Regret's Paradox

[everyadventure]

A paradox: my regret that looms large is that I own no regrets.

Tell me of yours.

You shake your head ruefully, and recount reckless drinking (summoning, savoring boozy ecstasy); a seamy encounter with a stranger (conjuring the curve of her rump, her foreign taste). “I never should have…” and your words trail, unfinished, as you relish your regret.

I was raised as a good, church-going girl. My teenage years were wholesome, absent of beer, cigarettes, and sex. I was escorted quickly to my wedding at 19, a virgin bride: by all counts a success story of conservative Christendom, a testament to the virtues of strict parenting. A mother ten months later, three children by 26. Do I regret this? No.

But.

I would like a collection of regrets. An anthology of shameful and sordid memories to catalogue. What are regrets but evidence of a life fully lived?

Rewind to freshman year, debate class. The bell blats, students scurry. Mr. Gooding pauses at my desk.

“Stay after class for a moment,” he instructs. I remain seated as the room empties, I cross my ankles one way, clasp my hands nervously, cross my ankles the other way. Mr. Gooding shuts the door as my last classmate leaves. He walks down the aisle between the row of desks, and pulls out a chair across from me. He looks at me in silence for a moment; I fidget uneasily. He grins suddenly, square teeth flashing beneath his peppered mustache, and sits.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he admonishes, and places his hand reassuringly on my bare knee. “You’re actually doing quite well in this class.” I nod mutely. “You have a lot of potential…” he squeezes my knee, “And with a little more direction, I think a debate scholarship is definitely attainable…” his hand creeps under the eyelet edge of my white skirt--

This is, predictably, when I stand, flushed and trembling, and exit the room, avoiding inevitable remorse. But it’s high time I amassed some regret.

--I let the hand wander. My heart thumps so loudly that I only hear words between beats: “criterion,” “tournament,” “November.” I’m stiff, tensed, my breath caught in my throat. Is he…? Will he…? He drones preposterously on. I realize with panic that I've forgotten how to breathe. His calloused fingertips are rough against my thigh. My skin feels tender, sunburned, as his hand crawls upward with scratchy determination.

He will. He does! The room swirls. I shut my eyes against the riot of color and his monotone buzz. Slowly, silently, I part my knees.

And exhale.

[MANICHAEAN]

I was really impressed & you got me on the first line which was the cornerstone for all that followed. Writing is a pretty bloodless substitute for life and thus I must be so careful to distinguish between a writer's story and his/her experience. But you can always sense the distinction between a vivid imagination and the raw emotional side of reality.

Really enjoyed it, especially when you wrong footed me from the prim young thing to the fantasy abandonment of innocence!

M.

[Jack of Hearts]

An account of sexual abuse, partially horrific. Redeemed by your skill in the telling. These are elements one believes could compose into a real person.





J

[hillwalker]

I think anyone who reads this would also exhale at the end, since it's breath-taking as you lead us through what may be a true telling, what may be a fantasy to earn some regret. We're never 100% sure, which is down to your skill in the way you spin the yarn.

H

[XQZ]

Got me going ;)

[zoolane]

A paradox: my regret that looms large is that I own no regrets.

Tell me of yours.

You shake your head ruefully, and recount reckless drinking (summoning, savoring boozy ecstasy); a seamy encounter with a stranger (conjuring the curve of her rump, her foreign taste). “I never should have…” and your words trail, unfinished, as you relish your regret.

I was raised as a good, church-going girl. My teenage years were wholesome, absent of beer, cigarettes, and sex. I was escorted quickly to my wedding at 19, a virgin bride: by all counts a success story of conservative Christendom, a testament to the virtues of strict parenting. A mother ten months later, three children by 26. Do I regret this? No.

But.

I would like a collection of regrets. An anthology of shameful and sordid memories to catalogue. What are regrets but evidence of a life fully lived?

Rewind to freshman year, debate class. The bell blats, students scurry. Mr. Gooding pauses at my desk.

“Stay after class for a moment,” he instructs. I remain seated as the room empties, I cross my ankles one way, clasp my hands nervously, cross my ankles the other way. Mr. Gooding shuts the door as my last classmate leaves. He walks down the aisle between the row of desks, and pulls out a chair across from me. He looks at me in silence for a moment; I fidget uneasily. He grins suddenly, square teeth flashing beneath his peppered mustache, and sits.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he admonishes, and places his hand reassuringly on my bare knee. “You’re actually doing quite well in this class.” I nod mutely. “You have a lot of potential…” he squeezes my knee, “And with a little more direction, I think a debate scholarship is definitely attainable…” his hand creeps under the eyelet edge of my white skirt--

This is, predictably, when I stand, flushed and trembling, and exit the room, avoiding inevitable remorse. But it’s high time I amassed some regret.

--I let the hand wander. My heart thumps so loudly that I only hear words between beats: “criterion,” “tournament,” “November.” I’m stiff, tensed, my breath caught in my throat. Is he…? Will he…? He drones preposterously on. I realize with panic that I've forgotten how to breathe. His calloused fingertips are rough against my thigh. My skin feels tender, sunburned, as his hand crawls upward with scratchy determination.

He will. He does! The room swirls. I shut my eyes against the riot of color and his monotone buzz. Slowly, silently, I part my knees.

And exhale.

It great way of tell a tale about subject which most people shy way from telling.