You see, there was a time when I knew very little about anything, though my childish brain told me to just pretend, simply pretend, to be an intelligent child and follow the path of the adults around me. The mind is a tricky thing, it plays with your sight and makes you believe that there is nothing unoriginal about what you are seeing, though what you see is actually something unseen before. Very tricky, indeed.
Though, not bad enough for me.
Some say I have the attention of a peanut, why a peanut you ask? Well, that's simple, because a peanut lives its life waiting to be picked, made useful, and enjoyed by many (though of course, I am a lady and ladies are stored like wine, awaiting their rightful picking age). I dangle from a swing out front and let my peanut mind stray to the top most branches of the tallest oak around town. I don't mean to show-off my father's excellent skills in picking the dying oak tree in a forest out of town, but he is simply a man made to find such treasures, even if the treasure of my being alive in my mother's turning stomach surprised him most of all. And mother always blushed.
She is a lady you know, like me, her blush is always a tinted, rose upon a set of a thick, thorn laden creation that I call her neck, since apparently our neighbour, the pale, lonely bachelor, always manages to come out of our house with red around his mouth. But my mother, she is a lady.
The maids they always watch me, in ways my mother never does. They ask no questions when I argue against something I don't like, in ways my mother never does. They read me bedtime stories and help me say my prayers, in ways my mother never does. But who am I to know what she should and shouldn't do when my mother is a lady, and I am just growing into one? She says I never will grow into a lady, that mother of mine, but every time she does she plays like she is frightened when I argue back with my shrill screams of mental pain.
My father is a gentleman, the best one around. He doesn't watch my mother, but I know he knows of the thorns on her neck too because sometimes I cannot sleep from their loud, quick voices in the room next door. I wonder what is wrong and show him with my eyes whenever I can that I am curious, but he always smiles and tells me pretty stories of love I may never see.
People call me peanut, because I am tall, thin, and full of curls. I always have a lot of watchers, sneaking glances from behind our fences. I swing on my swing, and watch with my eyes and let my mind create the things that are normal, into things that are wonderful. From inside our house my mother cries for me and my father slaps her hard (I can hear it all the way outside and my reaction makes my watchers run).
Everyday I mark my calender with an X that marks the spot, I have calenders from every year and some from when I was too young to understand. I sit with a red marker in my hand, Lynda, my best friend and maid, sits beside me, watching me with careful eyes. I wish I could tell mother what I was thinking, I wish I could hug father as hard as my heart wanted to every day, but my thoughts were always lost half-way.
The calender falls to my feet and Lynda picks it up quickly.
"Madam, please be careful." she whispers in my ear. "Remember, mark your X's and leave the calender here." She points to my table, full of calenders for every year.
Twenty calenders are crossed with X's and my life is forever frozen here.