{"id":1623,"date":"2023-07-09T10:45:52","date_gmt":"2023-07-09T09:45:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alexisveenendaal.com\/?p=1623"},"modified":"2024-01-21T15:46:22","modified_gmt":"2024-01-21T14:46:22","slug":"the-elephant-handbag-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/index.php\/2023\/07\/09\/the-elephant-handbag-1\/","title":{"rendered":"The Elephant Handbag: 1"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

A glimpse into one of my fiction works in progress.<\/p>Warning: use of profane language and references to assault.<\/em><\/cite><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Chapter One: An Introduction<\/h2>\n\n\n

When my mother died, she left a lot of things behind. A lot of messes, a lot of junk, with none of the affectionate memories. <\/span><\/p>\n

These things meant something to her in a way I, as her only daughter, never could. But I couldn\u2019t blame these things for standing between us. Since I was a little girl, I knew<\/span> things<\/span><\/i> were what she cared for, more than she\u2019d ever had the capacity to care for me. And I didn\u2019t blame her for it. Some people just aren\u2019t bred for love. <\/span><\/p>\n

My mother didn\u2019t leave heartfelt memories when she died. <\/span><\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t leave warmth.<\/span><\/p>\n

But of all the<\/span> things she left, there was one I treasured\u2014and that was her elephant handbag.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n

Mother wasn\u2019t especially loving (note how I call her \u2018mother\u2019, rather than the endearing \u2018mom\u2019 my counterparts tend to invoke with their maternal guardians). And it\u2019s not that she didn\u2019t <\/span>want<\/span><\/i> to be affectionate. I believe she might\u2019ve been, had she been capable of such an evocation. As I said, her heart held limited real estate, which she filled with all the material possessions she could afford. <\/span><\/p>\n

They weren\u2019t <\/span>nice<\/span><\/i> things, mind you. We didn\u2019t have nice things\u2014but we had shit. <\/span><\/p>\n

We had loads of shit.<\/span><\/p>\n

But there was one thing, as I mentioned. This elephant handbag. I carried it everywhere after she died. I don\u2019t know why, exactly. It wasn\u2019t stylish\u2014but nor was I, as I\u2019m sure you\u2019ve guessed by now. One with a sparkling personality such as mine doesn\u2019t tend to err on the side of sexy. <\/span><\/p>\n

The handbag was ratty even before I took ownership. But there was something about that bag that held my attention, in the same way it held my mother\u2019s. I can\u2019t say I could place it then, but now when I look at it, I\u2019m reminded of two things: one, of the possibility of something else\u2014something outside my tiny world; Two, of my face pressed against stone as I screamed\u2014begged\u2014for it to stop. <\/span><\/p>\n

Begged for death. <\/span><\/p>\n

Begged for my world to end.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n

Did I say how she died? My mother? I guess it doesn\u2019t matter much to the rest of my story. We all die and her death wasn\u2019t so spectacular: a ruptured artery in the brain. One minute, she was standing at the mirror smearing bubblegum pink lipstick over her artificially-plumped lips. In the next, she was lying on the floor, her glassy eyes staring right into my soul as if blaming me\u2014a ten-year-old\u2014for her untimely misfortune.<\/span><\/p>\n

An aneurysm,<\/span><\/i> I later learnt it was called.<\/span><\/p>\n

Something to look out for,<\/span><\/i> the doctors warned ten-year-old me.<\/span> <\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

At least it was quick,<\/span><\/i> I thought. <\/span>That\u2019s how I\u2019d like to go. No need to make a whole thing out of it.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Now, I think of that with a spiteful laugh. If only it\u2019d gone that way for me. My end, or rather my <\/span>near end<\/span><\/i>, was painful, and dehumanising\u2026 <\/span><\/p>\n

\u2026 But I\u2019m skipping ahead again.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n

So.<\/span><\/p>\n

The elephant handbag. I carried it everywhere. After Mother died, they carted me from Edmonton (one of the coldest cities in Canada\u2014not scientifically, but in my opinion), and sent me to live with my Aunt halfway across the world. Aunt Lacey was a \u2018runaway\u2019 according to my mother, having run as far as she could from her sister, who\u2019d been strapped with the bastard kid, AKA <\/span>me<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Aunt Lacey lived in Cardiff.<\/span><\/p>\n

For those of you who don\u2019t know (the vast majority living outside Europe), that\u2019s Cardiff, Wales. In the UK. Still don\u2019t know where it is? <\/span><\/p>\n

Well, neither did I. See, my Aunt and I weren\u2019t close then, and living in proximity hardly brought us closer. <\/span><\/p>\n

Makes you start to wonder if it\u2019s genetics that leave you heartless\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n

Did I mention I didn\u2019t have a dad? I mean, I wasn\u2019t immaculately conceived. How <\/span>wild<\/span><\/i> would that be, to only bring up now? No. As I mentioned, my mother didn\u2019t take to affection like most people, so whoever stuck me in her belly didn\u2019t stick around long after that. I didn\u2019t even get the poor fellow\u2019s name.<\/span><\/p>\n

Please, don\u2019t feel sorry for me. <\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, you don\u2019t? <\/span>Great.<\/span><\/i> There are a lot of tragic stories. Another where some obscure white girl doesn\u2019t get her way is hardly worth anyone\u2019s pity. And that\u2019s not what I\u2019m here to tell you about, anyways. I\u2019m here to tell you about my mother\u2019s handbag.<\/span><\/p>\n

And how that handbag, with its rough stitching and cultural-appropriating, rainbow-coloured elephant print kept me alive the night I was attacked.<\/span><\/p>\n

The night that stranger took everything from me: mind, soul, and body.<\/span><\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

There are a lot of tragic stories. Another where some obscure white girl doesn\u2019t get her way is hardly worth anyone\u2019s pity. And that\u2019s not what I\u2019m here to tell you about, anyways. I\u2019m here to tell you about my mother\u2019s handbag.
\nAnd how that handbag, with its rough stitching and cultural-appropriating rainbow-coloured elephant print kept me alive on the night I was attacked.
\nThe night that stranger took everything from me: mind, soul, and body.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1812,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"episode_type":"","audio_file":"","cover_image":"","cover_image_id":"","duration":"","filesize":"","date_recorded":"","explicit":"","block":"","filesize_raw":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[302],"tags":[304,224,303,16,168],"series":[],"class_list":["post-1623","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-literary-fiction","tag-elephant-handbag","tag-fiction","tag-literary-fiction","tag-series","tag-story"],"episode_featured_image":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/07\/Wix-Blog-Images-1Artboard-5-1.png","episode_player_image":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/wp-content\/plugins\/seriously-simple-podcasting\/assets\/images\/no-album-art.png","download_link":"","player_link":"","audio_player":false,"episode_data":{"playerMode":"dark","subscribeUrls":{"amazon":{"key":"amazon","url":"https:\/\/music.amazon.ca\/podcasts\/09c34bbc-b359-49af-a286-31830ed5634c\/short-stories","label":"Amazon","class":"amazon","icon":"amazon.png"},"apple_podcasts":{"key":"apple_podcasts","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.apple.com\/us\/podcast\/short-stories\/id1621456328","label":"Apple Podcasts","class":"apple_podcasts","icon":"apple-podcasts.png"},"google_play":{"key":"google_play","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.google.com\/feed\/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbGV4aXN2ZWVuZW5kYWFsLmNvbS9mZWVkL3BvZGNhc3Qvc2hvcnQtc3Rvcmllcw","label":"Google Play","class":"google_play","icon":"google-play.png"},"google_podcasts":{"key":"google_podcasts","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.google.com\/feed\/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbGV4aXN2ZWVuZW5kYWFsLmNvbS9mZWVkL3BvZGNhc3Qvc2hvcnQtc3Rvcmllcw","label":"Google Podcasts","class":"google_podcasts","icon":"google-podcasts.png"},"spotify":{"key":"spotify","url":"https:\/\/open.spotify.com\/show\/0lcQCRs52MfYlKs35lVX4K","label":"Spotify","class":"spotify","icon":"spotify.png"},"itunes":{"key":"itunes","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.apple.com\/us\/podcast\/short-stories\/id1621456328","label":"iTunes","class":"itunes","icon":"itunes.png"}},"rssFeedUrl":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/feed\/podcast\/default-podcast","embedCode":"

The Elephant Handbag: 1<\/a><\/blockquote>