Third Place Winner - CWA First Chapter Contest - “Fragile”

By Jill Robinson

Cybele

Now

I caress the pages of my mother’s diary, the paper delicate under my thumb; if I am too harsh, it might disintegrate from the weight of my expectations. It’s been three days since I first curled up on the leather sofa to sort through the hazy memories of my past, reconciling them with the truths inked on these pages. My history is a culmination of past choices—only, the choices were not mine. These words tattooed on yellowed sheets, looping script laying confessions before me, confirm what I already suspected. I was never in control.

I try to avoid staring at the dark stain beside me. Blood doesn’t remove itself easily from the supple skin of leather. The stain will outlive us all, the couch one more casualty in the cacophony of my life. 

If I were to tell my story, it would be one of strength and resilience. Not because I was naturally strong or resilient, but because I was given no other option. As a child, I was enamored with caterpillars and butterflies, often collecting them from the forest surrounding my home. My mother taught me about their life cycles, and I learned to read and write by consuming various books on insects. The monarch butterfly, fragile in flight, journeys hundreds of miles to fulfill its purpose. To protect itself, it adapts. It then dines on milkweed and stores the poisonous and vile-tasting properties of the sap within its body. The monarch then devours itself. Cells self-destruct. An entirely new creature emerges from the remains. Gone are the predictable stripes of green, white, and yellow, replaced by the beautifully brilliant contrast of black on orange. Predators who ignore its colorful warning receive a toxic surprise. The monarch is a product of both its nature and its environment. It is beautiful but not helpless.

Like the monarch, I’ve done only what millions have done before me. Survive. I could lay blame for my troubles at the feet of my birth mother. I could fault the mother who raised me for setting that path in motion. But whom should I blame for their failings? They too survived, if only for a little while, within their own cages.

I catch myself fiddling with the sea glass necklace strung around my neck as I often do to soothe my thoughts. The smooth surface belies the arduous process required to produce such beauty. I can’t help but rub the cool green gem between my fingers as I read my mother’s words. 

I start again from the beginning. Maybe if I read it one more time, everything will make sense. If I read it a third time, then a fourth and a fifth, the ending might change. Things could be different. Hope favors the deluded.

Lettie, Faith, Amin, and Christian, their tales created mine—the one who birthed me, the one who raised me, the one who loved me, and the one who protected me. Drops of smudged ink cover the last page. I don’t believe in happy endings, only satisfying ones, and any ending can be an acceptable one if it’s on your terms.

Lettie

Thirty-Five Years Before

Mother only smiled with her lips the morning they took Lettie away. Father avoided her eyes. Grandmother refused to come downstairs, her words had dried up days ago. Lettie shoveled in her cereal flakes, choking when she forgot to chew. 

“It’s an honor, you know. And you’ll have every luxury given to you. The best of everything. They promised,” Mother said.

Lettie felt the lies slide down her throat to congeal in her stomach. If she thought too much, it would all come back up, tasteless flakes mixed with apprehension. She’d never been very good at swallowing the sermons her mother served her, as if shiny words and happy thoughts would make the sour things palatable. 

            “And think of how much good you’ll do for The Progeny Society, for humanity.” Mother flitted between the window overlooking the road and the sink opposite it. “Yes, this is good, for everyone.” 

Lettie could eat no more. Instead, she let her mother’s words lay useless in her lap. Back and forth and around the edges of the room Mother circled, wiping imaginary crumbs. It seemed she would do anything to keep from getting too close to her. Father grabbed the steaming mug before him, raised it toward his lips, blew, and set it back down, gently, as if it were a newborn baby. His drink remained untouched, more a prop than sustenance. 

“What if you say I can’t go? What if you tell them it was a mistake? We can tell them the results were wrong.” Lettie placed her hand on Father’s. He released his grip on the mug and squeezed his calloused fingers around her delicate ones while his focus remained on his drink. 

Her mother turned back to the window and leaned heavily on the dingy counter. Sunlight dared to stream through the smudged glass. It skirted the rusty bars screwed into the frame, refusing to bend to the obstruction. “The geneticists don’t make mistakes,” Mother said. “And we can’t keep you safe if you stay here. You’ll hardly miss us. You’ll be so busy making friends and attending classes. Did I tell you they’re going to put an easel in your room? You’ll be able to paint. And the ocean—you’ll finally see the ocean.” Her voice broke, falling to silence.

Lettie looked to her father, unmoving next to her. She knew then it was no use. While she didn’t quite understand everything the news reported, she wasn’t a little kid anymore. All the girls like her were going to centers around the nation. As the doctors reminded her, she was becoming a woman. Her wishing otherwise hadn’t changed anything. The signs were everywhere. Each time she looked in the mirror she was reminded of this fact—the sprouting hair, the breast buds, the changing curve of her hips—subtle now, but irreversible. She began experiencing her monthlies, and for the past year, her father slept by the front door, his shotgun cradled in his lap. 

“I don’t want to stay here anyway,” she snapped. Lettie yanked her hand from her father’s. She shoved the now soggy bowl of mush away, milk sloshing over the rim. The stairs protested under her stomping feet. In her room, she hurled herself onto the bed, buried her face in her pillow, and screamed. She tried to stop her breath, forcing her face deeper into the worn, cotton cover. They couldn’t take her if she were dead. She didn’t care about saving the human race. She didn’t even like babies. 

The burning in her chest overcame her stubborn wish to die and she rolled onto her back. Her eyes traced the familiar cracks on the ceiling as they webbed from one wall to another, stretching to escape if they could only find a way out. One by one, Lettie found the creatures formed by their junctures. The dolphin was in the corner near the sole window, poised to jump onto her easel with a half-finished painting of an imagined ocean, a painting she’d never finish. Directly overhead, a fat puffer fish. A starfish kept watch over the doorway. They had been her only friends for as long as she could remember, and soon, she’d be gone and they would remain here, trapped with no hope of escape.