Post by lola brynne golightly on Jan 11, 2013 18:33:56 GMT -5
[/style][style= opacity:0.9; background-color: black; height: 10px; width: 280px; overflow: auto; line-height:99%; font-family:tahoma; font-size:10; text-align:justify; color:#444; padding: 10px; text-transform: uppercase;] SIXTEEN , DANCER , JUNIOR , HETEROSEXUAL.
01. BANG!
Bang!
The air could be cut with the blunt end of the knife as the little girl sat there, her hair up in a high ponytail and her thick bangs flopping in front of her cherub face. She blinked a few times, green orbs with swirls of hazel outlined with fan-like eyelashes, "Lola. Lola, dear, don't stare." And so the little girl averted her glass eyes, pretending the salt shaker on the table was suddenly much more interesting instead of what had just transpired. Her mother had whispered harshly to her about her rude behavior but from Lola's peripheral, she was starring intently at her husband who was on the other side of the table, pistol poised, having already pulled the trigger only moments ago. Lola imagined smoke coming out of the barrel and then what the neighbors would think. Would Pascal, next door, still come over tomorrow after class to play hide and seek in the gardens? Her thoughts were dashed from her head as her father's anger set off another...
Bang!
This time, Lola felt the vibrations deathly close to her. She felt the spray of something thick and the smell of copper hit her nose hard. Her right ear felt like it was ringing but she kept looking at the salt shaker and the bright red sprayed across its glass shape. It was hugging the pepper shaker; the two looking like lovers in a sweet embrace. She had to keep looking at it, even as she heard her father put down the pistol on the mantel piece above the roaring fireplace, "Where's Mason?" her father's voice was a surprisingly perfect pitched alto which usually sounded nice against her mother's soprano voice. Did Lola know where Mason was? He was still at school. He was on the lacrosse team. The five year old didn't look up though. She simply answered his question with a lie, letting it easily slip out as if it were true, "Upstairs in the attic playroom."
He grabbed his pistol along with the bottle of scotch before marching up the stairs, stumbling all the way. Lola forced herself to finally look up, realizing the red liquid sprayed all over her had once been inside her mother, who was still sitting perfectly still in her seat next to her. The only difference was that the back of her head was, essentially, gone. It was all over the stained glass window behind them that overlooked the front yard. The little girl's eyes widened but an understanding seemed to fall onto her. She stood, silently walking around the large oak table where everyone had previously been sitting to eat, to find the reason for the first
Bang!
Her oldest brother lay on the ground, his face unrecognizable, and the Persian rug completely ruined. She walked around him, still walking quietly, to the front door, opened it, and kept her composure as she walked down the winding walkway to the sidewalk. The second she heard the final
Bang!
Bang!
The air could be cut with the blunt end of the knife as the little girl sat there, her hair up in a high ponytail and her thick bangs flopping in front of her cherub face. She blinked a few times, green orbs with swirls of hazel outlined with fan-like eyelashes, "Lola. Lola, dear, don't stare." And so the little girl averted her glass eyes, pretending the salt shaker on the table was suddenly much more interesting instead of what had just transpired. Her mother had whispered harshly to her about her rude behavior but from Lola's peripheral, she was starring intently at her husband who was on the other side of the table, pistol poised, having already pulled the trigger only moments ago. Lola imagined smoke coming out of the barrel and then what the neighbors would think. Would Pascal, next door, still come over tomorrow after class to play hide and seek in the gardens? Her thoughts were dashed from her head as her father's anger set off another...
Bang!
This time, Lola felt the vibrations deathly close to her. She felt the spray of something thick and the smell of copper hit her nose hard. Her right ear felt like it was ringing but she kept looking at the salt shaker and the bright red sprayed across its glass shape. It was hugging the pepper shaker; the two looking like lovers in a sweet embrace. She had to keep looking at it, even as she heard her father put down the pistol on the mantel piece above the roaring fireplace, "Where's Mason?" her father's voice was a surprisingly perfect pitched alto which usually sounded nice against her mother's soprano voice. Did Lola know where Mason was? He was still at school. He was on the lacrosse team. The five year old didn't look up though. She simply answered his question with a lie, letting it easily slip out as if it were true, "Upstairs in the attic playroom."
He grabbed his pistol along with the bottle of scotch before marching up the stairs, stumbling all the way. Lola forced herself to finally look up, realizing the red liquid sprayed all over her had once been inside her mother, who was still sitting perfectly still in her seat next to her. The only difference was that the back of her head was, essentially, gone. It was all over the stained glass window behind them that overlooked the front yard. The little girl's eyes widened but an understanding seemed to fall onto her. She stood, silently walking around the large oak table where everyone had previously been sitting to eat, to find the reason for the first
Bang!
Her oldest brother lay on the ground, his face unrecognizable, and the Persian rug completely ruined. She walked around him, still walking quietly, to the front door, opened it, and kept her composure as she walked down the winding walkway to the sidewalk. The second she heard the final
Bang!
She found herself sprinting, frantically, down the street of the carefully put together, wealthy manicured lawns and prestigious homes of Harding, New Jersey. Mason. She needed Mason. But she didn't stop running, didn't stop walking, didn't stop until she was found sitting on the swing set of an elementary school by the police three hours later.
02. SMILE!
Remember to smile!
Mason pulled his younger sibling into a hug, the thirteen year old all legs and arms. Lola bug was what he always called her. She was like a spider - the daddy long legs. The ones who could look menacing but couldn't harm air. As he pulled her at arms length, she looked up at him with those large eyes of hers, those freckles peppered across her cheeks and nose, full lips pulled back into a sweet smile so her braces were a bit visible. She was clad in an over sized cardigan, thick with a scarf, because they couldn't afford winter coats yet. She had her ballet shoes, though, and that was enough for her. It always had been.
Remember to smile.
She kept his words in her mind as she headed into the community center for the pageant they were going to put on. The Nutcracker. She wasn't some lead or anything special but she was still nervous. She made sure to practice constantly but the butterflies kept fluttering. As she walked through the hallway, heading back stage, she saw it. She had to walk back to see what it was, what the flyer said, and she grabbed it off the wall with the peeling vinyl wallpaper in a sad looking orange. Patiently, she scanned over every single detail before stuffing it into her back pocket.
Newbrook Performing Arts Academy?
She remembered to smile.
03. ACCEPTED.
The feeling of leaving behind restrictions and restraints and heading for the open road. The feeling of euphoria and excitement before that first drop on a roller coaster. The fluidity of emotions able to flow freely like a thunderous river through one's veins. The enchantment of one's eyes sparkling the second they land on the one they love most in this world.
I was born in Harding, New Jersey to Martin and Lisa Golightly. By the time I came along, two were already there ready to greet me; my two older brothers, Junior and Mason. I spent my days taking etiquette classes, taking piano lessons, and being introduced to the world of ballet and dance. I started out more as a miniature contortionist but as time moved on, dancing became my passion. I loved to move to the melodies of Beethoven, to feel the heat of Notorious B.I.G, to experience the waves of Dark Latin Groove. I loved the classics as well as the modern voices, and all I could do was give in to the feeling, to the urge, to the craving and utter obsession that came with twisting my body into the emotions I could never express in a different kind of way. It was how I communicated with the world outside of my own head.
As I'm sure you know, I became part of the foster system at the age of seven. My brother was right there with me at the age of twelve. Neither of us were ever adopted fully though we did always manage to stick together when going from house to house. Most couples complained we came from too tragic a background, our story already splashed colorfully across every paper and magazine in the country. The Golightly Murders. You know it, I know it, how Martin Golightly, a well known Columbia University professor and winner of the Noble Peace Prize had killed his oldest son, Junior, and his wife, Lisa, on the night of April 14th, 2003 before killing himself. Mason was at a lacrosse practice that night and myself? I couldn't tell you why I was spared and even if I knew, I wouldn't tell anyone. Consider it a Golightly secret.
But the Golightly Murders was simply something that happened in our history. It did not define who we were to become, or at least I tell myself that every single day when I wake up. It did not prevent me from pursuing my dreams as a dancer. It did not stop Mason from taking care of his son, Liam. It did not keep us from achieving everything we have accomplished on our own, things we would have never learned should we have been raised in a normal functioning household in a town where the size of your house determines your importance and the value of your life.
And now, as you review my application, I know you will be watching me as I dance on that stage tomorrow morning. I know you would have grabbed this application because of the surname and all the stigma attached to it. I know you will be hoping to reject me, should I prove to be unworthy of your time. Should I get accepted, I know I will be in debt maybe until the day I clock out of this world. I know will be have problems in this school, undergo a ridiculous amount of stress, experience the usual nature of teenage social rejection. I know all of this and I know you are aware of this as well.
But I don't want to attend this academy because of those things. As you watch me on stage tomorrow, I want you to remember that I am not my past. I am my present. I am my future. I feel the music in my bones and unleash it into a plethora of colors with muscles twisting and limbs arching. I get an adrenaline high from the magic that comes from moving with grace and poise, with rhythm and dexterity.
I feel like leaving behind restrictions and restraints and heading for the open road. I feel the euphoria and excitement before that first drop on a roller coaster. I harness the fluidity of emotions able to flow freely like a thunderous river through my veins. I adore the enchantment of your eyes sparkling the second they land on me and I prove you wrong.
By the time I finish dancing, I will be accepted into New Brook Performing Arts Academy.
Lola B. Golightly
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TWIGGY - TWENTY ONE - EST - N/A
