Sparkles Adorning Destitution (Revised)

The Duchess of Pain

  Story One: Sparkles Adorning Destitution (Revised)

  by

  J. Niessen

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  Published by:

  The Duchess of Pain: Sparkles Adorning Destitution (Revised)

  Copyright 2014 by J. Niessen

  Cover Page by J’s Art Emporium, Copyright 2014

  Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the material remains in its complete original form.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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  Author’s Note: Sparkles Adorning Destitution (SAD) is my most popular short story to date. I don’t regret publishing the original version. There’s a reason for the awkward style and vague messages. But I sense it. The craft of the piece creates a distance between the reader and the narrator. To help the read flow more fluently I’m publishing this revision. The first page delves immediately into the heartfelt struggles that the main character is stricken by. It is comprised of thoughts and feelings, (one thing I couldn’t bring myself to delete). [Click here] to skip to the story. Then judge for yourself which version you enjoy best, by leaving a rating!

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  Sparkles Adorning Destitution (Revised)

  by Anonymous

  Dear Taylor;

  I’m reminded of you, repeatedly, every day, by thoughts I can’t escape. To forget about you is as easy as avoiding temptations. Even after all these years, far beyond our estranged high school days, I know that now is not the time for us to meet or speak privately. Yet there’s a tug on my heart exclaiming that moment is drawing close. I refute this notion desiring to protect the emotional stronghold I’ve built, partly convinced it’s unlikely you’d appreciate my personality, and hesitant by the possibility of constantly finding ourselves at odds with one other.

  I reflect on the young ambitions I held for you, those since severed just as a surgeon would remove a cancerous growth. I try to keep these thoughts from sprouting by using trained focus on physical exercise; temporarily satisfying my attempts to thwart love’s entanglements (riddled with sharp thorns). But oh how I wish we could see the flowers that would blossom from these vines. Then to taste the fruit that grows which only gets sweeter as our love matures.

  I struggle to swallow the lies I feed myself: that I’m finally over you. The hope to offer you happiness, that only a devoted spouse can give, I block out…by training my focus on other people’s lives. I’ve found a way to escape cruel reality: by submerging my concentration into movies, reading, and by filling my mind with enchanting music.

  It’s retarded of me to even bring this up. The cursor on my computer screen has selected this paragraph so many times, followed by delete…then undo. I had a chance to see you just recently. I learned of a banquet you would be attending. This of course is only a metaphor. We both know it was a concert. I make the decision to reroute efforts to go and see you. Aware of the special opportunity to be with you completely in heart and like mind, but actuality betrays me. There is just no way for you to feel the same of me. And so I use all of these noxious convictions to poison further thoughts of developing a passionate connection with you.

  It’s been years since these feelings developed. It seems unreal that we’re both still single.

  Every year at this time those memories overwhelm. Valentine’s Day is less than a week away. It’s as if I’m holding my breath for the day to pass. As with any poisons, living things will develop immunity to that pollutant. Lately I’ve been using scolding techniques to keep certain ideas in confinement, as my mind drifts to wanting you as my closest personal friend.

  I recall how carefully I tried to keep the craft glue from messing up the cover page I was working on for you. That card was meant to reflect the happiness you spread to others. The joy I observed on their faces while we were still just teenagers. I wanted to be one of those friends you give your attention to at lunch time, after we’ve moved on from Junior High…

  Freshman year of high school is a depressing era for me. It’s a place you naturally fit in, while I feel like a complete outsider. Every moment I spend standing outside of class, alone, places me in an awkward frame of mind. I’m burdened by a sense of alienation. Hurt stems from this time; it’s difficult to travel back and relive those trying experiences by way of thought.

  I realize what I am doing right now, and I feel awful because of it. It was never my intention to spread such sadness through this letter. I set out hoping to mirror your magical presence; to create a cheerful work of art. Reading this should stir delight, the way your joyous energy makes me--and all those who know you--feel.

  We’re halfway through the school year. I hope to offer something special for your Valentine’s Day present; imagining with great anticipation that this would be what breaks the ice and finally draws us together. I stifle the voice of doubt that speaks out against positive engagements and hopeful activities. It starts by telling me that your admirers already have things sorted out. That their plans go far above anything I could hope to present you with. It’s not until later that I observe first hand, with crushed esteem, that this voice is true; seeing your admirers lined up with endowments. How could I have been so naïve to believe my simple project would stand against a freshman girl’s expectations--paired with the scrutiny of her critical friends?

  I want to ask you about a distant memory. Do you remember your first crush? Did you do all you could to let that person know about your feelings? At least I can say I tried.

  With what little I have saved I buy stickers, with patterns worn on your t-shirts; glitter (reflective of your makeup with a hint of sparkle to it); bright colorful construction paper; and shimmering foil. The written feelings and questions I add thwart my confidence in the project, because I’m an insecure teenage boy with the fear of having these shared sentiments becoming publicly known. I dread hidden scrutiny, held in the mind of others, of how they regard me.

  Well, you look so happy when I see that after first period someone sent flowers to your home room. And the offerings continue throughout the day. Hoping to slip the valentine into your locker, I hesitate from the risk of being seen, and can’t bear the risk of ruining the delicate artwork. I make the decision to return over the weekend, and plant your custom-made card then. But before that can happen…a life-altering experience shakes my course-of-action off track.

  The day after Valentine’s, Friday, on my way home from school, I find the saddest thing. In the afternoon, as I turn the street corner into a residential neighborhood, a group of junior high kids (with their school backpacks still on) are huddled around something. Getting closer I hear whimpering. It’s a small puppy, curled up against the curb of the sidewalk. Whispering as I crouch down “Everything will be all right” I carefully rescue him, and take a glance around for any outside neighbors. One home has two cars parked in the driveway, so I go knock on the door. A man answers. His hard look remains, seeing the helpless stray cuddled in my arms.

  “Does this little guy look familiar?” I ask, hoping the neighbor will disagree so I can continue my walk home (free of convictions) prepared to take on the responsibility of looking after this helpless little guy. My optimism is squashed by the man’s detached response. “I seen that pup loose earlier this week. Neighbors keep him penned in the backyard. Seems every day
one of ‘em gets loose. Hell, once the whole lot of ‘em was out rompin’ the cul-de-sac.”

  “Which yard is it?” I turn to the identified house and find a vacant driveway.

  Believing the family is away I inquire, “When do they usually get home?”

  “By five tonight, they should be back.”

  That gives me 3 hours to bring this adorable young one home to offer him a warm bath, supply him with much needed nourishment, and to feel out Mom and Dad’s standpoint. Then, just maybe, I can talk the absentee owners into giving up my new found friend for me to adopt.

  Things work out just as I had crossed my fingers and hoped for.

  Sometimes pets come into our lives for a reason.

  Hindsight reveals how inopportune it would have been for me to come forward with my feelings during that weekend. Taylor, you deserve the best in life. Monetarily I can’t offer you luxuries, making it impossible to adorn you in the ways I dream of when imagining the shared activities we would have fun doing together.

  Awkward and unconfident moods, developed from clarity and reason, stifle these pleasant wonders. My expectations decline to realize that slaving (to provide for these opportunities) would only bring about greater complications, and hinder the growth of our relationship. My parents fall into the lower level middleclass of society. This disadvantage illustrates my poor life, in comparison to those well-off contenders striving for your admiration.

  I name our newest family addition after a longtime Hollywood crush. That weekend is a whirlwind of preparations to get Drew situated. My focus to deliver your valentine is misplaced.

  He and I instantly form a close and personal bond. He’s my best friend, counting on me to come home and be there for him. The way he leaps around from behind the front screen door, when he sees me walking home from school, is the most adorable sight ever. All other prior concerns are forgotten. I check out library books teaching that the first 3 years is the most important time to invest in daily training. He and I grow together. Having the best personality; family members think I boast as a proud owner about his wonderful nature and loyal poise.

  Drew has so much energy and, as most dogs do, he loves to exercise. A year later he’s fully grown. If you can, try and picture a yellowish-tan Terrier/Shepherd mix. It’s a workout for me to keep pace with him on our daily runs. Waiting for him to tucker out, I think he pushes forward in anticipation for me to tire as well. His energetic excitement and facial expressions show his happiness when we’re out. After school I make sure he’s fed, and then let him out in the back yard where he anxiously sniffs around and marks his territory. Coming back in he’s accustomed to the routine, racing to the pantry where his running harness is kept.

  Looking for new jogging routes, I learn of one that the school’s track team takes. Drew and I challenge it every day. Noticing this self-ambition, the coach approaches me in-between P.E. class one day. After a series of inquiries he motivates me to join the afterschool training. There’s one stipulation I have. After completing the official steps, Drew is licensed as a service dog, making it possible to take him out on runs as part of track training. During our competitive school meets I’m afraid to glance up at the packed bleachers, imagining you there, staring at me.

  My athletic achievements earn me a local college scholarship. You move on and I don’t give it more than a thought. Current events happening in the entertainment industry are the only reminder of distant feelings. Sometimes I see you and wonder how you’re doing, but heed giving in to the hold you had over me. I avoid dwelling on the past and evade reliving depressing emotions. Exercise and nutrition makes me feel good and becomes my daily focus.

  Reluctantly it’s time for me to share the latter half of this story.

  Drew is having difficulty moving around when I get home one day, seeing him confined to the ground. My eyes swell quickly with tears. I fall to my knees down beside him, overcome by an inadequacy to resolve his troubles, and feel my heart breaking, not knowing what to do.

  Scooping him in my arms I remember how helpless he was that first day we met. How he depended on me then, and still even now. Bundled in his favorite towel I place him carefully on the passenger seat of the car, imagining how he used to love sticking his face out past the window as we would go for a ride. I race him to the vet where they do a series of tests.

  When the results come back they conclude that a heart murmur ails my very best friend. The veterinarians could operate--but the lead consultant warns there is very little chance of success. Without the operation, they say my faithful companion could pass away overnight.

  Ask yourself, “Would you allow doctors to practice on a loved one, so they may learn from the procedure and have better results for future patients?” This is the question I face.

  Seeing in his struggling eyes Drew will never be his chipper self again, I lean in, placing one last kiss on his softly held head, hoping my closest buddy somehow understands; hoping he’ll be braver than I am now as my emotional strengths crumble and tears pour down my face. A pit of broken loneliness opens as I quietly sob, turn, and slowly walk away from his worried and/ confused gaze. Of all the happy moments we shared, none can block out that captured look.

  Sadness eats away at me as our daily routine is lost. I drive out the lonely silence in the apartment with music, to displace the piercing heartache. Taylor, your voice over the stereo motivates me to release pent-up feelings, hearing you speak now so honestly in your lyrics.

  The passion I reluctantly include next comes as a result of your inspiration. These words can never compare to your professional talent. I write without restraint, convinced that the admiration I pour out will remain secret; and I do this out of necessity, with no one to confide in:

  Taylor, I think of these as songs that I wish to someday create for you.

  The life that’s dying consumes. And when that life is gone I want to leave, but I recall the feelings in your voice when you are at your happiest, before the sadness taints your heart. I come back from December to remind you of your inner beauty and strength.

  If you could only see that smile you desire to see, could come from me, you won’t ever have to cry alone, once we promise to always respect and endorse one another.

  From the hurt that you’ve been going through; you should never have to feel such sorrow. Extending all I have to reach you, take a hold of my rescue, and pull up out of the sinkhole.

  Absent from your voice, is the part they stripped away. Can that excitement be restored, by inspiring a song I believe you can play? I want you to learn, you’ll never be invisible to me.

  We (when they see us they’ll believe) are the lucky ones, from a story that’s so pure and true. Warning sounds screech only from a nightmare, a dream of us never meeting.

  When you wake up, I’ll always be close beside you, so you can see, in my smile and my eyes, (or just through heartfelt thought) how lucky I know I am, to be a part of your life. And when you awake, you’ll understand by my knowing smile that I need you as my shining light.

  Would it make you feel better to tell me what has hurt you, in the times when I wasn’t around? It’s breaking me down, knowing I wasn’t there to ease this growing heartache.

  That memory you cling to, involving a love that’s always absent, is something I hope to keep away. The thought of your last kiss, I promise to replace, by the first one of ours.

  Yours is the name I hold in my heart just for this.

  That’s it for the poetry part; my style of it anyways. What follows are portions taken from a journal I keep, to take my focus off the loss of Drew. You help to alleviate that pain.

  Preconceived expectations tarnish progression of a relationship. How can two separate worlds such as ours coexist, when one is driven by success, with statistical gain and popularity, while the other lives through: sacrifice, needs of dependency, and separation from the norm?

  Preconceived notions cau
se hesitation, assuming you may push for desired turnaround.

  Partnership requires sacrifice, killing portions of the old, and forcing an opening of the heart. Doubt tells, “They only act the part to draw you in.” Trust is the most difficult measure. Yet why is it that in alternate scenarios (involving acquaintances) that trust is so easily given?

  This sense that we belong together is not centered on lust. Those asking in good humor who I would want to be with are shallow, dwelling only on physical looks and worldly status, rather than the deeper part of attraction. You draw me by your sensitivity. The feelings you inspire, transcend aspirations. Evil people visualize wicked acts. Repulsive to me is the imagery of tainting pureness. Backward is the world where this mentality is promoted with appeal.

  I agonize over hearing others put you down for your failed relationships. Takers will challenge your integrity. It’s not your fault that they are the self-centered individuals involved.

  Examining the product of a person’s success is my greatest motivational drive. Apprehension clues that this content I have written may supersede other personal works. The precautionary portion of my mind, advising in the concealment of emotions, suggests this collection should be placed on hold, so readers may consume alternate creations from my mind.

  Ascertaining greatness is admirable to an extent. My viewpoints lead me to believe that fame should be used to bless others. When considering the monetary wealth that public success offers, worldly achievements are less desirable. I hope to better the disadvantaged.

  Is there anyone in this world who can empathize with the sadness killing my spirits now? Analyzing personal levels of distress I recognize a sorrow greater than mine. When a father and mother must stand idly by, as their innocent son is tortured and brutalized, this must be the worst anguish imaginable. The end to their child’s inhumane suffering handed over through lethal persecution. The Father knows that when death surmounts it provides release from captivity, paving the path to homecoming. Then Father and Son may reunite after 33 years of separation.