|My Flintstone Eyes
Author: Delilah Lovett PM
A creative nonfiction essay I wrote for my Creative Writing class about my overdose on Flintstone vitamins at the age of 2. It is written in the style of little vignettes of time and shows how things changed for me as I grew older. True story.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Drama/Hurt/Comfort - Words: 1,036 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 04-05-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2655959
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
My Flintstone Eyes
Blue eyes reflect back
Gray and blue combined as one
A storm of colors
I am two years old. I sit in my crib, as my daddy hands me a thing he calls a vitamin, to eat. I stare up at him with my big blue eyes, as I chew. He puts the bottle on my dresser and the cap isn't all the way on. He leaves the room, leaving behind Pandora's box. I reach up and grab the bottle with pictures of Flintstones on it. I want more of the candy inside. I open it and start sorting and eating them. Daddy comes in to check on me and I throw up and can't go to the bathroom normally. He sees that I got into the vitamins and decides I just ate a couple and don't feel good because of that.
It is late now. Mommy is home. She comes to check on me after I hear her yelling at daddy. Mommy is looking through the bottle, counting. She keeps repeating the number thirty-eight, like a mantra, so she gets on the phone. She starts talking to somebody, while I look at her one more time before everything is engulfed in darkness. Someone pokes me with something and my eyes finally open. Mommy looks at me and worry crosses her face, before she talks to the doctor about my eyes. "That could signify kidney and liver failure. Be prepared." the doctor says. Mommy comes back to me, trying not to cry, holding back a river of tears. There is a woman poking a needle in my arm, over and over. I try to hit it away, not liking the pain. They bring a board in and strap me down before the poking starts back up. "What did I do? Was I bad? Why are you hurting me?" I ask mommy. She looks even more hurt and tells me it's not my fault and that I need to hang on for her and get better. I just want it to all go away, so I fight to do what mommy asks.
It has been four days and I am at a new hospital. I feel much better and mommy says we can go home. "I'm so glad she stayed and only one thing is different." mommy tells my Tutu (the Hawaiian name for grandma). What about me is different?
Golden eyes of mine
You weren't always gold for me
My blue eyes have gone
I am five years old. My half-sister is almost six months old. Lots of relatives are visiting to see the baby. She has bouncing brown curls and big, blue eyes. I am holding onto her springy chair, while everyone crowds around to 'ooh' and 'aww.' "What beautiful eyes she has!" they say to mom. "Just like her father's." Grandma says, grinning happily. I feel angry. I had blue eyes, too. Why can't I have them back? She doesn't deserve them. People notice that I look upset. "Oh, your eyes are pretty, too." they say with their fake smiles, before going straight back to coddling my sister.
If I had my blue eyes, I would be important, too. They would tell me how pretty my eyes are and how pretty I am. I will never be pretty without my blue eyes. Every night I pray to get my blue eyes back to replace these Flintstone eyes. I think the same thing every time they visit. What about me? Why aren't my eyes beautiful? Why does she get all the attention?
Hidden behind masks
He sees right through my disguise
No reason to hide
I am sixteen years old. I have changed my hair so that I would be noticed and convinced my mom to let me get color contacts, my masks. I use them to hide the eyes that I have grown to hate. I try to be unique in my choices, so that I draw attention, for once. For fun, and to see if anyone notices, I wear my clear contacts. Today, my friend introduces me to a guy he knows. I have seen him around. He is tall and handsome with gorgeous, brown eyes. I internally cringe at how my eyes couldn't have turned a beautiful brown at least. He looks into my eyes for a moment and smiles. "There's something about you." he says. "What about me?" I ask. "Your eyes." he replies with a smile. I smile back and realize I don't need to hate my eyes. Somebody likes them besides my parents. Someone that makes a difference in my world. He sees through the colored masks I normally wear and doesn't care about the fact that my blue eyes are long gone. He thinks these golden eyes are good enough. He thinks I am good enough and that is enough for me to be happy.