Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Eden Butler
mothballs or overpowering flowers, but the thick aroma of worn books or the sweet scent of aged wood and a burning furnace. Being here fills me with the sense of purpose, comfort, history, a stark contrast to the kids running past me, completely oblivious to the beauty around them.
I rub my eye to clear away a glob of mascara and then head to the restroom when I feel a stray eyelash stick into the corner of my eye. A tissue sorts out the eyelash and I glance in the mirror to make sure I don’t have any smears. Teenagers are ruthless in general. They are doubly so to teacher-types standing in front of them for an hour. I know I shouldn’t care, but I abhor gossiping girls and try not to give them a reason to critique or judge my appearance.
A glance in the mirror shows me that my hair has already begun to frizz in the overcast temperatures. It is ginger, not quite orange like my father’s, but nowhere near my mom’s beautiful chestnut. Her face flashes into my mind and a hard tremble runs up my spine. Last night, I was visited by her ghost again. The nightmares never leave me to rest. I can still smell the blood on my skin. I still feel the piercing tear of the steel rod pinning me to the seat. Without knowing I’m doing it, I rest my fingers on my stomach remembering the pain, but before I allow the usual anxiety to root me in the bathroom, I rest my head against the cool counter and take a breath.
To distract myself, I straighten, slide my fingers through my long hair, making sure it lies flat against my back, and bend nearer to the mirror and apply lip gloss onto my full lips. I ignore the shake in my hand and grip the gloss tighter.
A year ago, the “grown up uniform” I’m wearing today wouldn’t have seen the inside of my closet. Back then, I dressed like a kid because that’s what I was. Just a girl smart enough to race through her BA. A girl who believed in the impossible—fathers who didn’t leave, mothers who were invincible, boyfriends that would never break your heart. But life has a funny way of screwing with ‘just a girl’ kind of people. So now that girl watches herself in the mirror trying to erase thoughts of her mother’s endless, dead gaze, trying to forget the heavy weight of loss. I tidy my dark green, sensible button up and flatten the half sleeves, then adjust my black slacks, making sure the shirt isn’t untucked or that the belt isn’t missing a loop.
If my reflection could spill my secrets—those hidden, dark bits of my soul that are frayed by loss—they’d be a shocking disparity to the picture I present to anyone curious enough to look at me. That girl in the mirror would tell the world I am a con-artist, a hollow shell of who I once was. That girl, whose smile was eager, whose laugh was loud and honest died in the same wreck that killed her mother.
When I walk into the classroom, I feel like I’m surrounded by the living dead. Students are arrayed in various states of rest. Some sleeping, some trying to keep their heads from nodding, some already drooling on their desks. There are even a few making zombie-like noises as they fight to stay awake. A cluster of over-made up blondes huddle together in the corner closest to the door, their faces either lowered toward their phones or near each other’s ears. Another, much louder group of boys sits so far in the back I doubt they’ll be able to hear me lecture.
There is crew is in the middle of the auditorium classroom, their faces obscured beneath crimson ball caps with “Cavanagh Cocks” embossed in the center in white. Adorable, right? Our mascot is laden with sexual innuendo. The cap-wearing group is completely still, hunched down in their desks, their eyes purposefully avoiding me. Rugby players. Bastards. I narrow my eyes at these boys who may well intend on sleeping off last night’s bender during class.
I don’t think so.
“Dr. Nichols will be out today.”
“Again?” I hear a girl in the back of the class
I rub my eye to clear away a glob of mascara and then head to the restroom when I feel a stray eyelash stick into the corner of my eye. A tissue sorts out the eyelash and I glance in the mirror to make sure I don’t have any smears. Teenagers are ruthless in general. They are doubly so to teacher-types standing in front of them for an hour. I know I shouldn’t care, but I abhor gossiping girls and try not to give them a reason to critique or judge my appearance.
A glance in the mirror shows me that my hair has already begun to frizz in the overcast temperatures. It is ginger, not quite orange like my father’s, but nowhere near my mom’s beautiful chestnut. Her face flashes into my mind and a hard tremble runs up my spine. Last night, I was visited by her ghost again. The nightmares never leave me to rest. I can still smell the blood on my skin. I still feel the piercing tear of the steel rod pinning me to the seat. Without knowing I’m doing it, I rest my fingers on my stomach remembering the pain, but before I allow the usual anxiety to root me in the bathroom, I rest my head against the cool counter and take a breath.
To distract myself, I straighten, slide my fingers through my long hair, making sure it lies flat against my back, and bend nearer to the mirror and apply lip gloss onto my full lips. I ignore the shake in my hand and grip the gloss tighter.
A year ago, the “grown up uniform” I’m wearing today wouldn’t have seen the inside of my closet. Back then, I dressed like a kid because that’s what I was. Just a girl smart enough to race through her BA. A girl who believed in the impossible—fathers who didn’t leave, mothers who were invincible, boyfriends that would never break your heart. But life has a funny way of screwing with ‘just a girl’ kind of people. So now that girl watches herself in the mirror trying to erase thoughts of her mother’s endless, dead gaze, trying to forget the heavy weight of loss. I tidy my dark green, sensible button up and flatten the half sleeves, then adjust my black slacks, making sure the shirt isn’t untucked or that the belt isn’t missing a loop.
If my reflection could spill my secrets—those hidden, dark bits of my soul that are frayed by loss—they’d be a shocking disparity to the picture I present to anyone curious enough to look at me. That girl in the mirror would tell the world I am a con-artist, a hollow shell of who I once was. That girl, whose smile was eager, whose laugh was loud and honest died in the same wreck that killed her mother.
When I walk into the classroom, I feel like I’m surrounded by the living dead. Students are arrayed in various states of rest. Some sleeping, some trying to keep their heads from nodding, some already drooling on their desks. There are even a few making zombie-like noises as they fight to stay awake. A cluster of over-made up blondes huddle together in the corner closest to the door, their faces either lowered toward their phones or near each other’s ears. Another, much louder group of boys sits so far in the back I doubt they’ll be able to hear me lecture.
There is crew is in the middle of the auditorium classroom, their faces obscured beneath crimson ball caps with “Cavanagh Cocks” embossed in the center in white. Adorable, right? Our mascot is laden with sexual innuendo. The cap-wearing group is completely still, hunched down in their desks, their eyes purposefully avoiding me. Rugby players. Bastards. I narrow my eyes at these boys who may well intend on sleeping off last night’s bender during class.
I don’t think so.
“Dr. Nichols will be out today.”
“Again?” I hear a girl in the back of the class
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