Post by lipstick on Aug 1, 2012 21:48:14 GMT -5
[/style][style=width: 386px; border-top: 1px dashed #bbb;]
[style=width:350px; font-family: josefin sans; font-size: 30px; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align:center; color: #000; line-height: 80%; text-transform: uppercase; padding-bottom: 5px;]SCHUYLER CORDELIA WORTHINGTON
CITIZEN. TWENTY ONE. HOUSEWIFE. SWEET. SHY. PRIVATE. MYSTERIOUS. CREATIVE.
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,386,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, width:130px; height: 200px; background-image: url(http://i45.tinypic.com/2i21pu0.png);][/style] | [style=height: 180px; overflow: auto; font-size: 9px;] you'll remember me when the west wind moves, |
Emily.
I look over at you, your hair fanned out like rays of golden rods as we lay in the tall sea grass with the sand beneath us. Your eyes are the color of the Atlantic Ocean in the winter, its waves animatedly kissing the shore as you always have kissed me. Our fingers are knotted together and your smile reaches your eyes, a smile that causes the brightest of red hues to appear on my high cheek bones, my own face not yet having grown out of its baby fat. I squeeze your hand as the pebbles of rain hit us in an icy sheet and yet we remain there, knowing fully well there is a storm drenching us. We can hear the faint sound of the bell the help is ringing at each of our homes, divided by the long stretch of beach and drifting wood.
Emily.
I move in closer and I snuggle up against you, listen to your heart beat steadily pounding in my ears. You were always the wild one, I was always so tame. We are young, so young, only thirteen and yet I know, oh how I know you are the love of my life! You are my best friend, my lover, my companion. You are my parent, my one, my only. Your fingers run through my own blonde hair in a sweet caress I will forever remember. You are wearing a pale aqua sundress and my own is a pastel carnation. Cork toned thong sandals are on your feet while ghost colored flats are on my own. Our legs, yours then longer than my own, entangle within each other in our little hide out within nature and I straddle you, your hands going onto my hips always too wide for my age. They travel up my slender frame until you reach my hair and pull me down to entrap my full lips into your own.
Emily.
I love you, Emily. In that moment I realize it is not something fictional, it is pure and true. You kiss me and fireworks explode within my veins. You touch me and heat rises to soaring temperatures that rival the sun. You simply look at me and my world spins into a vibrant display of colors and symphonies. I am Schuyler Cordelia Harvard; the only daughter of the old money, blue blooded John Harvard and his wife Katherine, my family being the one that found the oldest university in the United States in the 1600s. I am Schuyler Cordelia Harvard and I am a lesbian. You. You are my love, my life, my light, my joy, my guide, my anger, my music, my universe.
Emily.
you can tell the sun in his jealous sky,
[/i][/right]White.
I stand in the pastor's office in the largest, oldest church in New York City. I am wearing a dress, a beautiful dress, that hugs my slender figure. I am seventeen years old and my hips are still too wide, my waist too small. The dress has a sweetheart neckline and is sleeveless. The train is lace and so is my veil. As I stand on the platform, looking at myself in the mirror, I notice I am wearing makeup for the first time, never remembering wearing so much and yet liking how it makes me somehow glow and become more radiant than I truly feel. You watch me, my maid of honor, in your pale champagne dress that makes you look absolutely spectacular. But I sense your disapproval as you keep your distance, holding my bouquet of lilies and baby's breath. Your hair is up in a neat fashion, my own in loose curls naturally falling down my back. I watch you, my eyes following your lips as they open and the words escape. You ask me what my new surname will be since I will no longer be a Harvard. I tell you it will be Worthington and you retort that my name was already long to begin with - that he simply made it worse.
White.
The dress is a blinding crystal and I feel like a gem walking down the aisle toward the alter. I see my future husband, a man I am meeting for the first time, and I am nervous, my face red as my father gives me away. I keep my eyes on you, standing right there beside me, our secret to forever remain that way. I feel my muscles tense and like the bodice of my gown is much too tight though it had fit just right moments ago. I say my vows, so quietly I can see people straining to hear my words. The flashes of the cameras momentarily distract me and your presence brings me back to reality even with all the reporters within the audience, causing such a big fuss over what was dubbed the wedding of the century. The district attorney of Boston was finally going to get married to his New York-native fiancee. You are my anchor as he moves my veil, as he plants the most tender of church kisses upon my lips. I do not feel the explosion of fireworks within my veins but I feel an eternal heat rise within the core of my being at having you witness such an intimate moment with my new husband.
White.
The church bells ring and he and I proceed down the aisle, arms links, and I can still feel you there as present as the white of my dress. During the reception, you whisper in my ear that my dress should not be white because we have had sex, that I am lying to my new husband already and our relationship is doomed to fail before we even make it to the honeymoon location. I frown because I consider myself a virgin - never having given myself to another man...only you, Emily. I should have been married in black, you suggest, because this is nothing more than a funeral of our love. I look at you with a stern glare, a reminder that we must keep up appearances for the sake of our good families. My husband squeezes my hand and hands me a glass of champagne to help me relax more but he is stiff and he is rigid in his ways. He cannot relax and neither can I.
White.
You are nowhere to be seen when the reception closes and I am alone with Mr. Worthington. When we arrive in Nice, France the following night, he slips off my underwear with more care than you ever had, my darling Emily. He is gentle removing my bra, laying me on the plush bedding, and undressing himself. I know he has done this before and I let him take over. I let out a whimper at the pain of feeling split in half and for a brief moment, I reach out with a hand and clutch the sheets, desperately wishing you could be here to save me from the feeling of ache, the trickle of blood that stains the sheets, the foreign feeling of a male body - the anatomy of which I do not know - pressed so tightly against my own with our sweat mingling and our breathing growing hoarse and ragged.
White.
In the morning, it is the blinding white light of the sun that reminds me I can never wake up next to you again. I suddenly agree. I should have been married in black.
many years have passed since those summer days,
[/i][/right]Tears stain rose petal cheeks as the eighteen year old stood within the crowd of black. She is clad in an onyx dress, modest, with kitten heels and the fishnet of her hat hiding her mascara that was running slightly in the corners of her eyes despite being waterproof. Her husband is there, Mr. Worthington, standing next to her solemnly, his arm around her thin waist. Her wedding ring, that large vintage silver ring with an oval piece holding much tinier sparkles of diamonds, sat on her thin and delicate finger and caught the sunlight as she reached out for his hand to keep her from collapsing right then and there. She felt her thin shoulders tremble at the depression that suddenly gripped her heart and broke it into a million pieces. Just last week she had seen her. Just last week Emily had taken the trip up to Boston to see her to help plan her husband's birthday party which would be in the following month. Schuyler had snapped at her - she shouldn't have. It was her fault the love of her life, her best friend, her maid of honor, her light was being buried six feet under in a stainless steel coffin heavily decorated with forget-me-nots, the flower the two of them used to collect when they were little - a detail Schuyler refused to let anyone overlook.
They had been sitting in Schuyler's large walk in closet, looking at each other through the mirror as Schuyler applied a bit of pale red lipstick to her full lips before they went out for dinner. Mr. Worthington was going to be working late again, as he always did as the district attorney of Boston. She came up behind her, brushing her hair off a shoulder and kissing Schuyler on her neck, nibbling on her ear while looking at her through the mirror, We could still be together, Sky...He doesn't ever have to know... And she had gotten so angry at the bold statement, making Schuyler feel like she was just another warm body to fill her bed, a whore, a harlot, a nothing. They had argued over this countless times. Schuyler was faithful to her husband. She cared about him. He was handsome and stately. He treated her with respect and never let her feel like she was beneath anyone. He made her feel like a princess and he deserved her loyalty and trust, her faithfulness and eagerness to please. He did not deserve to be cheated on. So Emily and Schuyler argued, again, and in the end, Schuyler had angrily yelled out that she loved Mr. Worthington and that was who she was building a family with, a life with, and if Emily could not accept that and be there for her as a friend, she should simply leave...Schuyler never expected her to.
But she did.
And now, she was watching her best friend inside a closed coffin as they began putting heavy dirt on her. She felt like the world was tilting on its axis and that this was it, she would never be happy ever again. She would never find bliss, never find the love she always wanted. Things couldn't get any worse than this...
Surprisingly, she was wrong.
when we walked in fields of gold,
[/i][/right]That smile.
I watched my wife, her young face lit up as if someone stuck a light bulb inside her. She looked up at me with round, feline blue eyes as if waiting for my approval, for me to tell her that I'm just as excited, just as happy. We had been trying for three years now to have a baby and there she was. She was sitting in the bathtub, filled to the brim with bubbles, and her four month old stomach round and firm, though only noticeable whenever she was naked. As I gazed down at her, I could see the changes clearly. Her breasts had gotten larger, her curves more defined. She seemed to radiate like the sun, a happiness that was contagious. She always placed her delicate hand with that wedding ring just above her navel and looked at me as if I was the one who made her this happy. Was I? Sometimes, back then, it was hard to tell. But then...
That smile.
She'd give me that sweet and innocent smile and that I couldn't help but grin back at her. I was in my Armani suit but I didn't think twice about it as I sat on the lip of the tub, reached down with my left hand with the white gold band, and rubbed her beautiful stomach. Our baby: the product of our love and passion. We had a few bumps in the road, especially after the death of her best friend who was the maid of honor at our wedding. I knew they were close - like sisters since Schuyler didn't have any siblings. But here she was with that infectious smile on her face. I leaned over and planted a deep kiss on her full lips. For three years we tried, each time the baby not making it more than one month before she lost them.
That smile...
It faded. Two months later and I am finishing up shaving in our master bathroom. I picture her there in the tub, m beautiful wife, but she isn't there. She is in the hospital, resting, after giving birth to a still born baby boy - Abel Worthington named after her father. I had left the hospital only thirty short minutes ago and already I feel worlds apart from her, already I want us to be back in that spot we were two months ago in this very same bathroom. The help had long already cleaned the blood she'd spilled last night when she'd woken up saying she hadn't felt well. I could still hear her screaming for me, could still hear the panic and the desperation in her voice as she clung to the counter with one bloody hand and the other clutching her ruined silk nightgown between her legs. She'd been screaming with pain and the inevitable sadness of the pending news we knew was going to come. She was already crying by the time we got to the hospital. I could already see her leaving me, the bridge we had just finally built quickly tearing itself down again. When I left her in the hospital thirty minutes ago, she had looked past me like I wasn't there, like a zombie or a human on auto pilot. If I spoke to her she wouldn't speak back - but at least she didn't move away when I reached over to touch her. If anything, I could tell she was welcoming it - relishing in the gentle caresses that weren't present in the first year of our marriage. I didn't know her after all...
That smile...
Looking at myself in the mirror, I find myself wishing I could somehow bring it back.
[/div][/td][/tr][/table][/style][/style][/center]
