Hughes liked me for it, for my frankness. Mr. Hughes’s calls upon my house turned from business to more intimate calls. He no longer asked for my father upon arrival, but for my company. I would have an escort as we walked through our beautiful gardens. I would laugh at his jokes; I would encourage his ego. However, I lacked a love for this man. My father cared very little about “my love,” and said that Mr. Hughes would make me a very happy woman when I could appreciate it all. When I had met Mr. Hughes, I was fifteen years and four months. On my birthday, May 21st, the day that I turned sixteen, Mr. Hughes proposed to me. And being a young woman, in the care of my father, could I have said, but “yes?” I had no say in the matter. So a month later, I was standing at the alter with my white gown and all. It was beautiful, the ceremony, but I became awfully aware that I would be with this man for many years, for the remainder of our years. I began to cry, which everyone blamed on “tears of joy.” What else could they expect them to be? Why would I be miserable that I would be marrying this oaf of a man for the rest of my life? Why, why would a beautiful, strong woman like myself be crying over any freedom that I maybe could have gained if I had not wed? [i] Now I’m staring at myself in my mirror in my chamber. My hair is blonde and pin straight. My skin is pale with pink reminders of my youth. I have small creases at my mouth and eyes, but they are not nearly deep enough to be considered wrinkles. My green eyes are luminous in the dark that encases my room. My petticoats are a little dirty, and a little frayed; age will do that to them. Looking at myself, I catch a smirk on my lips. Knowing what I know now, I don’t know whether I should be happy or sad. If I hadn’t married George Hughes, would I be the person I am today? Would I have the freedom I have? Well, to make you understand my confusion, I must continue my story.[/i] “Welcome to your new home,” George said helping me down from the carriage. We had arrived at a gray stone house. It was two stories, and of decent size, but much smaller that what I had expected of his boasting. There were two green trees growing by the doors, but they lacked color, though they were deep emerald green. They seemed to be tainted, like much of the rest of the house, by a creeping gray. “This place is wonderful,” I lied. I was good at lying; it was something I often partook in to amuse myself. Now I did it not to offend my husband. However, the grayness seemed to take a hold of my feet as I anchored down onto the ground. With each step I took closer to my new front door, I felt the stifling grayness take hold of my legs and then further up my body. My life would become monotonous. There might be a party or two, but from here on out, I was to bear children and amuse my husband. My life, if I was to ever have had one, was over. It was only a couple of months before I became pregnant. It was only a few more until I bore my first child; his name was George James Hughes III. He was beautiful, but he was not mine. He was my husband’s. As James grew up, George had little use of me. It gave me more free time. Once in a while he would visit me intimately, but it was merely when he was drunk and needed some release before the alcohol knocked him out. It left me frustrated and wanting something more. I became pregnant and found myself suffering this time. The doctor said it was caused by stress, and that I should be well rested. My heart was becoming weaker; a sickness he didn’t know was overcoming me. I spent months in my bed, only visited by my husband every so often. My maids became my friends; Addy was close to my age. She was a beautiful girl, and she was with me for the birth of my second son Harrison Duke Hughes. I recovered some from my sickness, but my heart was still weakened. My Harrison was in good health, so my husband was overjoyed. Yes, forget that your poor wife is still sick, but why ever do you remember the woman? I became more and more bitter as I watched as mistresses easily replaced me. I sought to find distractions from my husband’s affairs. I met a good, kind woman, Lady Marie. She took me under her wings and taught me what it meant to be a woman in this world. She showed me tricks to find little pieces of freedom, and showed me things I never thought existed. She had long, wavy chestnut brown hair. She often wore it in a braid down her back. Her dresses were fine, but simple. She had the most beautiful blue eyes in her soft face. Her pink lips encased her beautiful smile that brought life to her face. I guess you could say I fell in love with her some ways. I began my affair with her at the age of twenty, and it lasted for a year until she was called away to help and care for her sick mother-in-law. I’ve always missed her. I missed the comfort she gave me as she slept in my arms. I missed the way she smelt. I think of her quite often, even now. I was 21 when I met [i]him[/i], though. He has been the only man, to this day, to make my blood boil, but slide coolly through my veins. He has made things low in my body ache for his touch, just by his simple, dark glance. His name is like a song on my tongue, and it resonates throughout my body. I’ve never desired, nor hated someone so much. I guess its because he made me love him, but never finished what he started. I was at Lady Eleanor’s spring party with George. I was walking out to her garden to take a quick breath of fresh air. I never enjoyed talking about stitching and the latest gossip. I couldn’t quite comprehend why or how you could draw entertainment from discussing such things, or even doing them. It was a beautiful night out. It was slightly chilly that I needed my cloak, but not so that I was freezing. I took to a bench in the corner of the garden, which was lit with beautiful torches along the path. |
Goodbye.
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