erin murdoc {two} fin

We're good friends, the sun and I. We go back almost seventeen years now.

Mama tells me I was born in the winter, on one of the coldest days of the year, when clouds shrouded the sky and everything was turned a dull shade of grey. I don't believe her. I like to think that when I came into the world, the sun pierced through the blanket of silver, and the world became a little brighter. Of course, Mama and Papa will never see things that way. I've never been sunlight to them. I'm a wreck, some twisted piece of pottery they keep pulling and stretching to satisfy their needs. What I don't think they realize is that if the mud thins out too much, it will topple over and fold into itself until it's nothing more than a disastrous mess of earth and water.

I've never been close to the earth. I dislike the feeling of my bare feet against anything natural. When I was little, I would put on two pairs of socks every day, just to reassure myself that no dirt would get between my toes. To this day I grimace at the thought of the blackened dust under my fingernails, twigs catching and pulling at my hair, bugs crawling over my skin. It's hard to stay clean here. I know we don't have it nearly as bad as Twelve, but there's still plenty of dust to go around, especially near the quarries. I do my best to avoid them.

I've been told that humans were made from stardust, and that when we die, we return to that state. I don't think that's quite right. Not all of us can be made from stardust, because not all of us hold the same wonder and awe that the stars do. Some of us are hollow inside. Sometimes, I almost believe I'm one of the empty ones, but at other times I'm certain I belong with the stars.

I know Mama and Papa will never see me as a star. I've never been good enough for them, you see. There's always something I could fix, something I could improve on. I suppose they only have my best interests in mind. But at the some time, I wish they'd give me some form of recognition, something as tiny as a smile or a pat on the back as a reward for one of my accomplishments. I've done well so far in life, I know it. But my parents have never acknowledged that.

On my last day of Grade 3, I ran home, beaming from ear to ear. I didn't even care when I fell and tore the leg of my stockings. I was too excited, too pleased with myself. I barreled through the door and held out the card my teacher had given me. Mama took it from my hand, scanned the list and said, "Why do you have a B in math?"

At first, I didn't know what to say. I frowned and took the paper back. Perhaps she had missed it. But no, they were still there, the almost perfect list of straight A's in every subject. Every single on except for math. "Do you see all the A's, Mama?"

She shook her head at me. "Sweetie, I asked about the B."

After that day, I told myself that I could do better. That I would do better. I worked even harder at school the next year. I was only nine, and I just about shut myself off from the world. Whatever events the school planned or my friends had in mind, I was too busy with practice problems or spelling tests. I had to do better. I wanted nothing more than my parent's approval. But no matter how hard I tried, there was always something they wanted me to fix.

They put me into training the day I turned twelve. I was determined at that point, mature for my age, focused on the task in front of me, refusing to let anyone get in my way. I guess that's what got me in trouble.

Along with my determination came impatience and a short temper. So when a boy shouldered his way past me, I lashed out.

"Hey, watch where you're going." I snapped.

He paused, and I think that was the moment I realized what I'd gotten myself into. He was older than me, maybe fourteen or fifteen, stronger, and taller by at least a foot. I remember my feet rooted themselves to the floor and quite suddenly I was very, very afraid. He turned, shoved me to the ground with ease, I kicked back in a failed attempt to keep him off me. By the time the trainers caught on and pulled us apart, I was bleeding from somewhere above my left eye, and I was certain I would have a couple bruises the next morning.

Not surprisingly, Mama and Papa were furious. They said that training was a privilege, that I wasn't taking it seriously. Of course, they couldn't ban me from training, because they fully intended for me to volunteer as soon as I turned eighteen. I had to get as much done as I possibly could in the next seven years of my life. So I kept training.

I kept my head down after that, learned to listen and to speak only when I was spoken to. I learned I could get more done if I had friends who knew what they were doing. So I made myself likable. I worked hard, I trained right alongside the older children with the intention of impressing them, and when I did, they would teach me a new skill in exchange for one of mine.

We're good friends, the sun and I.

Hiding behind a cloud too often, beating down on the earth until it's too hot, disappearing completely in the rain for days on end. No one is ever satisfied with it. No matter what, the sun can not make everyone in the world content all at the same time. We try and try and try, but we never reach perfection.

I will always be good.

But I will never be good enough.