One of Us I felt in my soul, in my heart, a desire to break free, a desire to pursue what I wanted. What I wanted was simple, but in this simplicity there was confusion, pain, even challenges and complications. Doesn’t sound so simple anymore, huh? But in my mind, where the smell of the ocean invaded my nostrils and the tickle of the ocean breeze made my skin crawl, stood my simplicity, my love. I made quick steps now, hurrying to get to him. One foot in front of the other at a steady pace. ​Getting so close made Goosebumps rise and dance on my skin. My spring dress flowed softly around me, being carried and dropped gently by the careful wind. I pictured being on a beach. I pictured seeing out in the distance my love swimming gracefully through the water. I’d run into the water, fully clothed, not wanting to wait another moment until I reached his embrace. Somehow in my beautiful daydream, I see my mother. I see her out in the water behind him. He’s grinning at me, waving for me to join him. In my throat I feel the words wanting to burst out. She’s going to drown him. ​I shake my head roughly, to rid myself of the foolish dream. Then, I sigh because it’s not as foolish as I would like to believe. My mother would do that if she ever got the chance. She hated Jonathan. She hated him more than anything. She would dream and in the morning she would tell me at the breakfast table about her absurd dreams. Her dreams of murdering him. I would ignore her silly mind tricks. I knew what she dreamt of. Money. It’s a poison. It’s a lust. It’s a desire. It’s a need. And it’s something that consumes my mother. It consumes her thoughts, her dreams, her #life, her heart. ​When I was young, my mother used to wake me in the early mornings. I’d rise from my princess bed and sit at my mini vanity. She’d retrieve my diamond studded hair brush from one of the drawers to brush my hair. ​“I’m making you pretty. That way you will one day be pretty enough to marry a very handsome man.” She’d say. I would smile and giggle and feel as if she were doing me a favor. Now I know she was making me pretty enough to marry a rich man, not necessarily a handsome one. When I grew older, primarily in my adolescent years, she would continue brushing my hair at the vanity and she would also put all sorts of makeup on my face that I didn’t like. ​“But it’s supposed to make you even prettier.” She said whenever I protested. She never let me cut my hair even when all the other girls had short bobs. They were in style then, but every time I’d ask she snap at me. ​“Men don’t like women with short hair. If you cut your blonde hair, I’ll shave your head.” She was obsessed with the idea that men liked women with long blonde hair. She was so obsessed with this that when I became thirteen, she dyed my hair blonde. My original color was a dark chocolate brown. I was satisfied with that hair, mostly because it mirrored my father’s. My father died when I was twelve. He was very wealthy and I can only guess why my mother married him. I was close to my father even though he was rarely home. This didn’t bother my mother. I don’t think she was even in love with him and his absence did nothing to her, whereas the absence of Jonathan always broke my spirit. Aside from being money hungry, this was another thing about my mother I couldn’t stand. ​I believed my grandmother, now deceased, also did this to my mother, pushed her to marry a man of wealth. I also believe, from seeing photos of my mother when she was younger, that my grandmother dyed my mother’s hair blonde as well. This realization made it known to me that this was something of a tradition, but I vowed I’d break the tradition. I vowed with my whole heart that if I ever had a daughter, I’d make sure she fell in love with a man of her choice and I’d let her do whatever she wanted to her hair, everything but dying it blonde. It’s a sick tradition. ​I start when my feet touch warm, soft sand. I lean down to remove my sandals and carry them with me as I walk down the beach. I see Jon lying on a woolen blanket, probably the one his mother made. He has a basket beside him and in his hands lies his notebook. He writes all kinds of things in there. The only thing I was allowed to see was a #poem dedicated to me, but that was all. He keeps that very private. And I respect it. As I approach closer, he looks up and at the sight of me the corners of his mouth turn up in his unique smile. Everything about Jon is very unique; it might be why I fell in love with him. I’ve been so used to the same men. The ones my mother introduces to me are never different. They bore me. ​The most unique thing about him may be his eyes. I had never seen eyes like his before, gray and silvery with flecks of deep brown. ​“What are you writing?” I say when my feet are positioned at the edge of blanket. He grins and slams his notebook shut. He rises and picks me up from my feet. I giggle like I did when I was a child. ​“I’m not writing anything.” He whispers. I raise an eyebrow and give him a hard look. ​“Oh really?” He smiles and shakes his head. ​“Nothing you need to see, my love.” ​We sit on the woolen blanket, sharing a loaf of bread his mother hand baked and some cheese that his sister made from her goat. Jon’s family isn’t rich. In fact, they are fairly poor. They survive on what his mother bakes and what his sister milks from the goat. Jon also has a job. He’s a writer for the town’s newspaper, but they pay him very little for the great work he does. Jon’s father skipped town a few years ago, long before I even met Jon. ​As the sun began to set, we sit on the blanket, hand in hand, looking out into the ocean. The waves were calm and when they crashed, they would touch our feet. The tide was rising and we only had a few more moments until it would consume the blanket. But we held our ground, waiting until the sun set before traveling up the beach to our homes. The ocean was like a sweet lull, I could fall asleep in an instant on Jon’s chest because it is so calming. ​When the sun finally set, we gathered our belongings and headed home. Jon knew not to walk me home, my mother wouldn’t have it. ​“I always worry about you though; it isn’t safe for a young, beautiful woman like you to walk around town at night.” He’d say. I agreed with him, but it was worth the risk. I couldn’t let my mother know I’m still seeing him. Whenever she asks where I’ve been, I say I’m with Neal. This brightens her mood and she gushes about what Neal has and how big his house is. I just roll my eyes and pretend like I care. Neal is one of the wealthiest men in our town and my mother would do anything for me to marry him. When my father died, my mother realized she wasn’t put in his will, in fact he hadn’t made one at all so all his belongings and money went elsewhere. This devastated my mother and since then she’s been “preparing me for marriage”. I could never marry Neal though, I do not love him. I can only see myself with Jonathan…forever. ​When I enter the door I find my mother waiting with Neal right beside her. My heart jumps around and at once my nerves get the best of me. ​“Mother, Neal!” I say. My mother is glaring at me, eyes filled with suspicion. Neal stares at the floor, remaining silent. ​“Where have you been? You cannot tell me you have been with Neal. I see you have not.” She nods her head towards Neal. I slip off my sandals and place them off to the side before replying. ​“I have not been with Neal mother. I was out looking for a job.” I say from the top of my head. Now her eyebrows rise. ​“Looking for a job?” She repeats. I nod nonchalantly. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and continues to glare at me. ​“I thought that if I could make some money, I wouldn’t have to get married.” Neal looks up now but I don’t catch his eyes. ​“Wouldn’t have to get married?” She spats. I nod again, nonchalantly. My mother, though she is a few inches shorter, manages to reach my face with her open hand. The force is so hard, so unexpected, I fall backward, landing on my bottom. She hovers over me, a finger pointed at my face. Her own face is hard and mean and I can see the money lust in her eyes. ​“You will get married, Elizabeth. Neal has asked for my permission and I have given him my seal of approval and so I highly suggest you get yourself up off this floor and accept his proposal as well.” My face falls and I want to scream. I want to beg for more time. If I could have more time, I could find Jon at his mother’s house and we could runaway together. Now, it’s too late and I feel my heart collapse in my chest and feel my spirit breaking. ​I stand slowly, smooth my dress out, and take Neal’s hand. I mechanically kiss his cheek and to my mother’s deepest satisfaction, I accept his proposal. ​On my wedding day, I wear a frown, on my honeymoon, I wear a frown, everyday being Neal’s wife causes me to wear a frown. My heart is bleeding and the sadness is too much to bear. My mother is more than happy, though, with her silver, her diamonds, and her gold. Every day she asks me when I shall conceive a child. The thought sends me into a deep #depression. I will never have Neal’s child. After I married Neal, Jonathan never wrote me, never came to see me, and I knew he was broken too. I feared he would take his own #life, but I knew Jon wasn’t the type to succumb to that. He was stronger than I ever was. I knew he’d find a way to be with me again. ​But as the days, weeks, and months began passing, I started losing hope. I started feeling as if he were never coming for me. Like he had given up. So one day when I cannot bear the pain any longer I walk the distance to his mother’s house where I know he’ll be typing his work. I approach the red door and knock. ​“Elizabeth.” Jon looks down at me, clearly surprised. I smile weakly, perhaps my first attempt at a smile since I accepted Neal’s proposal. Jon didn’t smile. ​“Oh, Jon. I thought you would come for me. I thought we would runaway together! But you never came! Why Jon?” I was crying in my hands when led me into the house. He sat me down at his table and rubbed my back. ​“You’re a married woman now Elizabeth. You don’t have time for the poor.” His reply sounded like an accusation, as if I wanted things this way. I rose to my feet and gave him a dirty look. ​“You think I want to be married to that man? I don’t want to cook for him, to clean for him, to be his wife! My mother asks me of children! Of children, Jon! Can you imagine? No, I do not want children with that man, I won’t have it! I won’t!” Again, I cannot stop the tears from emerging. He’s at my side in an instant. He apologizes and sympathizes, promising he’ll find a way. I leave at dusk and when I arrive home, Neal is still gone at work. I lie in my expensive bed, made of the finest wood, and cry. I have never felt so alone. ​The next morning I am awakened by Neal. He is angry and I have never seen him angry before. He shakes me until I convince him I am awake. ​“Jonathan is it?” He yells. I am still sleepy and as I rub my eyes, I realize Jon may be in danger. I stand to face Neal. ​“What do you mean?” Neal replies with a hard slap to my face with the back of his hand. I fall on the bed. It stings, but I don’t show him pain. ​“You’re crazy! If you mean to ask me if I had an affair with Jon, I will have you know I gave him up for you! Did I want to? No!” I scream. He picks me up by my nightgown’s collar and I can feel his hot breath of my face. I have the urge to cringe, but I’m too afraid to set him off once again. I always thought Neal was the quiet shy type, but now I really see him for who he is. A monster. A player in my mother’s games. ​“He came here this morning. He was at the door when I arrived home. Tell me, Elizabeth, was he not here to “rescue” you?” I want to bite my lip because I know he’s dead on, but I just shake my head. ​“No, honey, I’m sure he’s here to bring us a wedding gift.” I fail at attempting a smile. He retrieves something from our bedside table. ​“This is a wedding gift?” He waves it in my face and releases my nightgown’s collar when I take it from him. I sit on the bed and stare at it. I’ve seen it a hundred times in hands that are so familiar to me. ​“He’s not writing anything. Nothing for me to see…” My voice trails off as I caress the hard surface of the cover. I’m angry now because his notebook was in the rough hands of my husband. The word makes me want to vomit on Neal’s shoes. ​“What did you say?” Neal asks. I shake my head and tuck it under my pillow for later examination. ​“Where is he?” I demand. Neal looks at me and grins. ​“I had a few men take care of him.” A lump in my throat forms and I barely manage to get out, “What?” Neal takes a stray blonde hair and tucks it under my ear. He then leans down to whisper in my ear, ​“What I mean is he won’t ever be coming at our door.” I push Neal’s chest and run down the grand stairs only to hear the sound of two gun shots. ​I never went to Jon’s funeral. I wanted for months to go to his family and apologize for my husband. I never got the courage until months later when I was far too pregnant to make the journey to his mother’s house. When my baby girl, Ashley was born, my mother hovered over her, ready to prepare her for marriage. In my condition, I couldn’t fight for her, no matter how much I wanted her #life to be better than mine, even though I vowed to never let it happen. But I was too far gone and too damaged by my mother’s tricks and games. So I succumbed to my mother and Ashley grew up to be one of us.