|Through The Ages
Author: Aurelia Knight PM
It's amazing how different two people can be. To a mother and daughter, the difference is almost staggering. But they're more alike than they'd like to admit, much to the young woman's annoyance.Rated: Fiction K - English - Drama/Family - Words: 721 - Published: 02-16-12 - Status: Complete - id: 2997619
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I wrote this a while ago for a challenge issued by the writing club I was then a part of. Enjoy!
It would always amuse me, how, as she sat upon the veranda overlooking our backyard—where the gardeners would have pruned and watered every plant and, in my opinion, every blade of grass—my mother would never waste time between draughts of tea to reprimand me. Looking back upon the memories now, I suppose I deserved it; but at the time, it was nothing more than mild distraction.
Her quaint gloved fingers would trace the lip of her porcelain cup, gently, as if pressing too hard would cause the fibers in her hand-coverings to split and break on the spot. "Turn down your music, please," She'd ask, all too sweetly, causing me to roll my eyes and tap my fingertip to the pause button.
I stood in front of her, with my ripped up jeans and black ripped shirt, my too-big-for-me-but-I-don't-care hoodie with the skull patterns. "What now?" I'd sigh, bored just like every other teenager.
My mother would stand up, her almost Elizabethan-like skirts and tresses rustling from the motion. She walked around to face me, white heels on her feet clicking ominously on the polished stone beneath us. "I received a call from your dear professor the other day…" Her tone was airy; I could tell she was feigning innocence and calm disposition.
"What'd Mr. Adler have to say now?" I shoved my hands in my pockets, pressing the play button again and turning the music down to one bar.
"He claimed that you haven't been doing your lessons that he sends home with you."
"No one does their homework. Why should I?"
"You will do your lessons because I order you to!" She glared at me from under her eye shadowed lids. "Your father and I paid good money to get you into that school!"
I rolled my eyes again and transferred my weight so that one knee was popped. "That school is crap."
For a moment, I honestly, as in, "Oh my God, she's going to burst forth all the fires of hell upon me!" thought she was going to choke me to death. I jumped at her exaggerated, yet petite, sigh of anguish. "Oh Brittney, you silly girl… You're so ignorant to your father and me."
"Ignorant?" My anger bristled dangerously. I clenched my fists after taking them from my pockets.
"Yes, darling. You always assume that your father and I dislike you, and that we send you to that wonderful high school as a punishment. If only you could understand that we care about you, and that we love you…!" She smiled, her ivory teeth seeming ever larger and gaudy in that round face of hers. By no means was my mother ugly; however, her visage always suffered when she was yelling at me.
It was at that time that I stuck my chin up in the air and turned on my sneakered heel. I started to reach up to pull my hood over my head when I caught sight of a white glove on my hand. Startled, I examined it further. "Oh no…" I ripped it off and threw it to the ground.
There was no way that I could be turning into my mother. To me, my mother was the exact opposite of me in every way. She was proper, prim and disciplined, and demanding to the point of insanity. I hated it, yet some part of my heart loved her still.
As I ran through the halls to get to the front door of the overly large and overbearing mansion, I was amazed at how different we were, reminding myself that I was a rebellious, technology-loving teenager with angst and guy issues. She was a prim, proper socialite who drank tea and looked at flowers all day.
The fact that the glove had appeared on my hand didn't leave my mind, even when I was finally alone and walking down our sun-dappled street. Perhaps, just perhaps, we weren't so different. After all, we were both born in the twentieth century; just in different decades.
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