Page 1 of Between Hope & Tragedy

It all started with one mistake.

But that’s what life is, isn’t it?

One mistake after the other, hoping that one day, things will finally go right for a change.

I left when I got the chance.

I thought it would make everything okay.

But sometimes, things go awry and we all have to go back to the places that hurt us the most.

I should have expected it.

After all, everything can’t be perfect forever.

Not everything in this world is as beautiful as it seems. A drop of dew sitting on the freshly-cut morning grass can hold a deadly bacteria invisible to the human eye. The stray cat that goes by my house every morning—with its lovely gray and white stripes—is feral and full of disease. The warmth of the afternoon sun that shines so lovingly on the world infiltrates the skin with cancerous cells, building up and waiting for the moment to strike.

But, like everyone else, I chose to ignore the danger hiding in everyday things and continued living as though nothing were wrong. I always thought that nothing could hurt me, because I was the flame, and as such, I couldn't be burned. Because I was a realist, I was waiting for the theoretical bucket of ice-cold water to be thrown over my head. I was waiting for the exact moment where I would be able to pinpoint every heartbreak, every sorrow I had experienced. come crashing down on me all at once.

I was sitting with my eyes closed, on a swing in the park, a few blocks away from my house. It was one of my favorite things to do because it gave me a chance to think. I never had a particular thought that I wanted to nail down, just a bunch of random things that would go through my head, and this was my place to let them flow freely. It was also my place to be alone because most people seemed to stay away from this here.

Just as I was slipping into my thought zone, I heard sounds of children laughing, and the pounding of racing footsteps.

I opened my eyes and looked at the slide curiously. There was a little girl with curly blonde hair climbing the ladder, while two older boys were following closely behind her. I smiled when she squealed happily as she went down the slide with her hands in the air. She couldn't have been more than five years old and her excitement at something so simple was enough to warm even my cold heart.

It also took me back to a memory of when I was fourteen years old. I turned my face away from the children and pushed the tip of my foot against the dirt, causing the swing to move back. With a sigh, I looked over at the manI assumed was their father who was reading a newspaper at the lone, wooden bench while the children played, and thought of another beautifully imperfect thing in the world.

Scars. They should be something to tell a proud story of survival, but the one I had—it told a story of guilt, depression, and loss. And while the scar may have healed nicely, the feelings I had when I got it never did.

My tale of woe happened when I was fourteen years old. I had stupidly fallen in love with my thirty-eight-year-old historyteacher, Mr. Spears, and ended up falling pregnant. Since I refused to tell my parents who the father was, they made me give my child up for adoption. I never even got the chance to find out if it was a boy or a girl, to hold them, or to see if they looked like me or him. Once I had my cesarean, my baby got whisked away and I was left crying in the hospital room alone.

It was on the third night in the hospital that I started to watch the light fade from the beauty in the world, and it was around that same time I decided to harden myself toward any form of emotion ever again. I spent the next few years in my parents' home, going to school, trying to accept the fact that my history teacher had decided that I didn't exist to him anymore, and finally graduated as a sad, broken teenager. Now at twenty-eight years old, I was a full-blown adult living on my own and keeping to myself.

Days were normally easy for me, functioning like I had never known heartache; because I always forced it away. But seeing happy, carefree children always made me sad. It always made me wonder if my child was loved and felt more wanted than I ever did. Praying they wouldn't make the same mistakes I had, and that they had a shot at a normal life. Hoping that maybe they thought about me as much as I would think about them at times.

None of it really mattered, because they were away from me, so I knew that their chances of being a normal human being were exponentially better than if I had them. Still, I wouldn't go many days without thinking about them.

"Why are you thad?" a little voice lisped next to me.

I glanced to my left and smiled, blinking back tears I didn't even know had been forming. It was the little blonde girl, and she was looking at me curiously as she struggled to get into the swing next to me.

"Because it's the only way I know how to be," I responded with a shrug before I hopped off my swing and left the little blonde girlstaring after me, with the curiosity only a child could achieve.

Three days. That was how long I had spent in my home before I decided it was okay to go back out into the world again. Seeing those children in the park had saddened me so much that I had spent the last seventy-two hours holed up indoors, with the blinds closed, watching chick flicks, and crying into a bowl of ice cream.

I was feeling better today, definitely a lot more like myself, and wanted to try this being an adult thing again. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going today, but once I had pulled on my black, denim shorts, loose hunter-green t-shirt, and pulled my long, wavy black hair back into a ponytail, I wanted out. It was the first time I had actually gotten out of my pajamas in the past few days, and I wanted some fresh air.

My black flip-flops slapped along the pavement as soon as I walked out of my house and down the driveway. I walked pastmy white, Maserati Ghibli without a glance, and took to the sidewalk like a woman on a mission.

It was a beautiful spring day in Stuart, Florida, and I figured I would walk the couple of miles it was to the beach. I always liked it there because the water was so clean and the waves that lolled lazily against the shore were welcoming. A day in the cancerous sun with my feet in the golden sand would probably be enough for me to stay happy for twenty four hours.

Stuart was small and private, which is why I had relocated here. The population was about thirteen thousand, and the chances that I would run into someone from my past were slim to none. I thought it would be the perfect place for a fresh start, even after eight years.

None of the shadows looked like Mr. Spears, and my nightmares didn’t include my parents anymore. I looked at that as an accomplishment; even though it took three years.

I finally made it to the beach, and sat down in my usual spot a few feet away from the empty lifeguard post. As I looked out over the ocean, I thought about how I liked this part of the beach the best because there was never anyone in the chair. Since it looked like it would fall over at any moment, the other beachgoers would stay far away from it.

I didn’t mind it. Hell, I was hoping that one day itwouldfall over and possibly take me out. It would be a small mercy to keep my demons away, and the best thing for anyone who knew me.

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