hemingford, aaliyah

[aaliyah hemingford]

aaliyah margaret hemingford - sixteen - sophomore - female - straight - sylvie - eastern - esti ginzburg

when she was eight, aaliyah's parents sent her to a psychologist. one day, she arrived early for an appointment and opened the psychologist's notebook she read:

"she appears distant, vacant, empty. she sits across from me session after session, and she says nothing. her eyes simply wander around the room curiously. her parents told me about the fire when they came to see me.

i wait for fifteen minutes, and finally she speaks. she says, 'did you know that everytime a butterfly dies, the future changes?' it is the first time i have ever heard her speak. her voice is clear, thin and light. she stands up and runs her hands across the books on my shelves. i ask her if she would like to read one, but she doesn't reply. and then she stops at one,jane eyre. she runs her fingers over the worn spine and the golden edges. it captivates her. it is one of my own personal favorites. she sits down on the floor in the corner, crosses her legs, and opens the book. she brings it to her nose, and inhales the lovely smell of antique pages. her green eyes wander the pages, enveloping each delicious word. i cancel the rest of my appointments that day, and i watch her read. her nanny calls, worried about her. i assure her that our session is merely running late and there is nothing to worry about. as night falls, she closes the book. she has finished.

it makes sense that she chose jane eyre out of all my books. after all, there is a fire in it. my work is done."

" jane eyre is my favorite novel.

when i was eight years old, i lay in the forest behind my family's estate in connecticut. i stared at the stars, the moon. it was a warm night, ominously warm. i heard a crack in the near distance. i did not think much of it. before i knew it, orange invaded my comfortable space of the navy blue of the sky, the black of the night, and the dark green of the trees above me. flames erupted. i remember the heat. i remember the rapid flicker of the orange, the feeling of it grazing my body. i remember every lick of the flame on my skin. it enveloped me, i closed my eyes and let it. and then it stopped, someone had picked me up right our of the flames and saved me. they shouldn't have saved me, i was destined to die that night.

my memory of that night is reflected in the scar plaguing the right side of my torso. today, the skin is raw, i run my hands over it and it relaxes me. the doctors healed it as much as possible and it's not terribly noticeable, though i wish it was. i can still see it though. it is my mark, my very own flame.

one summer, my parents sent me to paris to stay with my great-grandmother. she is the family outcast. after she had my grandmother, her husband, my great-grandfather, was killed. he was walking through the streets of paris, and someone pointed their a gun at him, and that was that. she had been young, and beautiful. with blonde hair and green eyes like mine, smooth skin that tightened underneath touch. soon after, she supposedly went crazy.

she sent my grandmother to live with my great-great-grandmother back in england, to be raised properly. she was now a widow, like the spider. so that summer, i visited her. i had been twelve at the time. she lived in a dilapidated, beautiful mansion on a hill in montmartre. from my ivy covered window, i could see the moulin rouge. one day, i sat down at the table across from her for breakfast that neither of us ate. her green eyes became black and she told me something. 'I'll tell you,' said she, in a hurried passionate whisper, 'what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter--as I did!' she pressed my hand to her heart. and then her black eyes became green again, they shone as the sunlight intruded us. and she smiled at me, a knowing smile. 'fear the light, dear. fear it, for it will destroy you,' she said. and then she stood up and left me. a year later, she died. i went to her funeral, i requested she be buried at night, for it would be what she wished. and so when night came, they buried her. on her grave, i lay a simple red rose. she left me her house, when i am of age, i plan to move there. i didn't listen to her though, i do not fear the light. well, perhaps I do. i suppose that when i lost her, i gained her soul. i feel her inside of me. her green eyes in mine. she tells me to fear the light and that i make her proud. she shared my name, we are one.

she gave me a locket. it is made of the finest gold, and has acquired beauty with age. it has initials on the back, A.M. in lovely script. it has an emerald in the center, a small emerald resembling her aged green eyes. i have never taken it off. i have never tried to open it. it is centuries old. it never belonged to her though, it belonged to her great-great-grandmother, my great-great-great-great grandmother, for whom we both share our name. it was given to my great-grandmother after her husband died, and she gave it to me that summer. it feels as if it should be broken, something happened, something that deters me from ever opening the locket. there were many other family heirlooms that have been given to me, but nothing compares to the locket. when she gave it to me she said, 'more than one heart has broken for this specific heart. let that die with you.' i brush my fingers over the smooth, cold, gold, and i feel my ancestors who's hearts have broken. my sister has always been jealous of the locket, but it is mine. it is mine body, mind, and soul.

i will be honest, i will tell you who i am. i will not lie.

i do not question anything. i do not ask for explanations. i do not like pictures. i feel nothing. i never speak, unless i have something important to say. words go through my head as numbers. i can count how long i have lived right down to the millisecond. i am not afraid of death, only purple. those are the only things you truly need to know. that is who i am.

i do not like pictures for one reason. why does life need to be captured? one day, i found a firefly outside my window. it was enchanting, i wanted to keep it forever. so i tricked it, i lured it onto my finger and planned to put it in a jar. and then it looked up at me, i know it did. i could not capture it and watch it's magic. so i set it free. and that is why i don't like pictures. "

butterflies are symbolic of metamorphosis, transformation, and carefreeness. one day, as aaliyah played in the gardens as a child, the birds abandoned her. they left her for the winter to go someplace warmer. yet somehow, a butterfly found her. the butterfly landed on her finger tip, and she gazed at it longingly for a few minutes. and then she touched its wings, fascinated by the colors. and then it died. it taught her how quickly life can be taken away. she had killed a beautiful creature just by her touch.

" i once heard a myth that every time a butterfly dies, the future is changed. as the butterfly fell from my finger, it's purple wings limp, i felt something, that was the only time i can say that i felt electricity flowing through my brain. the future had changed."