forever in dept to your priceless advice.

So, people actually read these?! Oops.
(c) All characters, places, events taken place in Mosaic are copyrighted to Madelaine Legault.

…

CHAPTER TWO – NEW PERSPECTIVE

The old Emma-Rose had long, clean, ebony hair. This Emma-Rose’s hair was knotted and covered in what appeared to be a mixture of mud and sweat.
     The old Emma-Rose had the best and fairest complexion, the whitest, brightest smile. This Emma-Rose’s face was wan, with mascara stains underneath her eyes and on her cheeks, and her teeth felt like they were going to fall out.
     The old Emma-Rose’s eyes were a deep emerald, and they could stare right into your soul. This Emma-Rose’s eyes were bloodshot, blank and seemed to wander more than usual.
     The old Emma-Rose freaked out about a broken nail, or if a strand of hair was out of place. The new Emma-Rose isn’t even going into shock, but yet she had just witnessed her mother and sister’s homicide and suicide.
     Maybe I am going into shock, and that’s why I’m reacting so tamely to what just happened. I realized, but let the thought pass. Nothing made any sense; nothing mattered.
     Instead of keeping up the small talk with Lucy, I began pondering the series of events that took place; it seems like a hundred years ago…

It was early in the morning on the second Saturday of November; a brisk, cold day. My mother, Eve Constance, was already awake and dressed, humming show tunes while watering her precious plants. My twin sister, Violet Constance, was absent, as usual. I had just gotten up, but I still managed to dance cheerfully towards the scent of freshly baked cinnamon buns. I lifted my lace eye mask, snatched one of the pastries and stuffed it in my mouth.
     “Chew, baby.” My mother chastised me playfully.
     “Mmm!” I sighed and kissed my mother’s soft, freckled, round cheek. My mother was short and slender; her long golden hair flowed naturally to her shoulders. Her deep emerald eyes matched mine perfectly. There was something about her that looked so raw, it was almost like she was the direct descendent of Mother Nature herself.
     “What are you up to today? Have you done your homework?”
     No, I hadn’t, but I had already planned to go shopping with Violet and Molly Hatchburg; the daughter of my mother’s closest friends. She was snippy and rude, but she had a great taste in fashion.
     Violet and I were really the only ones that each other had. We’d always been quiet and shy children, and we didn’t make friends easily. Molly was introduced to us in grade 5, when her parents had moved to Ezra from Nova Scotia. My mother was an aspiring artist before she decided that office work would bring in more financial support, and she sold her paintings and pottery to anyone who passed by Highway 6 and saw the sign that she had nailed into the ground at the beginning of her business. Molly’s parents soon became best friends and very important clients of my mother’s.
     Around puberty, I shed my wallflower shell and became more outgoing. I started hanging around with Molly more, and so I got to know the evil she possessed, the people she’d hurt. I hated her personality as much as Violet hated Molly alone. After an incident that happened during my first week at Roune High School–which involved Molly, a little girl and multiple volleyballs to the face, –Violet and I literally begged our mother to enroll us in a home schooling program.
     “Yeah, mom, I’m all done. We’re going to the outlet mall at around 3 o’clock,” I half-lied.
     “Alright, just don’t stay out past your curfew like you did last Saturday,” she warned. The threat behind her voice was muted by the adorable dimple she got in her chin when she was upset.
     “I told you a thousand times, mom. Last weekend was Violet’s fault; she dragged me into that tattoo parlor to flirt with the-man-of-many-tattoos-and-piercings!” I whined annoyingly.
     “Now you know I don’t believe that,” she stated.
      I made a face, stomped out of the kitchen and hopped into the shower. I sang high-tempo tunes that filled the room like the steam that was coming out from under the shower curtains. When I went back into my bedroom and glanced out the window, I noticed that the rusty old bike my sister insisted on riding around everywhere was laid over sideways in the driveway, almost as if she jumped off the bike in haste to see someone or get something. I happily brushed and dried my hair and applied my makeup. Since it was only 10 AM, I put my short-shorts and tank top pajamas back on.
     I skipped down the hall towards the stairs and away from the music I blasted to drown out all other sounds, but came to an abrupt stop when I heard my mother’s low sobs. I couldn’t stand it when she cried, because it’s impossible to not be sad when something so loving is so very hurt.
     Then I heard something else. It was and odd sound, it seemed to fit better if a wild animal were making it. Then I realized; what if some kind of horrible creature escaped from The Birming County Zoo and my mom let it in the house because she felt sorry for it, but it turned out to be completely savage? It was an insane story, but knowing my mother, I couldn’t chance it.   
     I quickly snatched the sharp nail file from the bathroom across the hall and took a deep breath. I marched down the seven steps to the main floor and turned into the living room.
     Surprise and relief washed through me when I realized it was only Violet and my mother, not a savage animal in sight.
     “Oh, hey, I thought you were some escaped zoo animal!” I laughed carelessly and unclenched the emery board to file down my nails with it.
     My mother was staring at me in disbelief; her face in her hands. Violet had her back to me. I left them to ponder the zoo animal theory for themselves.
     “Mom, why are you crying?” I said, serious now.
     “Oh, it’s nothing,” she paused, breaking away from her gaze upon me to look meaningfully at my sister. “Alright, both of you go do your business!” she snapped.
     This wasn’t like her. She didn’t keep secrets from me.
     “Mom, I want to know what’s going on,” I said firmly, “There aren’t any secrets in our family.” I eyed Violet suspiciously.
     At that moment, my sister spun around.
     “It’s none of your damn business!” she rasped.
     Her tone of voice didn’t startle me; we might’ve been twins, but we were opposites in many ways. I had long ebony hair, light, unspotted skin and green eyes, and Violet had cropped golden hair and tanned sun kissed skin, highlighted by sky blue eyes. We liked completely different things, and had different attitudes about life. I was unexplainably optimistic all the time, and to Violet, that was maddening. She believed that after all the hard times the three of us had had on our journey in life, there was no other option left but to wallow around in silence and hatred all the time. And so, the hatred and misery in Violet’s words was a normal, everyday thing in the Constance household.
     “It is my business, Violet,” I said, “And you know it.”
     The look on her face was livid. She pursed her lips, and before my mother could protest, she smacked me across the face. This, I was not used to, because even though we were opposite twins, we were joined at the hip. We rarely fought, not to mention hit each other.
     Tears started forming in my eyes and pooled down my face. It was more shock than pain that made me cry. I flung the nail file across the room to my sister’s face and stormed up to my room, slamming the door. All I could hear were my mother’s furious sob-filled screams at my sister and the music that was still playing on my Ipod. Violet’s replying screams were coming from what sounded like the top of the stairs now, so I could tell that she had just stomped up to her room as I had, just a few minutes ago.
     This argument was big, but I still didn’t know what had caused it. My guesses were that Violet wanted to date the tattoo parlor man, or she got an F in math, again. I hated fights. I would go downstairs and fix this. I would convince Violet that the tattoo guy was bad news or offer to tutor her. I was an A+ student.
     I dried my tears and turned off my Ipod. No need for a sound barrier anymore, when everyone was screaming. I stood up and prepared myself for my big speech. First I would hug my mom. I would tell her to go take a warm, relaxing bath and to listen to some soothing music. Then, I would talk to Violet; convince her to apologize to our mother. Everything would be okay. I was sure of it.
     I opened the door, ran downstairs and within half a second I was in my mothers fragile, shaking arms.
     “Oh, honey!” she sobbed into my hair, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what has gotten into your sister…” I squeezed her tighter, and murmured sweet nothings in her ear.
     “Mommy, leave it to me,” I whispered, “I’ll talk to her, and everything will be back to normal. I promise.”
     “Ok, sweetie,” she nodded, “I love you.” I smiled and she leaned up slightly to kiss my forehead.
     Then the sound came. It was an atrocious, loud bang. The arms around me went limp. My mother fell to the ground. I wasn’t breathing. I stared at the wall, frozen in place. It was deathly silent; I heard nothing but the constant ringing in my head. My eyes examined the splatter on the wall, followed by the dripping, red liquid that oozed down to the base boards. My hands were covered in that same liquid. It wouldn’t go away. I suddenly realized it was blood. It was my mother’s blood.

A cold hand was pressed up against my forehead. When I opened my eyes, the scenery was different. It was no longer my dread filled house; it was a small white room, full of wires and monitors.
     “Oh, dear,” a familiar voice said, “You fell asleep in the ambulance. It’s alright, you needed the rest.”
     “Where are we?” I asked, dazed.
     “Were at the hospital,” Lucy said, “Why don’t you close your eyes and go back to bed, honey, the doctor said you needed lots of sleep.” I attempted to nod my head.
     Instantly, remembering my flashback, I looked at my hands. They were stained a dark burgundy.
    “I… I… Don’t wanna sleep,” I managed to slur out.
     Lucy sighed.
     My lips trembled and a single tear slid down my face. Lucy frowned and gently placed her thumb on the left side of my chin to catch my tear and wipe it away. I managed to pull my eyes away from my bloodstained hands to look at the gentle and caring stranger beside me. The spray-on tan that she wore looked odd in contrast with the bright, monotone walls that surrounded us. She had frizzy red hair and light blue eyes. They were overflowing with tears. Lucy was crying for me.
     Then something else caught her attention.
     “You have beautiful eyes,” she broke the silence abruptly.
     Her eyes were wide with awe.
     “I got them from my mother.” I replied.
     Suddenly, my eyelids started to droop, and no matter how hard I tried to keep them open, I got more and more tired. So I finally gave up and closed my eyes. I didn’t dream of anything at all.

there’s beauty in the breakdown.

I’ve decided I might aswell post some of the first pages of my book, seeing as I’m the only one who’s gonna read it anyway.
(c) All characters, places, events in Mosaic belong to Madelaine Legault.

… 

CHAPTER ONE – THE NIGHTMARE

It was ten times worse than all of the horror movies ever made. It was far more petrifying than any of the scary stories I’ve ever read.  I had to be dreaming, there wasn’t any other way for this to be possible, to be real. But if this was really a bad nightmare, my ears wouldn’t have been ringing from the heart-stopping sound of a gunshot, and my eyes wouldn’t have been overflowing with tears.
     I shook profusely from the shock of all the sights that came into my line of sight. I saw my mother’s cold, bleeding body lying at my feet.  I held back vomit.  I saw my sister, Violet, and her murderous glare at the top of the staircase, grinning insanely.  I blinked violently, thrashing through my own pools of tears.  Reality seeped through, and the pieces of this frightening puzzled snapped into place.
     “No!” I cried as I fell to my knees. I had to get up.  I had to start running or I would be dead, too. 
     Violet, overpowered by the monstrosity that she had just committed, laughed manically before raising the smoking gun once more; aimed directly between my eyes.  This was my cue to escape.  I struggled to get upright, always keeping our gaze, and stumbled into the kitchen entryway.  Instead of redirecting the weapon to where I stood, Violet pulled the trigger, and a bullet landed just inches away from my mother’s mangled hair. I let out a cry as she lifted the mouth of the gun to her own temple.
     “Bye bye Rosie!” She whispered in a disturbed, rough voice that I didn’t recognize. Panic, terror and overwhelming amount of confusion and sadness took control of my soul. They dug in to my heart and planted themselves there. They wouldn’t budge. The nightmare wouldn’t end.
     I ran through the kitchen and out the side door. I fell down the steps that lead to our long, winding gravel driveway. Another loud bang broke through the deadly silence of the afternoon. I shrieked. My sister had shot herself. It was over, no one was going to hurt me, or my family; I had none left.
     At the age of three, my father had left us without money or a goodbye. We didn’t know if he was even alive, nevertheless where he ran off to. I had no relatives. I was alone. If I ran to the police station, I’d end up in a group home. A group home filled with a dozen kids exactly like me; orphaned and unwanted. I didn’t know where I was running to, or why, but I knew I would be crazy to ever turn back.

     The freezing November air whipped at my bare arms, legs and face, leaving them red and my lips blue. I sped down the dirt roads of Ezra; the small farm town where my family had resided for the past twenty years. Where was everyone? Had no one heard the bangs? And what of my cries for help?
      I stopped at French Bay; the beach shared between the neighboring city of Roune and Ezra. My mother used to bring Violet and I there when we were five years old. It was a 10 kilometer hike to French Bay from where I was in Ezra, and it would’ve taken me two hours to arrive there if I walked. The growing lump in my throat and in the pit of my stomach kept me going somehow.
      French Bay was the main tourist attraction where I lived, and its pristine sand and sparkling blue waters were one of the best you could find in the South-eastern Canadian summertime. But the beach was deserted now; the warm summer breeze had left, and the cold fall winds took its place.

     My heart pumped in my chest, and my head spun. Tears continued to fall down my face, and I collapsed on the ground behind a group of boulders on the cold sand, where no one could see me. A short while after the sun set, it began to rain. I held my torso as I rocked back and forth, and tried to wake up from this horrible nightmare. The images flashed through my mind; my mother laying in her own pool of blood, my deranged sister at the top of the staircase with a smoking gun in her hands, and part of me died inside. The part of myself that I needed to be happy, to be able to breathe comfortably, to live; the part that was my heart, my soul. No one could ever return my soul to me; it had blown off over the deep, dark waters of the Atlantic.
     I kicked at the air for a short second, and then let out one last bloodcurdling scream for help. As I slipped into unconsciousness, I knew I was never going to wake up.

…

I stayed on the wet sand for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t move; I was too afraid to feel the damage that I’d caused my body. I kept crying. How could someone have so many tears to spare? I was sick at dawn, from lack of nutrition no doubt. I hadn’t eaten much the day of the incident, and there wasn’t anything around me that was edible. My whole body went numb.
     A little while after another sunrise, a young jogger happened to notice my foot sticking out from behind the rock. When I heard the girl gasp, I peeked through the tiny space that was left between the boulders that surrounded me. She ran towards me, and shouted in horror. She peered around the rock to get a closer look, and she met my dead, careless eyes. Her hand flew up to her mouth, stifling a scream. I knew exactly how she felt; terrified. If she called the police, it meant that they would move me from my grave.
     She motioned for me to stay where I was, like I was planning to go away without any help. The idea seemed silly to me; why would I want to move? She sprinted towards a pay phone on the other side of the sand dunes and made a call. After she was done panicking and mumbling incomprehensible words into the telephone, she hung it up with a clang and stumbled towards me, stopping a few feet from the boulder. Her wide gray eyes stared at me incredulously.
     Some men, and one woman, arrived several minutes later and joined the witness in her horrified stare. I blinked and moved my fingers to show that I wasn’t dead, yet. They lifted me carefully out from my homemade deathbed and placed me on the ground in a more spacious part of the beach. The sunlight shone in my eyes.
     “She’s alive!” someone shouted at the same time they moved me.
     A stout, balding man pushed through the crowd and came towards me. He started pressing on my wrist and neck, checking my pulse. His hands we’re hot and clammy, and the pressure on my neck felt uncomfortable and a small amount painful. I attempted to push the man’s hand away without any success and moaned. The stranger who found me left as soon as she was sure I was alive.
     “Miss? Can you hear me?” the short man shouted frantically. My ears rang.
     “I’m not deaf.” It was barely a whisper, yet everyone stood, silent, listening. The man nodded once, pursing his lips. He stared deep into my half-dazed eyes. I took a deep, painful breath.
     “I am Chief Charles Eden of the county police, miss. I’m glad you’re alright, but who may I ask, are you?”
     I had seen Chief Eden on the news before, and I’d read about him in The E Z Times, Ezra’s newsletter. Despite his physical size, he had a tall personality. Chief Eden had locked up all the drug dealers, hunted down the thieves and solved all the crimes, of all the other towns in this county, that is. Ezra was mostly farmland, and not much happened there. A cow stolen, maybe, but have they ever found a girl whose soul was snatched from the unimportant thing that was her self? I think not.
     It had dawned on me a few moments after I was done pondering this man’s identity that everyone was waiting on me for something. I quickly reviewed the Chief’s last question, and opened my mouth to speak.
     “I’m not alright. Please leave me here,” I didn’t have to finish my sentence for the group of officers to realize that I wanted to be alone, to be left and forgotten.
     “Nonsense,” he retorted, “Get her on a stretcher, stat!”
     From the corner of my eye, I noticed a man with a video camera, filming the situation quietly. I squinted to read the sticker on the camera. It stated Birming County News. Nothing this big ever happened in this end of the county.
     Two young men had lifted me up from the ground and placed me gingerly on a stretcher. The lone woman appeared at the side of the stretcher and shooed the young men away. She began strapping me in.
     “Miss, you need help, and we want to help too, but for that to happen we need somewhere to start. Just tell us your name and we can locate your family,” Chief spoke in a manner that was almost rude.
     It had hit me then, the realization of what he had just said, the one word that made my heart feel like a thousand needles had just came crashing down on it; family. He had told me he would locate my family, my cold, dead, horrifying family. I couldn’t breathe, every inch of my body ached in more pain than before. I screamed and tossed on the stretcher as more tears flowed down my flushed cheeks. I shouted dirty words and gasped for oxygen.

     There go my lungs.
     Then, the silent woman started doing something that seemed out of place in this type of situation. She patted my head soothingly and hummed a lullaby so simple and sweet I could’ve fallen asleep at that moment. She was caring, loving. She was able to love. I was not, and I never will. I stopped shouting and stared straight at her like she was insane. Everything was quiet except for my loud, strenuous breathing and the woman’s humming.
     I looked around me to see if all the other officers had left already, because there was no crime here, just a girl found snoozing on a deserted beach. They were all still waiting patiently for orders; some of them stared emotionlessly at me, the others at Chief Eden, who was staring at the lady just as I was. She turned her attention to Chief Eden.
     “You and your people can go. I can talk to her and take ‘er to the hospital, and I’ll get a hold of you tomorrow.” The woman finally spoke, her southern voice becoming coincidentally silky and convincing with each syllable. The Chief simply grunted and began his strode back to his vehicle. The other officers followed shortly behind him.
     “Now honey, you can talk to me, it’s alright; I’m not a police officer. I work for The Birming County Community and Homeless Shelter or The Shelter -for short. We received a call from one of our occupants, ‘cause, well, she was scared and didn’t know who to call…” She trailed off, I didn’t care, “but I’m also right here if you need to talk to someone.”
     I felt the sudden urge to take advantage of her offer, to tell her everything. If I had a heart, it would be yelling at me to trust her, to let her care about me.
     I have to tell her, she’s going to help me. The tiny voice in my head said. I cleared my throat and began to talk.
     “My name is Emma Rose Constance, I’m 16. I lived at home with my mother… and my twin sister…” I sped through the basics, stopping to clear my throat now and then, and watched as her expressions change when I slowed down to explain why I was on the beach in such condition.
     She stood, open mouthed, in front of me. Her expression was horrified.
     I was lifted up into the ambulance by the same two young paramedics as before and the woman squeezed my limp hand. The conversation had been put on hold on the way to the hospital; I was too afraid the others would hear. I began to regain the feeling in most of my body, and it was agony. My brain began to function, so in an attempt not to let me lose my brain, I tried to keep it from wandering too far away.
     “What’s your name?” I sighed, attempting small talk. I knew she would think that from my lack of tears and hysteria, that there was something wrong with me. But really, I never knew I had so much salt water in my body.
     “Oh… I didn’t tell you?” she asked slowly and softly as if speaking to a child.
     Did she? Was I so out of control that I didn’t hear the silent woman introduce herself? I wasn’t so sure now if she really was as silent as I thought she was.
     I assumed she could tell by the expression on my face that the answer to her question was unknown, so she began to speak again.
     “Well, nevertheless, my name is Lucille Plaud, but you can call me Lucy, dear.”
     Lucy. Huh. That’s a nice name. The louder, more pronounced voice said.
     Oh dear Lord, I wasn’t simply overreacting about losing my soul, was I? How could I have such tame reactions to a situation like this? I did not feel at all like the Emma-Rose I used to be. 

To write love on her arms.

helloo,
I’m sure you’ve seen some t-shirts with a special little quote on the front–”To Write Love On Her Arms”–at a local event or party, and I know you’ve spent time wondering what it meant or where it came from, or even where you can get one. I have.
Well, “To Write Love On Her Arms” or “TWLOHA” is an organization supporting and collecting funds for young adults suffering from depression, addiction, self-mutilation or suicide. It began when a group of friends started to sell t-shirts to pay for their friend’s admission fee into rehab. But when it began to develop into something else, something larger, they began collecting donations and selling more than just t-shirts for a great cause. The proceeds from everything sold goes to teens who need it. Teens who need support, comfort, and most of all, love.
If you feel like this is a great enough cause–which it is–you can click on the image on the righthand side of this page. Or go to their website; http://www.twloha.com. I appreciate it.
Remember; love is the movement.

Ttyl,
maddyy – xxo.

“Dream come true” sounds too cliché.

helloo !
It’s 3 AM here in Ontario, Canada, and I am exhausted. I want to shut everything off, plop down in my bed and just shut out the world for some hours to do what I love to do best; sleep. But I wont, because I am in the middle of writing this and I want to post my first, well, post. It’s so exciting! I just love writing, reading. The reason I love reading is that you can just get lost in the stories for hours–maybe days–and become that certain character that you’re rooting for to pull through in the end, feel what they’re feeling, imagine what they’re seeing. But I love writing even more because you get to CREATE that world for yourself–Lord knows I get too indulgent sometimes–and for other people who love fiction and drama and stories where anything can happen.
But really, I suck at writing on the spot. If you ask me to write a short story or an essay for a class, I would do okay if I had already been mulling over a plot for a few days, but if I had no idea what to write about; the story would be boooringg and dragging and pointless. Like this post. Because I don’t know what to write about other than how I write.
Makes sense, I know.
I usually acquire an idea–and that includes characters, scenes, some dialogue and most of the plot–while I sleep. Not exactly WHILE I’m in a deep sleep, but during that zone where you’re not sleeping, but you’re also not awake. The twilight zone? And then, just as I’m about to fall into a nice, peaceful, restful sleep; my body and mind suddenly panic and send me flying for the keyboard or a piece of paper–let’s be honest; it’s mostly napkins–to jot down what my “dream” had given to me. And then, in the wee hours of the morning, I can pull myself off the computer chair and into my now cold, but still comforting bed.
And now I reaallyy have to go, because the sound of that last sentence is far too sweet a song.

Ttyl,
maddyy – xxo