16 August 2012 fiction, "Perspective Change"

She was beautiful.

Not the kind of beautiful you read about in books, the kind that stood out to you or jumped right in your face. Not the kind of beautiful of heart that people were striving for these days. She was beautiful in a way that mimicked fragility. It was if at any second, her beauty could be broken, washed away like a leaf in a fast-moving stream, leaving nothing more than a ripple to show that it was there in the first place.

When she walked into a room, eyes flicked across her face. They knew that there was something there, but there was nothing that stood out to them, nothing that made them keep their eyes trained to her. It was only to the experienced eye that her beauty was really seen.

She had soft, gentle features. Her eyes were wide and kind, her lips were small and pouted. Her nose was almost like a button, a small round feature in the middle of her face. Her skin was smooth and soft to the touch.

She was average, nothing more nothing less.

Yet somehow, there was magnificence in her simplicity. There was something about the way she smiled, about the way she turned her head when she was confused, about the gentle swish of her hair as she moved her head.

There was something about the way her small hands moved quickly and quietly, something about the way she stepped on the balls of her feet, her heels only caressing the ground, like a ballerina.

She didn’t believe she was special, like some people do. Those people can be as ugly as can be, but with the right amount of confidence, they can convince anyone that they are as beautiful as a fragile rose.

As she walked around the room, no one seemed to realize her beauty. When she accepted the food on the tray, the man giving it to her didn’t even flinch. Nor did the woman who offered her a piece of bread, or the kind-eyed girl who refilled her drink. The teenage boy with the calm brown eyes barely even looked up from his phone as he took her coat, bringing it upstairs.  

She sat down at the end of the table, smiling as she picked up her freshly filled lemonade and pursing her lips slightly when the sweetness entered her taste buds. 

Except no one was watching to see all the magnificent things that happened with this girl. No one except for me. I watched her from the doorway, in awe of her beauty, as always. There was something, had always been something about her, something that made her so special I knew I wouldn’t be able to look away lest I miss something monumental. After a few moments, I realized I had to go to her. I had to get closer to this little ray of sunshine, because no other person in the room was satisfying my need for human closeness.

I walked cautiously into the room, careful not to step in the wrong place, or look at the wrong person. I was clumsy, and I knew that if I went in too confidently, people would look at me, making me nervous and causing me to trip. The last thing I wanted was to attract negative attention to myself. Not in front of her.

When I approached her, she smiled brightly. As I got closer, she reached her delicate hands out and fondly tousled the hair on my head. “I missed you.” She breathed.

I wanted so badly to tell her I had missed her as well. I wanted to sit down and talk to her for hours on end, telling her all the stories I had saved about the family, knowing she would be amused. All I wanted was to make her smile. Make her laugh.

But no matter how much I wished, I knew I would never be able get all the words out. I would never be able to tell her how much I’d missed her, how glad I was she had finally returned, how nothing had been the same without her. So instead I just tried a smile.

She smiled brighter, and tousled my hair once more.

At that moment, a woman with tight lips and her hair in an efficient bun walked into the room and sat down at the head of the table. She cleared her throat, and all of a sudden the entire room fell silent and stared at her.

“If no one objects,” she stated firmly and with a slight accent. “I think it’s time to acknowledge our guest of honor: My daughter, Amiella!”

The crowd jumped into a round of applause, eager to please this intimidating woman. The girl, my Amiella, stood up, with a shy smile. The entire crowd turned to her, glancing only for a moment, and then looked back to the woman at the front, who was once again clearing her throat.

“As you all may already know, Amiella has been gone for these past three months on a missionary trip in Estonia, and finally, she has returned! Though she was doing God’s work helping those poor children, I know she must be glad to be back home, with us, God’s more fortunate. And I know we are all just as glad.”

The crowd applauded again.

The irony of it all was that I knew for a fact Amiella was anything but glad to be home. The daughter of a widowed, wealthy, self-proclaimed business woman, Amiella’s entire life had been filled with crystal glassware, designer shoes, and people complaining that the caviar was not chilled to their liking.

Amiella knew from the moment she could think independently that this life was not for her. She never wanted to be of the “upper class.” And as soon as she turned eighteen, she was sure she was going to leave this town with the hopes of never returning.

I knew all this about her because she told me. She used to tell me everything, and called me her secret-saver. I was happy, and I loved it when she told me everything. It made me feel special, like she wanted me to be filled in on her life and all her troubles.

“And let’s not forget that we are also celebrating a very special day. Amiella turned seventeen today. She’s growing up so fast, and I hope this party shows her how happy I am to have her home with me again.”

The crowd smiled and clapped, once again under the spell of this woman’s public speaking. Amiella smiled, blushing because of all the attention she was getting.

“Come here Amiella, talk a little to your guests, they are here for you after all.”

Amiella stood up, and walked to the front of the room, terrified to disobey her mother. I took this as my cue to leave, so I snuck out into the kitchen. Julianna, the maid who had been with the family for years now, smiled at me.

“Bentley.” She murmured softly. “Are you as glad as me to have our precious Amiella with us again?”

I smiled, and tried my best to nod. “Julianna, you have no idea how glad I am.” I wanted to tell her. I wished for the thousandth time that I could find some way to tell Amiella how much I really, really loved her. Her gentle touch, her kind words, the way she could light up a room. All of it made me feel so intoxicated by her presence. Like she was a drug, and I a weak addict.

I loved her more than I loved myself.

And she loved me only for what I was: Bentley, the friendly family golden retriever.