"CRY" by Sarah Ryniker

STORY LAST UPDATED ON 20/12/2002

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story has a high sexual content.

Cry Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE: REALITY HITS

Ignorance truly is bliss. And though I was intelligent, I hid behind the exterior of my childishness. And it wasn't the type of childishness such as sneaking out of the house as a teenager, and thinking I was mentally older than all of my peers, as most teens thought. No, it was actually trying to stay with the mentality of a ten-year-old. I still played with dolls, and my room was decorated in the décor of a child's room. My parents amused my "need" by treating me as a child, something most teenage girls of seventeen wouldn't appreciate.
    At the age of fifteen, my mother had panicked because of how immature I acted, and had taken me to a psychologist. Strangely, he said I had an anxiety disorder. I had "panic disorder". I guess he thought that I would panic if I brought myself out into the real world. He assumed that panic attacks might have thrown me into staying a child forever. The only things that would help were silly medications, and praying that I would someday face reality. To me, he was the crazy one. I read all of the symptoms of panic disorder, and I didn't have any of them. Maybe he had just been at a loss at what to call it but hadn't wanted to lose my mother's money by saying it was nothing. That's what I always had concluded.
    I had no friends. Many people at school, male and female, would approach me, attempting friendship, but I had nothing in common with any of them. Pretty soon, everyone in my high school concluded that I was completely insane, and would take steps to manoeuvre around me, as if afraid to catch something. This, for some odd reason, amused me, and I would purposely try to brush lightly across people when passing them. Then I would get a laugh as they jumped and would talk about it hours later with their friends. Perhaps I was crazy, but it wasn't any anxiety disorder.
    I never had any sort of companion. As a child I had neighbourhood friends, but eventually they all drifted away and went on their own way. My parents had never given me any siblings. Not because my father hadn't wanted more, but because my mother feared losing her tiny waistline.
    Mother was a beautiful woman. Her hair was jet black, something I had inherited, her skin was very pale, making her soft golden brown, almond shaped eyes that stood out, her nose was perfectly straight and perfected to her longer shaped face. Mother had a rather long face, yet her full, rather large lips and semi-long nose made her look far more beautiful than would smaller facial features. Everything on her seemed to fit into perfect sync with each other, making her what my father called a "traffic stopper".
    I didn't know the story behind my parents. It was a "hush, hush" sort of thing. It was the past, and that was where it would be left. While most mothers and fathers tell their love story to their children like they would a fairy tale, my parents never even told me when and where they were married.
    Of course, it didn't take much to understand what the situation was. Mother was all too obviously used to being in riches, something my father still provided well for her. Yet, as successful a doctor as Daddy was, I knew he wouldn't have been accepted into my mother's family. Daddy was a mulatto. He wasn't a "blue blood". Nobody had to tell me that, I had figured all that out on my own.
    Daddy was an extremely handsome man. I assumed that one of his parents must have been extremely pale, much like Mother, because his skin was rather light coloured. He had a darker, year round tan, however that made even the youngest of teen girls stop and stare. His eyes, to me, looked like two beautiful diamonds, they were such a pale blue. They were nearly transparent.
    I had, of course, inherited my father's darker complexion. I had also inherited his diamond eyes. For the most part, I resembled him. I had a nose shaped similar to my mother's, only smaller. My face was shaped more rounder than hers, however, and I thought that my nose looked somewhat out of place.
    "Cry," Mother began one day, as I sat beside her in the sun while she sunbathed, trying, in vain, to tan her ever-white skin, "you have such an exotic look to you, especially with those eyes and that dark skin, I truly wish that you would put it to some good use and grow up and become a normal teenage girl."
    I knew that she often didn't think I ever heard what she wanted of me. I knew she thought I was completely crazy and I couldn't understand the wishful words coming from her mouth. Yet, I, of course, understood perfectly. It was sort of like one backhanded compliment after another. After all, she was always telling me that I was an absolute exotic beauty.
    I also thought about what a strange name I had. Cry. It was different, something that some hippie might make up and have their name legally changed to. It was sort of like the name Sunshine or Smiley, only rather depressing. Why would my parents give me such a depressing name?
    I also never saw the reason my parents would have married. Mother was a very laid back kind of woman. She cared only about her appearance, gossip and going out. My father never joined her to any party. He was very serious minded, caring only in his work. In fact, I had felt very ignored by both of my parents most of my life, but less by Daddy, who at least acted like he loved me part of the time.
    There were a lot of things in my life I couldn't figure out, and so I had chosen not to attempt to make sense of it all. I remained locked in my childhood state, refusing the world. Why should I grow up? There was truly no reason for it. I didn't want to think about the misery of being an adult, and decided that I didn't really have to.
    "Sometimes I look at you, Cry, and I don't see the child you keep yourself as. You're too grown up, too gorgeous to be such a baby. Where did I go wrong?" Mother continued to moan out loud, as if I were deaf. I simply ignored her, even smiling at her, as if I truly couldn't hear. Just like the kids at school, the way she acted around me only amused me.
    Daddy, whenever he was around long enough, would often tell me that Mother was an odd piece of work. He had admitted to having fallen in love only with her beauty but never with her. Evidently, she was so rebellious that it hadn't taken much to convince her to marry him. That was about the only thing I knew of my parents' marriage.
    Sometimes, though, he treated me much like my mother did, only in a kinder fashion. He would talk as if there were nobody else in the room, as if I were deaf and couldn't understand what he was saying. It truly amazed me how much they could keep secret from me, considering how they would babble out loud as if I weren't sitting or standing right beside them.
    I found it amusing how Mother and the other kids at school treated me, yet I felt hurt by the way Daddy treated me. I had been his "special girl" when I had been a little girl. Now he treated me like a moron, like a crazy person. It almost made me want to stand up and shout, and tell him that I could grow up, just give me a chance. Yet, I found that my father's love and respect wasn't worth growing up and facing stark cold reality.
    I spent most of my teenage life being very quiet. I knew talking had no purpose. I was seen as a child, just as I wanted to be. And just like most children in a home with parents like mine, I was ignored. They bought me dolls and had given me a special dollhouse that had belonged to my mother when she was a child. And only when I was in my room could I truly be free and be myself, by playing with my dolls and the beautiful, large dollhouse.
    The dollhouse I had was so large it nearly took up one whole wall of my bedroom. It was actually in the style of an old southern plantation house. It was so intricately made I could tell it was no ordinary dollhouse. It had been specially made for my mother when she was a child. It was something I had guessed at, not something she had told me.
    Whoever had made it hadn't left a single detail out. Each room had their own personal look to them, none like the one before. It also had real miniature furniture, and the fireplaces within could actually be turned on to appear as if a real fire was burning inside. I didn't play with it often, I feared breaking something so valuable. But I often would open up the rooms and the secret passages that made up the old plantation dollhouse, and just study the rooms within.
    On the day of my graduation, Mother acted embarrassed to even be there. After all, who would want to be the "proud" parents of the town's nutcase? Of course, everyone knew who my parents were, which made it that much more difficult for my mother. We never went to the banquet that was held for my graduation class. My parents, I knew, assumed that I had only graduated because of pity felt by my teachers for me. We left the school grounds not long after the ceremony ended.
    Summer was a boring thing. I turned eighteen on August nineteenth, getting only more dolls to fill my bedroom. I had all kinds of dolls, from porcelain to plastic. It was the only thing given to me. My birthday was the only thing I looked forward to during the summer.
    It was early September when I heard the commotion coming from my parents' bedroom. It wasn't the first time during summer that I'd heard it, either. Things were changing in my house drastically, and as much as I tried, I was unable to bury my head in the sand.
    My father had been gambling and drinking all of our money away. Just that day Mother had to run to the electric company to beg them to turn our lights back on and make a deal with them. Now we were on the verge of losing our home and the belongings within. In spite of the ignorant bliss I tried to hold to, I was scared to death. What could we possibly do if we lost our home? Unfortunately, the argument I was about to hear was only going to bring my fear to a higher level.
    I heard the front door slam, and knew my father had finally come home. It was four in the morning, and I knew Mother was waiting up for him. I heard her yelling as soon as the door had been shut. They never lowered their voices during an argument. They presumed that I was deaf, dumb and blind to everything.
    "You have to stop this, James! We can't afford for you to lose all of our money. Are you purposely trying to put Cry and me out on the streets?" My mother's concern for me shocked me. But when I thought about it, I decided that she was merely trying to get him to wake up.
    "Oh, leave me alone, Colleen. You and Cry can learn how to take care of yourselves. I am tired of living like this. I am tired of providing for two children." His words stung. He was the only one that could ever hurt me, and his words had sunk in somewhere deep in my heart.
    "Take care of ourselves? You know I have no skills, and Cry can't handle being out there on her own. You know we couldn't make it! How can you be so heartless?" I heard tears in Mother's voice, tears mixed with absolute fear.
    "Get over it! I'm out of this whole thing, Colleen. And I'm not paying for a damn thing. I don't have to. I'm leaving, and you and that little twit of a daughter you gave me can either suffer or grow up!" The door slammed shut again. I heard my mother let out a cry that sounded much like a half scream.
    I sat in my bed, shaking. Everything I had just heard had opened doors inside of me that had never been opened before. Everything had changed with the words that had been spit from my father's lips. He had been so cruel, so different from the man that had raised me. Once he had seemed to love Mother so much, now he had insulted both of us. And somehow I knew that Mother needed me.
    I got out of my bed, my nightgown falling softly to the floor. It was a high-necked nightgown, much like the ones little girls wear. And for once in my life I was truly embarrassed to be in it. I was embarrassed by my surroundings, and embarrassed that I was such a child. I ignored my feelings of self-disgust, and left my room to make my way to the living room.
    Mother sat on the floor beside the coffee table, one arm lying limply beside her, the other resting on the coffee table, holding her head within the palm of her hand. Tears were coursing down her cheeks, and she looked so helpless and scared of what the future held. She looked exactly how I felt.
    I walked over to her and sat down beside her. She looked over at me with eyes that wanted to blame and hate me. And I couldn't blame her. I knew that it was my fault. I don't know how I knew that it was my fault, but I knew that it was. If I had grown up and been normal and not crazy, my mother's husband just might have stayed loving her and me.
    With tears in my own eyes, I threw my arms about her. "I am so sorry, Mother. This is my fault. I should have just grown up and stopped acting like a child. Maybe he would still love us and still be here." I sobbed, holding tightly to her.
    Her arms enfolded around me, holding me just as tightly as I held her. She rocked back and forth, stroking my hair gently. "We'll find a way to make it, Cry. And this isn't your fault. I knew it was coming; he's just always needed an excuse. We'll be just fine. I don't know how. But we will."
    I held onto her promise like someone holding onto something extremely valuable. I held on tightly to it, even when the furniture and the house were taken from us. I held onto it, even when my mother was forced to go to Welfare to get us a place to stay, somewhere safe to be. And I held onto it while we lived in the apartment complex that felt more like a prison with its depressingly poor atmosphere.
    And months later, though still holding to her promise to keep us safe, I knew I had to do something. I planned to get a job to help take care of us, though I knew we would lose the Social Security that we were getting for my disorder. But if I didn't do something soon, we would lose even more than that. And now the tables were turned, and I felt the need to protect and take care of my mother.

Cry Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Epilogue

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