She was there at 3:30pm just like every other day for the past two weeks. Her greasy black hair hung down her back, scraggly and unkempt. Dressed in the same striped leggings and over sized yellow t shirt, she swayed up and down the pavement like a giant marionette. This girl, as thin as a stick, with the grace of a ballet dancer entranced me like no other had in all my 15 years I had lived in New York. She was my muse and I could not live without seeing her.
I remember the day she turned up. It was a Wednesday afternoon in July. The reason why it is so clear in my memory, is because it was the day I got my butt kicked. It was also happened to be the day my mother screamed, like I had never heard anyone scream the way she did when the doctors told her I wouldn’t last through the day. I am very stubborn; they didn’t know just how stubborn I could be. I lived because I refused to die. But the reason I will remember that day forever is because it was my birthday, the day I turned thirteen.
To help you understand what I am about, I better explain what started this obsession.
That Wednesday was one of my happiest. It was the end of the school day. James, my best friend at the time, had decided that he would walk home with me. He asked me to wait at the gate. I waited and waited, but James never turned up. I waited for almost thirty minutes, but he never came. By the time I left school the street was quiet and deserted. The usual racket of girls screaming, boys laughing and the buzzing of voices had died completely. I wondered what had happened to James, but I also knew that I would miss the last bus of the day to my street if I waited any longer.
I rounded the corner, the bus was stopping. I started walking faster and then began to jog. I didnt see the boys crossing the road. They were bigger, taller, wider than I was. One called out to me. I turned and that is when his fist collided with my cheek. I collapsed hitting the pavement. The pain shook through me. My mouth was wet and salty with my own blood. A booted foot planted itself in my stomach. I vomited right there in front of them as they laughed. The tallest of the boys, his black long hair covering most of his features took a step back and then skipped forward kicking me as hard as he could in my ribs. I passed out and only came to on the hospital bed, my mum screaming a scream that could wake the dead.
She brought me a birthday cake covered in her tears. She sang softly to me, her face covered in shiny scraggly lines. My birthdays were always sad after that. I learned that I had lost my best friend to a girl and I lost the use of my legs all in one day.
My mother would take me to the park everyday. It was only a way for me to get fresh air and to remind my self that this world was a place still worth living in. As the years passed my mother became ill, mentally ill. She became afraid of things on the outside. I needed the park then, but it was painful, that was until I saw her. There was something so magical about how she moved. She danced with such grace and beauty. Her eyes would close, her head would sway gently from side to side.
That night I began to write. For the first time in a long time I began to feel normal. I began to think that living was a gift and that there were things worth doing. I had a story to tell and I wrote page after page until my fingers bled. But it wasnt enough. I had to see her again. And every day I went to be inspired by my living doll, my muse, my key to life.