I recently woke up with the idea of a story in mind. I don't have everything worked out yet, but I wanted to start it here and get it out there. That way when I (most likely) never finish it, I can look back in even more shame. Haha. Kind of.
---------------------------------------------
I would like to begin by saying this is not my story. My life was, and always will be, just a canvas for Charlie. This is Charlie's story, if you couldn't already tell. My name is Annette, and just because I'm blind doesn't mean I'm the plucky heroine of this tale. I'm the side-kick, the assistant, to my best friend in all of West Virginia, and all of the world. His name is Charlie, and he's dead now. I use the present tense because I can still hear him, walking two steps in front of me, yelling at me that my legs work just fine, and I should be able to keep up perfectly.
When I met him I was just a thirteen year old girl living in one of the richest towns in the South. I came from one of the richest families, the Rittbey's, and life was made up of one part ignorance and one part denial. Charles Gregor was a fourteen year old black boy living in one of the poorest towns in the South. Funny how that works out; the rich set up shop right next to those working class citizens, and then stare out their windows in disgust at them. Maybe it was all just a game to those adults, back there in the racist 1940s, to build up towns where they don't want them, just to have something to complain about with the neighbors.
Anyway, I was rich, and he was poor, but we were close together. My town of Harrison, West Virginia and his town of Kell shared a border, and most of Charlie's neighbors worked for mine. His father worked for my father as a gardener. I almost literally ran into Charlie as he was helping his father, digging around the roses, and that was how we met, all those years ago.
----------------------------------------------
Well, if anyone's out there, tell me what you think.
No comments:
Post a Comment