(A/N: This was written really quickly before I had to go to the dentist, so sorry for any stupid mistakes. Based it off of this tweet.)
“Look at this rock, mom!” a girl yelled. I had been watching her, playing with her dolls next to her big brick house, until she wandered over to me, “It’s going to be my pet.”
Next thing I knew, I was lifted up and taken indoors. The house was well furnished for the time period. The girl sat down on the large velvet couch, across from the large brick fireplace, and pulled out her pencils. She drew two eyes, and a small, crooked mouth on my surface, and her name on my bottom.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jameson,” the girl grinned, “My name’s Betty.”
And from that day on, Betty and I would be best friends. At least, I thought we would be. Within a month, Betty had forgotten about me. I was set on the top of the fireplace, next to a few pictures and under the mirror, to sit and collect dust.
Betty soon grew into a young woman. No longer was she the girl who had found and named me, but she was a gorgeous, head-strong lady. Her choice in dresses was interesting, but according to all the magazines on the table below me, it was the newest “fad” to have short hair and short skirts.
One day, Betty brought home a boy. Not just any boy, but a rich boy. Her father was pleased. Two months later, Betty and Joseph were married, and they moved in to Betty’s childhood bedroom.
“What is this?” Joseph said one day, picking me up, “What is a rock doing on the mantle?”
“Mother liked it,” Betty replied, on the same sofa she had played with me on. My mother liked it. Those words stung like a wasp. I thought Betty liked me, not her mother. Her mother hardly touched me, besides to remove the occasional layer of dust off.
Nothing of importance happened for another five years, except Betty giving birth to a little boy named James. I like to think she named him after me. Later in the decade, the stock market crashed. Joseph lost most of his money when his bank closed and father was no different. We were forced to sell some of their furniture, including the mirror and sofa, and replace them with other, cheaper items.
The decade was hard, but daily life seemed to go on. James grew up into an outgoing, energetic young man and as soon as he graduated highschool, he enlisted in the army. Betty was devastated, but Joseph was proud.
“My son’s fighting for our country!” He would boast, “He’s a true patriot.”
James eventually returned from war with a missing toe and a limp. He became a lawyer, married, and bought this home from Betty and Joseph. The house undertook a massive renovation. The bit of kitchen counters visible from the fireplace were now sky blue with metal. The living room was totally re-furnished, too. The cheap couch was replaced with a long, yellow one, and bookshelves were placed on either side of the fireplace, and a new TV was placed in front of the shelves.
James and Valerie had three kids: Theodore, Annie, and Genevieve, but I liked to call Genevieve “Diamond,” because of her light blue eyes.
Slowly but surely, the kids grew up like everyone else. Theo went to Harvard, Annie opened a bakery, but Diamond stayed at home, unsure of what she wanted to do.
“What is this, again?” Diamond asked, tossing me up and down.
“Be careful with that, honey,” James replied, pointing his cane at a photo of Betty on the wall, “It was your grandmother’s pet rock as a child.”
“Can I have it?”
Diamond set me in her pocket and went upstairs, to her bedroom. It was well decorated and had plenty of pictures on the walls. One of them was of a man with greasy hair and another was a picture of Diamond, Theo, and Annie. Diamond placed me on top of the desk in the corner of her room.
For months, Diamond would sit at her desk, write on some paper, then type on a typewriter. Sometimes she would talk to herself, saying things such as, “God, I’m such an idiot!” or “Finally, chapter sixteen!”
One day, Diamond came in with a book in her hands and faced the wall.
“So, I know you guys aren’t alive, and can’t talk, but...” Diamond held up the book in her hands and squealed, “I wrote a play!”
The next decade was a blur. Diamond didn’t marry, but devoted herself to writing and her plays. Sometimes she would act out parts in front of the desk, so I could get a glimpse into her plays.
“Do I look OK?” Diamond asked, reading off of her script. Quickly, she jumped to the other side of the room, “You look absolutely terrible,” jumping to the other side once again, she sighed, “Thanks.”
Diamond did eventually take me back to the fireplace, back to the view I was so used to. Nothing had changed, except for the couch. It was leather.
One day, in May of 1971 (according to the calendar), she brought home a baby named Donna. Diamond didn’t marry until after Donna’s birth, to a man named Daniel. He was an actor in one of Diamond’s plays. My best guess is that they must have fallen in love on set.
“Nice rock, Gen,” Daniel chuckled, “Did your kid make it?”
“She isn’t ‘my kid.’ Her name is Donna,” Diamond replied, “And, no, it was my grandma’s.”
One day, Daniel started packing the things he had brought into the house, and about a week later, he never came back.
Diamond or Donna seemed happier without him. Donna was only a young teen, maybe fifteen, but according to her and Diamond’s conversations, was doing “college level work.”
Donna didn’t take me to college. She didn’t take Diamond either, so we were left alone. Diamond worked on her plays, and I watched as she performed them in front of the mirror above the fireplace.
Diamond died suddenly, right after Donna graduated. Donna moved back into the house one day and started packing things up. Most of the pictures on the walls were put in boxes, the TV was thrown out, and Diamond’s pile of papers were moved into the basement.
“Who are you?” Donna said, flipping me over. She examined Betty’s name on my bottom before turning me back over, “Huh. Guess I’ll put you near the heirlooms.”
So she did. Donna set me next to some photos of Joseph and Betty on the top shelf. She never did check on me again, except to show some relatives the photographs.
Occasionally two little children will come downstairs and look at the items around me, plus another woman who Donna calls “dear” or “honey.”
But for now, I’m forgotten.
After all, I’m just a pet rock.