Hope. Hold On Pain Ends. Hope is the backbone of the human existence. Or at least was to my existence. One simple concept that we depend on to keep our sanity. The definition is a feeling or expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen. Now, I don't know how you were raised in terms of religion, but I have always believed that there is an afterlife. Whether the afterlife means existing only in the stars, or with a Heavenly Father, I don't know. I keep an open mind when listening to other religions and their thoughts. Hoping that whatever religion or theory about the afterlife is right, will be there when I pass, and then eternity of existence will lay in front of me. And the thought of no afterlife, seldom passed my mind. When looking at what this world is, and the beauties that stretch across our planet far and wide, how can you even think for a second the creation of our home was accidental. The way the earth vibrates at the perfect frequency of 8 hertz for humans to be able to thrive. The balance of the gases in our atmosphere to prevent earth being engulfed into a blazing inferno. The medley of colors that the sky puts together when our sun falls beneath the mountains every night. Tell me why even the most atheist of atheists still knows that tomorrow, that sun will come back, and we will live another day with its rays upon our skin. Science doesn't assure you of a tomorrow. But hope does. So even the people who label themselves realists, live with more hope than they know. They can still sleep at night rather than toss and turn pondering at which what breath might be their last. But they don't know what I now know. And anyone who would, couldn't ever close their eyes and rest their head even for a mere second. If they knew what I know, they'd go mad in a matter minutes. Ticking timebombs. Hope, the farthest thing from their minds. So I'm not here to bestow a burden on your shoulders, I'm merely here to inform you the truth about what is going to happen, and tell you not to lose your hope. Because without a struggle, there wouldn’t be a process, and no change would ever happen. So whatever God is with you, keep them close to your heart right now. Think of them every second, and never let the oblivion take you captive. Believe through what I'm about to tell you, and maybe you'll end up better than I did.
The first color I see is gold. I wake amidst the nightmares and the torment of the dark, and look at the metallic hue glimmering in the air like mist. The light cuts through my window like a prism, and the rays of the gold shot into my room and danced along the walls. There was a kaleidoscope of colors but the one that hung around the longest was the strips of gold. The window was cracked open, letting in the winter wind that pierced the still air. My curtains waved moving gently to and fro, cutting the sun rays, containing them within the fabric. Taking away the dancing shimmers on my wall. My mouth curved into a frown. It wasn’t every morning I got to see the sun, or feel its warmth. Alaska’s winters lasted for what seemed like a lifetime. Darkness. All day, all night. The sun slept for months, leaving us to rot with the artificial lights seeping into our skin. Turning into ghosts. If you lived here, however, you’d know that it is worth it. The first glimpse of the sun each year makes you forget everything that happens in the winter. Forgetting all of the days you opened the door to see the city lit up with led lights overpowering the wondrous Aurora lights. You take off the mask and uncover what beauty Alaska has stored in it. And then you see why people love it here, and why you would never want to leave. I could take a thousand winters just to feel one day with the light.
Everything comes back to life. The monkshood colors replenish, and the vibrancy of the flower fields rejuvenate. The ice crystals glimmer when they refract the sunlight, as they slowly melt away. The icicles drip, drip, until eventually all remnants of the winter has gone away, and spring starts peeking out behind the corner.
My personal favorite part of spring is seeing the wildlife. Of course, you have the rabbits and birds that start hopping around and filling the air with music. Then you have the deer and the foxes. Mysterious of sorts, but the gentle creatures that warm the hearts of all. Alas, come the bears and moose. The bear cubs and their mothers coming out from hibernation dancing in the newly discovered grass and weeds. The moose had been awake all winter, just like the people. And as the people do, at the first sighting of spring, they too take off their winter coat and feel the air just as it should be felt. If only they knew how monumental this spring would be to them. And exactly how much they need to be savoring each drop of this willowy spring.
My name is Cara. Cara Eloise Turner. I’ve lived in Seward Alaska for my whole life, and intended to live there for all of the rest of it. Fifteen years is not enough to see the whole frontier, and I wanted to see every square inch. I wanted to travel through the land of the midnight sun, and touch the stars. My family all the way back as far as anyone could remember lived in Alaska. Our family name was etched within the culture of Seward, and talked about all the way across the Kenai river. I think that’s why we stayed, for the sake that if the Turners left, who would there be to hold the bones of the small town together? God, we couldn’t leave if our lives depended on it. It’s not like we were crazy Alaskans you saw on shows, the ones who live in complete isolation, off the grid. (We call them bush people, and I secretly think their heads weren’t screwed on right.) No, we were normal people, you may even call us city people compared to the people in the bush. Maybe not on the same level as somewhere like California, but somewhere on the spectrum. We had ice cream shops and grocery stores, and alas, an excessive amount of gift shops on every corner. We had plenty, no hollywood sign or towering buildings, but when you read between the lines, we had all we needed to be completely content.
My dad was named after his father, my grandfather was named after my great-great grandfather, and so on. And as soon as I was born, all hell broke loose. A female Turner? One not married in, but rather a Turner by blood? It mustn't be. Turner’s only had men. Men who grew up, married, and carried on the name and the Turner legacy. God, they didn’t even think of having to deal with a girl once. A homosapien from the female category? Don’t mind them, we only have men to keep our lineage pure. Until my mom came around. Everyone knew she was different. She came from the far lands of Ireland just to visit Alaska alone. “No intentions” she would say, just a fiery independent girl who aspired to travel across all places, run amuck through every whimsical forest, and jump all of the rivers her soul flow with the waters. Hippie heart, mermaid mind. I wish I got more of her fiery-esque in me. All I got from her was her hands. I swore I could feel the energy of Earth through my fingers, and that was definitely not a trait I gathered from the callous, unsympathetic hands of a Turner. Those only were useful for lifting heavy things, or slamming doors when having pretentious temper tantrum.
Other than that I looked just like my father, cold, strong, and blue eyes that had a darkness that was not even found in the deepest brown eyes. I looked intimidating to say the least. However, I did have a smaller figure. My clothes always ranged from a small to a medium, and I know for a fact that doesn’t descend from any Turner of sorts. But other than traces of my mom in my bones, I had nothing of hers. Which was more so a blessing then a curse, seeing as I couldn’t survive a day if I looked like the woman that screwed my family over. The least I could do is act as if I was purely Turner and shun the O’Hara blood in me away completely. And that, is exactly what I did. To my family, and to me, I had no mother. Period.
And so by now, you know me and the land of which I call my home. You know my “pristine” Turner lineage, but you only know half of the story regarding my mother. The one I tell everybody when they ask. I know much more however. And it is a possibility that I too only know a fraction about my mom. There could be things that I don’t even know, but that is what scares me. If I only know half of what she has done, there could be so much more tragedy that she has caused just waiting to be discovered. And under her pixie like facade, the she-devil kept track of her kills, until of course there became too many to count. I know she didn’t have a choice taking lives like she did, but I also know that she never denied doing it, not once second guessing her demands. She had such a great ability to lie, and to also know when others were lying as well. With this, she maneuvered her way into people’s lives across all frontiers, leaving tracks of blood wherever she went. Her soft smile never pulled down by any of the burdens she was carrying. I try to think it was different, her circumstances. And they were, but she handled it with such grace, like she was already insane and nothing could interfere with the task at hand. Even when it came to hurting her own children.
I have two scars from her, one on my forearm and another on my lower back. Both of these are from shattered glass that hit me when she smashed the windows to our house. Late at night while I was sleeping she would go and commit the crimes without us knowing. Until my father found out.. He loved her like he loved nobody before, he thought their hearts were tied together with an invincible string. His heart ached at the thought that the women whom he devoted his life to, took lives of people who had devotions of their own, just as important. He tried to tame her before he let go. Tried to keep her where he could see her. But rabid animals don’t like to be tamed. She found ways to escape, through the attic, out the chimney, breaking window after window until the frigid wind blew like a blizzard in the room. Lest his countless attempts of containing the madness, the blizzard blew cold and hard, turning my father’s mind slowly into ice. Rage brewed within him, I would refer to it as insanity but I don’t think that word quite fits his soul. The only person I would ever dare to bestow insanity upon is her. The evil witch who crawled out of the broken windows, stripped the blankets from her own child’s back to cover herself with as she made a journey to kill another. My screams from the agony she caused piercing the air when she left. Yet she never looked back. Not once as my father uncontrollably sobbed begging for her to not go, just for tonight. Just for tonight. She left us the next morning.
The word got out soon enough, that Evelynn O’Hara worked for evil. She made a deal with the devil some years ago. Gave him a vow, promised him to give whatever he wanted or imminent death. He needed a favor now, and she answered to his cries, to do what he couldn’t do, bound to him with her life. The deal was to leave with him her firstborn child when she turned 16. I’m 15 and a half.
Ashlee Wirz has been my first guest blogger! Please check out her blog, https://www.ashleescornerofhappiness.blogspot.com
and give it some love! This is her original story so PLEASE DON'T STEAL IT!
