[This is my first story on here, so please, bare with me. I take suggestions and criticism with the same heart I take compliments if you have any for me, and I love hearing your thoughts. So, what do you think, should I keep going or quit? Revise or leave? Anything is welcome, of course, so what do ya'll think?]
I'd never seen a color so pretty, I'd never felt such delighted-ness and joy, never such hope in the world, all brought out from something pretty.
I was three. I didn't know the name of it, of course I was just beginning to learn. And at the time, the pretty color was the only thing pretty in my short life. I don't really remember much from then, not so much remembering as feelings. And at the time, before I discovered the pretty color, all I felt was pain. Not physical. No, not yet. Only emotional. Pain running through my tiny three year old body, through my veins, like salt water being thrown onto an open wound, that was the type of emotional pain I mean. Such pain caused by pure emotion at such a young age can only leave a scar. Not a visible one. Those were yet to come. But a scar that could only be observed from the inside, if anyone ever bothered to look beyond physicality.
The color was pink. That's my earliest memory.
Ms. Harris wants us to share our earliest memory. Picture it in your mind, and put into words, describe it the best you can, she says. I wish I could tell her. She seems nice enough. But I'm not that stupid. So I make up a memory. I'm good at that. Inventing things, acting like they happened, believing them. Course, it isn't long until you mix your stories up, and someone calls you a Liar.
But would you rather believe that my earliest memory was of my parents and I going to a fair, and my father getting me a teddy bear or that the only memory I remember from when I was younger was that I first discovered happiness in a Crayola? Yes, that's what I thought.
Shit. Ms. Harris wants us to stand up and read. She's going down the roll in alphabetical order, since today's the first day of Cornelius High School and she has yet to remember names. Why does my last name have to be Avery? Here it goes.
"Mckenna? Mckenna Avery?", she says, looking around.
I stand up, paper in my hand. Nervousness coursing through my body, making my hands quiver, and the paper rustle softly.
"I'm Mckenna." I say, shyly, my eyes not daring to move from my paper, except to look at the teachers eyebrows. Never their eyes. My own little trick to making it seem like I was looking at their eyes, instead looking at their eyebrows, hiding behind my cowardliness.
She nods, and I take that as a sign to start reading.
"M-my...", I stutter slightly, but take control over my voice, "My first memory was when I was 6, I was at the fair with my parents, and I remember my father trying to win me a teddy bear at one of those ring toss games. He gave it 4 tries, until finally he got me the pink teddy bear. I remember that day specifically because that was the day I remember feeling loved the most, when my mom bought me my first funnel cake, and when we went home, they let me stay up till 12 that night, watching movies and eating pop-corn. That's my earliest memory."
What a load of bull. I guess I am a liar. I've never been to a fair. I've never had a funnel cake in my life except for in my dreams. And I've never known love a day in my life. I sat down, and looked down, not daring to risk anyone see my stricken expression, or my watering eyes. I bit down on my lip hard, trying to keep the tears from falling. Succeeding.
"That was beautiful, Mckenna, and I can see it brought out so much emotion when reading just that short little paragraph. Class, this exactly the type of emotion provoking memory I want from you all." She paused to smile warmly at me. "Now, Nicholas Axe, please stand up and share with us your memory."
