My Dear Hard Drive

NaNoWriMo – national novel writing month started the first of November. The idea is to write 50000 words during 30 days, without thinking too much, just for the sake of writing it.

I am starting a couple of days late, as I haven’t been able to motivate myself earlier. Then I thought that I would post a daily instalment of it on here, which is against the “rules” but I thought that hey, my book, I do what ever I damn well please. (And it will be copyright recorded, mind you. Even if it will turn out crap, it’s my crap.) Please note that NaNoWriMo is all about just letting the story come out, rather than the quality of it or about the facts. I’ll rest you assured there will be a lot of errors in the following, when it comes to facts, not to mention the language, as I am not a native speaker.

Anyway, I still hope you enjoy it in some level. (It might be interesting in the point of view of text developing as well, as I will most likely have to go back and edit old instalments so that the text makes sense. I will refer back to any edits I’ve made.)

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The room was full of happy people. They pretended well at least, Florence thought as she walked around the people to go fill up her glass. She had refused help from the gentlemen, as she needed a break from everyone raving about British colonies and how and where should they try to go next. Honduras was all she could think of, who cares about the rest. In fact, who said they had any business in Honduras anyway, or any one of the other options they were talking about. As she passed another group of laughing people, she caught a glimpse of her husband and a woman he was talking to. “Ah, another” she thought and smiled at them. She didn’t care anymore; she had stopped caring a long time ago. When she married him, she didn’t care too much about him then either, but thought she could learn to love him, like her parents convinced her. She learned to care about him, in a fairly friendly manner, but love, that never entered the marriage. Now the only thing she asked was that he would keep his women out of her home and eyes when things became obvious, and would not flaunt them in front of everyone. That was not so much in her benefit as it was to the benefit of her parents, who still waited to see how much their daughter loved the husband they chose for her. As she couldn’t give them that, she wanted to give them an idea that things weren’t quite as bad as they were.
She got to the bar, and leaned against it, half facing back to the room. She passed her empty glass to the bar tender.
“Champagne, my dear friend, pour me more.” She said in an sarcastic tone. She hardly thought any of these people her friends. Her only friend had disappeared from their farm when she was little. She never learned what happened to Enrique. He was 12 when he vanished, she had been 10, she cried and refused to eat a bite for days after she was told he was not coming back, and still she found herself wondering what happened.  to happen between them in not too distant future.
“Ma’am” the bartender replied as he poured more champagne in her glass. Surprised Florence turned to look at him, but couldn’t tell why she was surprised. Baffled, she thanked him and giving him another wondering glance she moved away from the bar. There was nothing unusual about the bar tender, a half breed of some description, some Spanish, some Mayan, maybe even a drop of Britt, although no Britt would have admitted to it. He didn’t smile, or frown, he poured as was his job with a polished politeness that gave nothing away. There was nothing unusual about him.
She continued her way to a group of women, who she greeted with exaggerated enthusiasm, while asking a lot of questions about their new borns, their older children, husbands, and parents, demanding to know how everyone was doing. That was exactly the matter of these colonies; every Britt was supposed to be your friend by birth. When she was done asking questions, she replied to a lot of them about her husband and parents, presented with a discreet expression of empathy in regards her not having any children to enquire about. She didn’t care about not having children, but she pretended as if that would have given her a lot of pain. That way, it would make a lot more sense to the other women, and she could avoid further questions about it. She had been very lucky, she thought, not having any. Although there was ways to avoid such complications, she knew they were not fool proof and the risk always was there. Not anymore however, not since they had their little talk about Patrick’s other women. She had announced that it was completely fine if he would just have his needs met somewhere else.
She kept her smile while she learned that Beatrice had had her first born just three days ago and was at home resting with the new born, and also Beatrice had sent for her mother Elane earlier and she arrived just in time for the delivery. It was all very exciting news, she understood by the way the women were filling her in, like offering a gift to her, the valuable gift of hearing it from them and only three days later. She had gasped and oohed at the news in an appropriate manner, smiling and staring into their eyes like a good friend should, demanding more information on Beatrice; was she in a lot of pain, did it take a long time and was Lord Chilton very pleased.
She excused herself announcing what a great pleasure it had been to have seen them tonight, and wished to speak to them more a little later, as she made her way out to the balcony to catch some air and peace and quiet. The music stayed in the room when she stepped out, and she took a deep breath of the strong smell of flowers and trees that filled the air. She loved the place, but wished it would come without people in it. People made her tired and lonely, the more she spent time with them, the lonelier she felt. She leaned over the heavy stone fence to look into the garden, and played with her, again emptied glass.
“Ma’m” she heard behind her, and dropped her glass on the entrance she was leaning over. It crackled into the stone paving reflecting the ball room lights off the thousands little pieces until the shatters settled onto the ground.
“uh, I wish nobody wears open toe sandals tonight.” She said out loud as she turned to who she expected to be the bar tender.
“I am afraid ma’m, that your wish is not granted.” He replied holding a bottle of champagne and turning towards the dancing people and their feet, the female forms of which were mainly covered with delicate sandals. She smiled, genuinely for the first time that night, and asked if she could help him. “oh, I was rather going to ask you if I could help you to fill your glass… But it seems to be too late now.” He gave her a smile that almost stopped Florence’s heart.
“What is your name?” She heard herself asking.
“Philipe.” The bartender answered quickly. “My name is Philipe, ma’m.” He repeated more carefully, and bowed, just a little, still holding onto that bottle of champagne. “Would you like me to fetch you another glass, ma’m?” He asked.
“No thank you, Philipe, I think I have had my share tonight.” She replied, even though she knew that reply would send him away and he would not have a reason to return. She wanted him to return, but could not justify it.
“Very well, ma’m.” He replied and turned to leave.
“Philipe,” she started without thinking, “please, call me Florence, I severely dislike being called ma’m.”
“Very well, ma… Florence.” He replied, and flashed her a smile that told her exactly how badly she had just violated the code of conduct between the upper class and the working class. He left her to regret what she had just said.

Florence had never been one to follow the rules. Yet, these days, in her late 20’s, she had learned to pretend like it didn’t bother her. To relieve herself from the irritation of the rules and codes of conduct, she took long walks into the wild alone, despite her husbands and parents insistence that she should at least take a black with her, but in her mind that would have defeated the purpose of going. She carried her own riffle but she was thankful for not having had to use it so far during her walks, even though she had had some close calls. She often found herself sitting at the river bank for hours, where she had been swimming and playing with Enrique. She didn’t need the rifle at the river banks, it wasn’t far from the farm, but it was far enough not to have people walk in on her without her noticing. She could hear them coming far before they could see her sitting there, and by then, she would move away along the river and continue her way until she was safely out of the hearing distance again. Nobody knew how much time she spent here, and how short her “walks” often were. She had learned that the less people know about you, the better off you are. That is the way she had decided it should be anyway, for her. She was convinced that other people were not like her, they actually did enjoy the mindless babble at parties and they actually took interest in each others off spring. She was not a proud Britt like the others announced to be, she was, in fact, a little bit embarrassed by their general approach to things. It had to be their way that was the best way, they were civilized and the world was their oyster. She would never express her disapproval of their ways and ideals, as she was convinced what ever she would say would fall on deaf ears. She had tried it with her father, but received a spanking for it, it was slightly before Enrique disappeared, and since then, she decided she should keep her thoughts to herself. All of them, because the more justified as she though they were, the more enraged her father and his like were when she expressed them.

They often joked about her early year’s rebellious thinking at the dinner table. They would start the conversation by asking each other if they remembered how Florence used to be when she was young. Then they would address Patrick about it, and warn him that she might have some funny ideas in her head. Then her father would raise his index finger in the air, and half jokingly, and the other half clearly aimed to convince Patrick, he would announce that should his daughter ever have any of those “funny ideas” he should not be afraid of spanking them right out of her. Then he would report his success rate with her, and tell Patrick that it didn’t take many spankings at all to convince her about the true nature of the matters. Then Florence would think to herself, whether or not her father actually thought that he managed to change her thinking by spanking, or if he knew he only managed to shut her up. But as all of them would warmly laugh at her younger years follies, she would smile and apologetically admit that yes indeed, she had some funny ideas in her head, when she was younger.

It was a week from that tedious party on Sunday that they always spent at her parents house dining and discussing Florence’s rebellious nature, when she suddenly asked what happened to Enrique. The table went silent for a moment, and her mother looked at her father, expecting him to answer that one. He looked displeased by the question.
“I thought you didn’t remember him anymore.” He replied in that same displeased tone.
“Well, I don’t think about him much, but I haven’t forgotten him.” Florence replied, half truthfully.
“He died, my dear. Tuberculosis, I’m afraid.” He said.
“But he never seemed sick.” Florence sounded surprised.
“His parents took him to the town when they found out he was ill. He didn’t get too bad while he was still here. I paid for it, actually.” He replied sounding slightly proud of himself.
“I didn’t know.” Florence said silently. “Thank you for paying for him, dad.” She then added. “I wish it would have helped.”

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