《Hegemon Nostalgica》


 Weight of Memory

    In the quietest moments, when the wind hums against my window and my breath is the only sound in the room, I am reminiscent of you. The reasons for this I cannot provide¡ªjust as I cannot explain the movement of a fallen leaf on a vast, open lake.


    Six years ago, I was in my penultimate year of high school. Tennis season had just begun, and Coach had scheduled weekly lunchtime practices, with occasional Friday fixtures against rival schools.


    That day was my very first memory of you. It¡¯s blurred around the edges¡ªso much time has passed, and what exactly you said is lost to me¡ªbut I still remember the sound of your voice, clear and vivid. Though two years my junior, you stood taller, brimming with a confidence that belied your age. You bounded up to me, your face lit with recognition, insisting we''d crossed paths the year before. Perhaps we had, but I couldn¡¯t recall an inch of you.


    From that day on, you tailed my shadow at every practice. As soon as I stepped onto the blue hard court, there you were, claiming your place as my doubles partner. Your constant chatter often tested my concentration, but your humour resonated with me, and we quickly found our rhythm. We weren¡¯t half bad together, and I even found myself enjoying it.


    We''d exchange high-fives after great shots, sometimes with our hands, other times with our rackets. Particularly impressive points even merited a pat on the back. I distinctly remember one time when we attempted to slap palms after a shot. I was wearing two violet and pink beaded bracelets, and we missed, smacking wrists instead. You winced, and we both burst into laughter.


    These playful exchanges became more frequent, and I couldn''t help but notice a shift in the air between us. Your words seemed to take on a more flirtatious tone, and you found every excuse to initiate contact, regardless of whether our points were wins or losses. You¡¯d smile at me unexpectedly, try to reassure me when we were losing. Once, during an internal tournament, I sat beneath the sunshade, taking a break. Out of nowhere, you appeared, leaning against my chair, your head brushing against my legs. There was a faint tingling at the remnants of your touch and a calm itch in my throat. The heat on my skin intensified and the sounds of tennis balls being launched back and forth hummed low in the background. I don¡¯t know why I let it happen or why I never said anything¡ªmaybe it flattered my ego. Maybe I was just like that.


    At times, I wondered if I was deluding myself ¡ª misinterpreting your actions. But then, two teammates asked me if we were dating.


    Doubt gnawed at me. Was this a fleeting fascination over an older girl? Or was this simply your way of interacting with everyone? I chose to see your words as an extension of your jokes, content with our friendship. Besides, I had a long-distance boyfriend¡ªthough my feelings for him waned with each passing day, our interactions feeling more like obligations than affection. My thoughts would drift, perhaps to you, your grin, your voice¡ªmy memory unsure. I didn¡¯t know if I was searching for a way to end things with him or if I was simply looking for a reason to understand what was happening between us. Part of me worried he might hear rumours about us, but this fear subsided soon enough. We were nothing, after all. There wasn¡¯t much more to say.


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    As the season progressed, our interactions extended beyond practice. Coach, not the craftiest scheduler, often pitted us against the same few schools with teams that could match ours. These rare fixtures became the highlights of our season, punctuating our routine with bursts of excitement and nervous energy, or plain lethargy for the less enthused.


    On away games, I''d sit on the bus, headphones in, bossa nova or samba drowning out the noise. Yet, there''s a memory¡ªperhaps real, perhaps fabricated¡ªwhere we sit side by side, my playlist forgotten. I can almost feel the sun through the window, see the blur of concrete and glass as we sped towards our next match. Did we talk? Did we sit in comfortable silence? Knowing you, probably not. The details escape me, but the feeling lingers.


    A year passed, and I entered my final year of high school. Tennis had never been your main sport, and your absences from practice grew ever more frequent. Sometimes, I¡¯d arrive early, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, to recapture our easy banter. But you were never there. My disappointment accumulated with each missed session, though I grew accustomed to it eventually. I refused to examine why your absence affected me.


    My biggest humiliation came when I confided in a mutual friend about what I thought was your interest in me. To this day, I am still unsure why I told him such a thing. When he reported to me that he¡¯d asked you directly and you¡¯d denied any romantic feelings, I lashed out at him for betraying my trust. But I wasn¡¯t really angry¡ªI was embarrassed. I had lost face. From that day on, I pulled the curtain on you. We were never the same after that.


    The last fixture of the year arrived, and you resurfaced. It had been a short ride ¡ªour opponents¡¯ school was nearby. We hadn¡¯t spoken much that day; I was buried in matches, and so were you. It wasn¡¯t until the end, as we were leaving, that your behaviour seemed oddly provocative. You asked me something suggestive, a probing question you had no business asking.


    "So, have you ever..." Your eyebrows raised with that familiar grin.


    I snapped. ¡°That¡¯s my private life. It¡¯s none of your business. Go bother someone else.¡± You apologised, and I brushed it off. I didn¡¯t pay attention to your expression, your gaze. Maybe you were embarrassed; maybe you weren¡¯t. With my racket slung across one shoulder and bags on the other, I walked out the gate and hopped into my parents¡¯ car, not once looking back. In that moment, it dawned on me¡ªyou saw me as a conquest. You were exactly who I feared you might be.


    That was the last time we spoke. I graduated quietly from high school and kept in touch with a handful of friends. You weren¡¯t one of them.


    Every now and then, curiosity gets the better of me. I¡¯ll check your social media¡ªalways as barren as ever. For someone so loud and well-liked, I thought you¡¯d post more. I wonder if you ever do the same, though I never feel right about it.


    I¡¯ll never send you a message. It would never feel right. Tennis and high school are the only threads that tie us together, and in this vast world, such ties are practically meaningless. You¡¯re no longer the person I remember ¡ªof that, I¡¯m sure. Unless some careless hand or twist of fate brings us together again, I doubt we¡¯ll ever meet. We¡¯re doomed to be nothing but floating thoughts in each other¡¯s minds, navigating an ocean of forgotten possibilities.


    It¡¯s regretful. I think about you now more than I ever did back then. I vow to move on, to stop these pointless reveries. They do nothing but make me feel old and empty at the young age of twenty-three. But then, maybe that¡¯s what growing up is¡ªlearning to live with the weight of memory.


    Doubles partners¡ªthat¡¯s all we ever were, and all we¡¯ll ever be. And yet, in these quiet moments, when the wind whispers against my window, I wonder if it¡¯s trying to tell me something about you.

 In Transit

    Nothing prepares you for winter''s freezing embrace.


    My high-school days in that bustling metropolis of a desert city, blessed and cursed by the scorching heat of a year-round summer sun, now feel forever gone. Instead, I find myself here, shivering as I await the grumbling, low hum, of the approaching train, its metallic tracks squealing in protest as it emerges from the dark tunnel beyond.


    Welcome to Denfert-Rochereau, metro line six towards Charles de Gaulle - ¨¦toile. Of course, it''s Friday evening; the platform is absolutely filled to the brim with shuffling bodies. Where do they go? What do they do? Why on earth must they feel the need to squeeze between me and "the great yellow safety barrier of suffering", leaving barely a gap for the faintest of breaths? I ask myself these questions each and every time: my disappointment never wanes.


    Finally, I can hear it coming, just a few minutes too late. I bid my goodbyes to the platform, the passing faces, the overpowering stench of urine permeating every nook and cranny of the station which I thankfully need not bear much longer. Just a few more seconds and - a train, with eternal elegance and grace, deliberately pulls into the platform opposite mine. It''s having an effect on me; yes, I seem to be feeling the bitter cold slightly less; it is only natural, I suppose, my blood is boiling after all.


    Everything here is sickening: the walls are stained by grime and mould left to grow and fester, the floor a mosaic of discarded gum and careless spills. Above me flickers a bright fluorescent light, giving everything in sight a sickly glow and leaving nothing to the dark. Everyone is shut down, trapped in their conversations, their commutes, their tiny, little lives. Can''t they see? We are all in a state of transience, our faces blurring together, forgetful and unremarkable. How many have stood here like us, just waiting for time to wash over them, passing like a breathless wind.


    My phone buzzes - Julia, checking on my progress to the cinema in Montparnasse. I fumble with frozen fingers, cursing the inconvenience of gloves. Four minutes on the train, she says, as if that makes up for the soul-crushing hour and a half it took to reach this point. I massage my furrowed brow, imagining how I must appear to others - an infuriated, perhaps maniacal, odd, and pessimistic young woman.


    In a few hours, I''ll travel all the way back, in the silent dark, alone, on a hissing train. The endless, aimless commute, to what end? I question the wisdom of this outing, knowing that tomorrow marks the beginning of another weekend imprisoned by coursework. My professor is a brilliant and eccentric man, but I loathe, with all the essence of my being, the futile work he tortures me with. If only I could find a shred of utility to it, however remote, I would welcome it with open arms. Instead, I am doomed to toss my energy into a forever silent void.


    Looking upwards to the ceiling, I expire all the air from my lungs. Everything feels heavy. I have not walked into the gates of adulthood blindly. In fact, I pride myself on being realistic, so how could I have been so blindsided? I can''t pinpoint any specific event that took me from this feeling of being the master of my fate, on top of the world, to being the one who carries the weight of it on their back - a sort of Atlas.


    The cold air brought by the onset of the train bites my skin and cuts my thoughts short. Its doors open, and passengers pour out like a stream. I¡¯m squished on all fronts by fellow travellers, each pushing through until the merciless buzz of departure slices the mob in half. Inside, we¡¯re packed like sardines in a can; even the mildest of stumbles can set our perilous equilibrium in shambles. The air is particularly stale, and the lack of space unnerving.


    Leaving nothing to chance, I squirm my way into the cabin and find myself near the center pole, facing the door. I try to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass but instead meet the gaze of a tall man about my age, wearing a navy puffer jacket. I catch his eye, and for a fleeting second, the world has been put on pause. He''s looking at me - no, rather through me, as if he''s inspecting what lies beneath the surface. It''s subtle, almost imperceptible, but I notice it; the corner of his lips curling upwards into a covert grin. Blood rushes to my cheeks, flooding my head until its heaviness weighs down on me like a brick. Is my rationality running amok and imagination playing cruel games?


    I feel completely ridiculous, totally unreasonable, but I sneak another glance anyway. His eyes are dark and hooded, accompanied by prominent and well-defined facial features. With his sharp and distinctive Greek nose, high cheekbones, and olive skin, it feels as though all of him is of elegant design. More than attractive, there''s something in his gaze, his stature, his way of holding himself. He has character, and it draws me in like no one before.


    Questions, each one more curious than the next, engulf my mind: Who is he? Is he studying at university? I try to paint a picture of him, drinking in every detail of his being that my eyes can see. Is he popular? I certainly imagine him so, surrounded by admiring friends as the one they all look up to, the one who knits them together. A wire hangs from his ear, likely belonging to a set of earphones. I wonder about his taste in music, and if there is anything we share?


    The train slows at Raspail. A few passengers disembark but he remains. We''re being pushed even further into the back to accommodate a new horde of people, but I don''t even notice; I am in another world now - the world of dreams.


    I imagine us, meeting on the terrace of a buzzing French caf¨¦ in the Latin quarter. He''s sitting, alone, espresso on the table with some book in his hands. The city is vibrant today and the streets hum a melody full of life and song. I appear, about to ask the waiter for a spot when our eyes meet and we''re made aware of each others'' presence, our very existences aligned in this incomprehensibly vast world. Before I can even mutter a single syllable, the waiter waves me away, barking "Il n''y a pas de place ici!". Frustrated, I turn on my heels, noticing a free chair perched next to the young man. "Excusez-moi", I ask, "puis-je m''asseoir ici ?" He laughs at my archaic formality, inviting me to sit down.


    We talk for hours that slip away like minutes, sharing our stories and dreams that seem to bridge the gap between our separate worlds. He tells me about his studies, relationships and life, and I tell him mine. We become each others'' trusted confidant, making light about our laments of life and its shortcomings. Together, the weight of the world, our responsibilities and commitments, feels far lighter on the shoulders. As the Parisian dusk settles on the skyline, we depart, side by side, from the caf¨¦, quietly hoping that the sun will set its gaze on us for all of time.


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    His arm is warm around my neck as we tour the Jardin du Luxembourg, our conversations circling the basin over and over as time halts just for us. The sounds of children, running rampant with their sticks, trying to push their rented toy boats off the edge, echo throughout the garden. Our bodies radiate heat; even the cold dares not approach us. As we leave, the guitarist, who gave us the gift of song, smiles at us tenderly. Our thanks are left as two coins, carefully placed side-by-side within the safety of his trunk.


    I blink, the daydream fading like mist in sunlight. What a fool I am, clinging to some fantasy of a chance encounter with a man whose voice is as much a mystery as the depths of the ocean and more distant than the stars in the sky. I must focus on something, anything else. My eyes flutter to the oddly-shaped hat the monsieur to my left is wearing¡ªit¡¯s unbelievably unflattering¡ªto the garish socks the Madame to my right has on. All around me are faces of people whose names I will never know, whose lives I will never touch, and whose souls I will never see. All we share is this one thing that binds us to this present, the immediate: metro line number six. Like all others, this moment is fleeting, and it too, soon, shall pass.


    We''re grinding to a halt at Edgar Quinet. A few passengers, including the man with the unflattering hat, return to a world on solid ground, while a wave of new travellers come aboard. He remains. Montparnasse-Bienven¨¹e is just one short stop away...


    I catch him glancing at me again, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. My heart races. A wild hope takes root within me; perhaps he feels it, this inexplicable connection. I wish we could break this monotonous silence between us. Should I say something? Anything? The words lodge in my throat. I wouldn¡¯t even know where to begin ¡ª what does one say to a stranger on a train?


    No, I can¡¯t find the words. He¡¯s simply out of reach. If the circumstances had been different, less crowded, then perhaps. There are simply too many eyes and ears, and if everything was a grand delusion all along, there would be nowhere to run to. Unless I jump from this moving train, my escape routes are limited.


    I take a deep breath. There''s something in the air today. Something in his smile and the way he gazes at me - it all makes me want to be brave. Just this once. I could do it. I will do it. My heart is pounding in my chest - it''s the only thing I can hear. I desperately try to formulate a simple sequence of words, a phrase impossible to stutter and easy to pronounce. "D¨¦sol¨¦, qu''¨¦coutez-vous ?" or perhaps...


    My fingers clench the metal pole tightly, sending a numbing sensation throughout my arm. This is it. It''s now or never. Just do it! I''m trembling, barely able to open my mouth. The words form on the tip of my tongue-


    "La prochaine station est", the automated voice announces, "Montparnasse-Bienven¨¹e".


    I have already lost.


    The train is lurching to a stop and passengers are already shuffling in anticipation to disembark. How can it have ended without a true beginning? He''s still standing there, unperturbed. This is clearly not his stop, but it is mine.


    Hissing, the doors slide open. I join the crowd, pushing through to the other side. My feet, having made contact with the platform, turn around one last time with the hope of catching a final glimpse of the stranger who completely enamoured me. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment, unreadable.


    The doors slam shut and the train hurries on. My eyes trail it as it passes by, disappearing into the tunnel beyond, forever.


    ***


    Julia''s face is buried in her hands as we walk out of the tiny cinema. She sighs, twisting her head up to look at me.


    "C''¨¦tait quoi ?a... Ce truc qu''on vient de voir..."


    "Vraiment aucune id¨¦e," I reply, equally complaining about the awful, two-hour long piece of junk we just watched, "c''¨¦tait tellement nul."


    "Bon, tant pis," she replies, briefly glancing at her watch, "Montparnasse du coup?"


    We begin our short walk to the metro station. Julia is hounding me with all sorts of questions. I''ve only known her for about six months, which is the total time I have spent so far living in my native country. We met through an inter-university sports tournament that was organised at the start of the year; she was playing basketball for her Parisian university, and I was representing mine in athletics. She is very sweet and outgoing - we get along quite well.


    "?a va ? Tu as l''air un peu triste..."


    I laugh, maybe a little too much. Her words are making me uncomfortable. Does she think I look sad? I can''t believe she thinks that; I''m not ''sad''. I''m certainly not ''happy'' all the time, but who is? We humans are, fundamentally, ephemeral, so why would I bother giving justification to feelings that, eventually, will simply disappear? Dissecting these fleeting emotions is as futile as trying to catch smoke in a temperamental gust of wind.


    Montparnasse is up ahead. We both come to a stop and I face her, showing her a warm smile.


    "Pas du tout !" I tell her, washing away any discomfort in the air. We bid each other our goodbyes and I make my way inside the station. It''s late, the city is fast asleep already. The station is unrecognisable from a couple hours ago. All the space is left to me and my thoughts.


    Two minutes. That''s fine, I''ll wander about aimlessly until then.


    It''s far colder than before. Every breath I take leaves a frosty mist hanging in the air. I experiment with this a bit, waving it around with my hand. Eventually, it''s too cold even for that. I resort to rubbing my hands together, breathing into them in an attempt to keep the cold at bay.


    My train to another world pulls in. It''s one of the old ones, mint green with those metal handles that you have to lift yourself to open the doors. A bit archaic, but I like it. It''s like a train from some other place and time. I read recently that the state railway company is planning to replace these over the course of the next two years; it breaks my heart a little.


    On board, it''s spacious. There is only one other person in the cabin, and they are busily absorbed by whatever it is playing on their phone. It''s only a very short ride; I''ve already spent much of today seated, so leaning against the wall of the cabin will certainly feel far better for my legs.


    I close my eyes, searching for some reprieve from this relentless tedium. For a while, I succeed in thinking of nothing. My failure comes crawling soon as images of him enter my mind. In the blackness of the void, I see him there, right ahead of me between the pole and the glass doors. His face is eternally serene, calmed by the melodies playing into his ears. We are on a train to nowhere in particular. There is no sun or moon to tell us the time of day - or night. Eternally, we are fated to remain here, in this place where I steal glances, and perhaps, him too. The space between us never giving in an inch.


    Eventually, the doors open and I walk out. When I turn around, it''s already too late.


    My eyes trail on the train as it passes me by, taking with it everything that was and could have been. The cold presses in, extinguishing every ember, turning everything to memory and dust.

 A Life Well Lived: Part I

    Mae''s stubby little legs might not strike you at first glance, but they''ll certainly impress you once she starts running about with the energy of a thousand horses. I could never tire of watching her sprint in circles; when she does, she''s like an ocean of joy that engulfs you whole. Her laughs and giggles could cure the world of any plight or tragedy¡ªthat is how her happiness sounds to me, at least.


    It''s a shame I can''t run and chase her around anymore; my legs don''t work the way they used to. It''s only natural¡ªI am one hundred and four years old, after all. My mind is sharp as a tack, but my body deteriorates with each passing day. Sometimes, it''s excruciating, but I''ve learned to cope with it as best I can. Keeping busy with things, big or small, helps me find purpose and reason to go on.


    Mae is my darling great-grandchild. She comes to visit me every now and then with her older cousin, Jane. I love them to pieces. Currently, the younger one is playing in the dirt¡ªshe does this when she''s exhausted herself running. Whenever she rummages through the ground and finds an earthworm, she''ll hurry on over to me and lay it tenderly in my hands as an offering, like a proud cat presenting her caught mouse. I don''t have the heart to tell her off, so instead I say, "Mae-Mae, these things get sad when you pull them out of the ground, because they need to hear the song of the Earth to go on living. Will you return it to where you found it, dear?" She always nods, dutifully taking the earthworm, with great care, out of my outstretched hand, and placing it back where it rightfully belongs.


    Sometimes, she''ll ask, "Tata, why does your skin fold like that?" She might prod my wrinkles, or lift up the skin hanging off my cheekbone. I might tell her, "I didn''t listen to my mummy when she told me to wear sunscreen. So I woke up one day and was like this ever since." Of course, this is a little white lie. Sunscreen didn''t exist in the twenties the way it does today.


    While Mae is full of energy, her cousin, Jane, is quite different. She is about eight years older, making her fourteen. Jane used to be a lot like Mae, curious and running amok with such fiery energy that you''d think she could conquer the world any day. In recent years though, I feel her spirit has diminished. I rarely see Jane take her eyes off her phone, so we don''t have many opportunities to have conversations anymore. It''s quite peculiar; she used to be much more curious about the world, especially the way it was in my day. Much time has passed since she has asked me any question of the sort.


    Jane seems happiest when talking about acquiring new things, be it clothes, makeup, or jewellery. I don''t really understand it myself, since when I was her age, I didn''t have much interest in those types of gifts. Of course, I thanked my parents for such things when I received them, but they felt accessory, as if they wished to turn me into one of those glossy-eyed porcelain dolls that frightened me each time we passed by toy shop windows. I was far more jealous of my brothers'' yo-yos and train sets, which seemed truly fun to play with, rather than a bow to tie in my hair, or a pair of new shoes to wear on special occasions.


    I remember our house in the countryside. Our family was financially comfortable, so we had a fairly large estate. I would watch my two elder brothers run and play about in our field, with sticks for swords and leaves for treasure maps, while I had to look after my younger brother, Louie. It was my job to feed him, change his diapers, and cosset him in any way possible. I loathed the duty imparted upon me, wanting nothing more than to run free with my brothers, playing about in the fields, walking barefoot in the fresh mud. I wished to feel the kiss of the sun on my skin, climb up the luscious apple tree that stood tall and proud in the corner of our garden, and race my brothers out to the pond in the woods and push them in if they lost. Instead, I had to listen to Louie''s whines and tantrums, soothe his hunger and tend to his hygiene, no matter the odour that emanated from the whining nuisance. Louie felt like a set of chains around my ankles. It wasn''t his fault; he was just a baby, and I was a girl in a time where the very nature of our being was built on a set of false, misplaced ideas.


    Once, I had said, "Please mother, I want to go run in the field like my brothers." She laughed and told me, "What do you mean, you ''want to run''? Girls can''t run."


    I couldn''t understand what she meant at all. It was nonsensical! I replied, "What do you mean? I have legs¡ªwhat more can you need to run? Here, look¡ª"


    I placed Louie in her arms, walked out the kitchen door, and ran. I sprinted with wild fury, each step reverberating through the soil like a panther on the run. My lungs were filled to the brim with overwhelmingly crisp air, the ground soft and pleasant beneath my feet. Such freedom I had never felt before¡ªit was liberating. I felt like I could go on and on, forever, running the circumference of the earth several times over. Back in the kitchen, my mother was calling for me. I don''t recall if she was angry or amused, but I remember her saying I was a "silly girl."


    Those rare moments when Jane looks my way, I can tell exactly what she''s thinking¡ªshe forgets I was once her age too. To her, I''m a dinosaur, a vestige of an old past that is hopelessly out of touch with her digital world. What she doesn''t know is that her world is built upon the foundations of mine. Everything she enjoys today stems from the sacrifices of her parents'' generation, my generation, and every generation before us.


    I am elated to see my great-grandchildren live a liberating childhood, free of the unnecessary stresses and responsibilities that people from my generation, and every preceding one, had to endure. Knowing my little girls can benefit from opportunities I never had¡ªor had to fight for¡ªlike proper schooling and university education, fills me with peace.


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    I only wish Jane understood her easy-going liberties were not always so trivial. Where she wishes for more dresses, I fought for the right to wear trousers; Where she fusses over makeup, I battled to be seen as more than just a ''pretty face''; Where she begs for more jewellery, I yearned for that money to fund my education; Where she dreams of adulation, I longed for independence and freedom.


    As I look at her now, I am reminiscent of myself back then. I still vividly remember the time my life began to change, as if it were yesterday. For years, under the veil of night, when everyone was asleep, I had gotten into the habit of sneaking into the playroom. The hard, wooden surfaces of my brothers'' toy trains felt forbidden under my fingertips as I messed about with them and the faint moonlight casting eerie shadows on the walls. I''d covertly thieve a treat or two from the biscuit tin, savouring the illicit sweetness that crumbled on my tongue, leaving a trail of buttery crumbs on my nightgown. I didn''t fully understand why at the time, but looking back, it was my way of rebelling and letting loose, I suppose.


    Then, on a sweltering summer day, when Louie was no longer a baby but a toddler, my mother had gone to an afternoon tea with our neighbours. The house felt oddly quiet without her bustling presence, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall suddenly loud and insistent. My father had taken my older brothers horseback riding, their excited chatter fading as they rode away, leaving behind only the faint scent of leather and horses. I was only eight or nine, tasked with attending to Louie once again for the afternoon and keeping him entertained. We lived in a safe and poorly frequented area, and mother was close by, supposed to return within two hours. Still, it wasn''t often that I was left home alone with Louie, and leaving me unsupervised, at such a young age, to take care of a toddler was worryingly careless.


    Louie wouldn''t stop crying, and I couldn''t understand why. I had fed him, bathed him, played with him and even tried to sing him to sleep. Nothing worked¡ªall he could do was wail relentlessly like a wounded animal. My ears were sore, spirit broken, frustrated beyond words. The walls seemed to close in, echoing his cries until they reverberated in my very bones. I too, began to sob uncontrollably, hot tears streaming down flushed cheeks as I ran out the kitchen door, leaving little Louie alone in our living room.


    Seeking refuge, and driven by a sudden urge for escape, I dashed across our sun-baked lawn. The crickets buzzing frantically as I approached our grand apple tree, its gnarled branches reaching for the sky like welcoming arms. Without a second thought, I began to climb, my small hands gripping the rough bark, scraping the skin off my knees as I scrambled upwards. Higher and higher I went, the leaves rustling around me like whispered encouragements, until I reached the upper branches¡ªthe ones I had always wanted to climb but never found the time nor courage to attempt.


    When mother came home, I heard the creak of our front door. The house fell silent for a moment before erupting with her desperate screams for Louie. My stomach dropped as I realised he had gone missing in the time I had ran from him. I was afraid to come down, for I had climbed too high, and I knew I would receive a beating if I was found. These were different times¡ªcorporal punishment was widespread. The acrid taste of panic filled my mouth as my mother''s frantic footsteps echoed from house to garden and back. She was still scrambling to find Louie when father''s car roared into the driveway, the engine''s rumble growling out their arrival. Soon, everyone was on the search for him, their shouts bellowing through the air.


    As the sun barely stood above the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, my father scoured the garden for a fourth time. The cooling air brought with it the sweet scent of ripening apples, mingling with the earthy smell of petrichor. I thought I was safe, concealed by the plush leaves of my loving apple tree, but I was wrong. One of my sandals betrayed me, slipping off my foot after I had tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position. It fell through the branches with a soft rustle before landing at my father''s feet with a damning thud.


    My breath caught in my throat as his eyes snapped upward, meeting mine through the gaps in the foliage. In that moment, I saw pure, unbridled fury flash across his face. "Get down here this instant!" he bellowed, his voice thunderous with rage. But as I tried to descend, fear gripped me. I had climbed far higher than I''d realised, and the ground seemed impossibly distant.


    "I-I can''t," I whimpered, clinging tightly to the branch.


    Father had never been more furious with me in my entire life. I can''t recall his words exactly, but he certainly had commanded me to come down. Terrified of his anger and desperate to obey, I closed my eyes and let go. The world spun around me as I fell, branches whipping past until I hit the ground with a sickening thud. Pain shot through my ankle, and I let out a cry.


    Mother came rushing out, her face a storm of worry and anger. ''What were you thinking?'' she cried, her voice shrill with fear and frustration. "Leaving your little brother all alone!"


    Soon, the singing pain was no longer limited to my ankle. The time for my beating had come. As for my brothers¡ªthey watched from a safe distance within the comfort of our home, their wide eyes possibly a mixture of pity and relief that it was I, the recipient of our parents'' wrath.


    At least, Louie was no longer missing; he had been found prior to me, fast asleep, inside mother''s closet, wrapped in several of her clothes.


    That evening, I lay in my bed, stomach growling from missed supper, ankle and body throbbing. Through the floorboards, I could hear my parents'' muffled voices from downstairs. Their urgent tones carried fragments of a conversation I couldn''t fully grasp, but one thing was clear: they were discussing me. Words like ''discipline'' and ''education'' drifted up through the floorboards, each one feeling like a stone settling in the pit of my empty stomach.


    Mother brought up ''Miss Havisham''s Academy for Young Ladies''¡ªa familiar name that ticked off my memory. A few days before, Mrs. Burton came by for a chat with mother. I was curious and pressed my ear against the parlour door, straining to overhear their muffled conversation. They had discussed her niece¡ªwho apparently was ''as stubborn as they come''¡ªand this academy. The way they spoke of it, with hushed reverence and a hint of satisfaction, had made my blood run cold. As far as I had gathered, this place prided itself on transforming wild, unruly girls into ''proper ladies''.


    Mother wanted to send me there, and father agreed. I learnt this the next morning over breakfast; it was devastating. I could only imagine what such a place would do to me, turning me glassy-eyed, porcelain-skinned, hair pristinely tied up with bows and pins. I was to become no better than a doll.


    Had Mother stayed home that fateful day, had Louie been less temperamental, perhaps I wouldn''t have had my outburst. Perhaps mother and father wouldn''t have chosen to send me to a dame school. But it probably wouldn''t have made a difference; my path was my own, and I would have walked it, one way or another.