It Was Written

        We were only children.  Olandra needed me, and her presence was necessary to keep me sane.
While cleaning out my basement, I discovered an old photo of the two of us wearing the most illuminating smiles at the skating rink, which reminded me of this.  Back in the day, we lived two houses away from each other in a culdesac filled with the middle-classed homes of many hyper-active kids with whom we attended school.  Olandra and I, we weren't into picking fights with the neighborhood boys, or even playing hopscotch and jump rope with the girls.  We were story-tellers.
      
        It was amazing what innovative ideas, coated with thrill, adventure, and even romance that two girls with virtually no years of life experience could conjure up; Olandra would write breathtaking tales about damsels in distress, mean ancient kings, and kittens in danger, while I, the witty one, would script stories of discovered treasure, fame, and the glamorous life.  She would give me inspiration to put a humorous twist in my writing.  "Keep that funny part in," she would say. You're so great at that.  I wish I could do it, too."  I taught her to keep her writing organized.  She would have amazing ideas, but her thoughts would always be scattered about the paper in a big mess.   My parents thought we were the most un-usual kids they'd ever seen, but my dad was just glad that an only child like myself had found a friend to keep me company.
    
        The two of us were so close that Olandra knew every detail about me, even some things
 that I had forgotten about myself.  Even after she and her mom abruptly moved to another town
in the middle of the seventh grade, we still kept in touch.  My mother made sure Olandra came
over every weekend, and we would put our imagination to a sheet of paper every time.  On one
of those weekends, after Olandra's mother came to pick her up from my place, I had to stay
in the kitchen to wash off the dishes we had just used for dinner.  I often heard my parents
whisper to each other in their bedroom, but their talks were usually so boring that I just tuned
them out.  This time, the moment I heard my father speak Olandra's name, I immediately shut off
the faucet.  "I'm glad you handled it," my mother began. "I haven't seen any bruises on the
girl in weeks."

        "Yeah, that bastard can go straight to hell for how he treated her and her mother" dad responded. 
Standing in disbelief, one of the dishes slipped from my grip, and my parents ran downstairs
to the kitchen at the sound of one of our best dinner plates crashing to the floor.
        The sound of my doorbell gave me a well-needed break from my basement.  "Just a minute, i'm
comin'."  Balancing on the tip of my toes, I wide-eyed my way out of the peephole to see a woman
I hadn't seen in weeks. She was the epitome of gorgeous, with curly brown hair that crowded
her face to the point that her glassy dark eyes were almost all one could focus on.  Underneath
the hair was a face so smooth and almost flawless, besides the big, round, and purple mark on
her cheek.

       "Destiny, are you there?"

        I couldn't answer.
        "Destiny, I know you're there.  He's done it again; I can't stay there tonight."
I can't help that Olandra chose this life for herself.  If she wants to continue to stay with
guys who beat her, that's fine.  She doesn't seem to want to listen to anyone, and i'm tired of
waisting my breath.  She was a good friend, no doubt.  But I have my own life now.  I have a
career.  I can't keep letting her hold me back.  I deserve to be happy.  She chose this life!
She chose it.

        "Please, Destiny! You don't understand...he'll kill me if I go back there!"
My body decided to back into the door, and slowly slide down to the floor in the same motion
that my tears moved down my cheeks.

        "Destiny, don't you love me?"  I couldn't speak.