engström, rumi tea.

[rumi]

RUMI TEA ENGSTRÖM

NAME: rumi tea engström.
NICKNAME: just rumi.
AGE : seventeen.
GENDER: female. (though it can seem questionable at times.
ORIENTATION: rumi-sexual.
GRADE LEVEL: senior.

EVERYTHING ELSE

When I was born, my mother wept with the depression that would plague her for the next seventeen years of her life and ultimately consume the two of us, chewing us over thoroughly and coating us with a thick coat of saliva before swallowing our bits up to let us burn in an eternal pit of stomach acid.

It was late October when Rumi (r-uh-me) was brought into the world. Though the name for a boy, since she was expected to be one and the first one at that, she was given the middle name of Tea (t-eh-ah) and then the prestigious surname of Engström (ing-ss-trr-uh-m). The surname belonged to a very long line of old money Swedish men, women, and children that owned the largest family owned company in Sweden and the second largest in the world with the Rothschild family beating them in Europe to take the number one spot. Their timeline dates far back to the era of kings and queens, when nobility reigned and thus, old money, blue bloods was what thy became. As powerful as they were, behind closed doors, the current reigning Engström family that owned the global investing/banking company was in ruins. You see, in order to pass on the family name, a male needed to be born and, with their luck, they ended up with two girls and multiple miscarriages before that.

Rumi, well, even at birth she was unknowingly a bit of a disappointment.

Growing up, she was intelligent, much like her older sister, Savi (s-ah-vee). But where her older sister excelled in medicine and psychiatry, Rumi excelled in technology. By age five, she hacked into her first computer; that of her father’s office, and was able to gladly show her mother, in that innocently blunt way Rumi always possessed, his many affairs with his very many blonde secretaries that looked like her. Her mother, already addicted to prescription antidepressants and having given up her career as a lawyer in order to have her many dead and female children, dove more into her own black hole and though she went to therapy with the blinds shut and secured lightly from the world to keep the media attention positive, she would smile and wave and look like the trophy she was on her husband’s arm while her two little girls would stand next to her holding hands and trusting each other more than anyone else.

When Rumi was six, she became her father’s favorite toy. Having found out his “little princess” hacked into his computer; he used her, numerous times, to full fill his sexual desires. He’d grab her beautiful blonde curls, tell her how wonderful she was and how intelligent and proud he’d become that she was excelling in all areas with her tutors. He would use those kind words she’d never heard from him, praise he normally only gave to his whores, and then he turned her into one. She became his little blonde princess and somehow, she forced herself to enjoy it and to call it normal. The act became almost ritual and routine. She listened and obeyed automatically and though Savi had no idea what was going on and would often ask how she’d received various bruises and markings, would ask why she was acting like such a zombie, why she was always weary and exhausted, Rumi always had a calculated excuse.

Her mother knew. Of course Sara knew. She’d gone through it with Henrik too. It was the first time they had something in common other than their blonde hair and thin, waif figures. It would be the last and only thing.

Nicklaus (ni-k-l-ow-ss) was adopted when Rumi was thirteen. Though homeschooling was still done on the two Engström girls, Nicklaus joined their rankings. He was just a year older than Rumi and a distant cousin from the Engström branch, though he was not by any means an Engström, according to her father. He made him change his surname so it would be more acceptable by the public though Savi would be the one taking over the company, against the traditional male, and when married, she was not allowed to take her husband’s name and her children had to have her surname as well. It wasn’t like she had a choice. Henrik’s word was law. Rumi and Nicklaus became oddly close, using Rumi’s technological advantages and sharp mind along with Nicklaus’ natural trouble making and rebellious ways to do numerous insufferable things around the family estate, located on an isolated, small island where the entire extended, important parts of the family resided. They stole, drank, smoked, went to wild parties in the main land, and at fourteen, they decided drag racing would be a good idea and crashed Henrik’s prized 1960’s sports car though they couldn’t tell you, even if they wanted to, what brand it was. They didn’t care. Nicklaus was the one to find out, when Rumi was sixteen, that Henrik had been sleeping with her. He had caught them, from a distance, at a small cottage not far from the main house and it seemed things only got worse after that. He advised Rumi not to take it anymore but when her mind seemed very warped by this idea of a father-daughter relationship and how it was normal, he took it upon himself to change her mind. The two had matching tattoos for Christ’s sake…and he had hopelessly become in love with her.

Henrik Engström was supposed to die that night but instead, it was Sara Engström. Killed by accident by catching on to their plan and drinking the antifreeze originally intended for Henrik in his office, the coroner ruled it as a suicide. Rumi had just turned seventeen when her father beat and raped her for the last time before sending her off to some wretched school he had heard about and he had disowned Nicklaus, who was sent back to London where he had originally come from despite having no one and nothing to his name. It was how she got here. It was how she, like her mother, was chewed up, coated in saliva, turned into nothing but bits and pieces. The difference? While her mother burned in the dark flames and was consumed by her own tragedy, Rumi was spat back out…

And unknowingly given a chance of freedom by her very own oppressor.

THE TRUE FACTS

NAME/ALIAS: rumi.
AGE: five billion years old.
EXPERIENCE: since the dawn of the dinosaurs.
HOW YOU FOUND US:

haha jk advertisement. <3

TRY IT OUT

The sun was sleepy when the dark blonde awoke at around five in the morning after a late night playing as the guest of honor at some resort on the island. She let her bright periwinkle orbs fly open before she sat up with that surreal grace of hers. The bed was a crisp linen white color to match the rest of the white and off white room with the light wood toned furniture. Pulling off the soft covers, she let one golden leg slide out before the other before, right at the knee, her champagne colored silk nightgown became visible. Standing, she turned off Mozart as he played on her little alarm clock stereo and pulled her long hair out of the high ponytail it sat in. Heading toward the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and washed her face thoroughly then went to her large dresser, grabbed some running shorts, a sports bra, a t shirt, socks, and in her closet grabbed her infamous running sneakers and put it all on. By five thirty, after some orange juice and a granola bar for breakfast, her feet were pounding against pavement as she ran before they started hitting hard packed wet sand. Headphones in leading to her ipod strapped to her arm and she was good to go.

Sometimes, while running, she’d expect to see James sitting over on a nearby bench or even on the beach and he’d smile at her the way he always did. It was usually lopsided and then he’d turn his head a bit like a puppy. He’d say something sweet, like how he liked the way her ponytail swished from side to side, before adding something raunchy like how he’d love to pull on it gently while having sex with her. She’d blush and tell him to please be quiet and not say things like that in public because it was rude and he’d just laugh and say he didn’t care if it was rude. If they loved each other, everyone else’s opinions meant absolutely nothing to him. They functioned that way-rarely hitting any lows unless he skipped a recital of hers or something to go smoke a joint with his friends which was rare. Their arguments consisted of hushed yet harsh whispers and usually her having to beg a bit for him not to get too loud in case someone heard. If he never died and she knew everything she knew now, she would have told him to just be loud. She would have told him to go ahead and make a show of it all. She wouldn’t care as much anymore…She’d appreciate his personality instead of constantly trying to suppress it.

But he wasn’t here and he wasn’t going to magically appear on the beach every morning. He wasn’t going to tell her how he loved her gams whenever she wore those small running shorts, which were a light pink today, and he wasn’t going to hold her while she cried when her goldfish, Toby, died and say everything was going to be okay because he was in goldfish heaven where he got to swim around happily and free all the time with all the other fish. Her sister even helped her arrange a funeral for it. Cherie knew that a fourteen year old shouldn’t be so heartbroken over something as trivial as a goldfish, but at the time, the only other person to die in their family was their grandfather and Cherie was five when that happened. She didn’t remember who he was and she’d been the only one who hadn’t cried at that funeral.

By seven, she was home, showering, getting dressed, and had refrained from leaving the small beach house she’d rented for her “extended” vacation. She spent the rest of the morning practicing and perfecting a piece her boss back in New York City had written that he wanted her to perform once she got back and he tweaked whatever she did wrong which was rare. Cherie had obsessively become a perfectionist and her mild case of OCD after James’ death had gotten a bit worse. Her entire home was white and off white back in New York City and everything had to be light wood accents. Her clothing had to be ironed perfectly and she always had to look her best or she would silently freak out in her own world, sit in her closet, and just not come out for a while. Every song she played had to be impeccable and overall, her mute factor didn’t help matters. Eventually, after practicing for what felt like ages, she grabbed a sunhat since she could see the rays started to poke through, and headed out, on a white bicycle with white tires, over to any place she could find that sold junk food. She normally ate ridiculously healthy but when she thought of James too much, she ended up at the places he used to eat at which were cheap and fast food oriented. Reaching a Taco Bell, she put the lock on her bike on the rack and then easily folded her hat into the oversized clutch in her slender hands. Once inside, she wrote down her order on a notebook she carried around with her everywhere, small and white of course, and showed it to the cashier who nodded, though seemed perplexed before the order was made. A quesadilla which she wouldn’t end up finishing anywhere, fork and knife required because she didn’t like touching it, a bottle of water. She was set. Grabbing the tray a bit reluctantly, she was glad she had hand sanitizer with her or she would be upset. As she turned around to look at the rest of the restaurant, Sidney, her older sister’s, face suddenly appeared by a booth and Cherie didn’t hesitate to walk on over, her face blank and free of expression despite not having seen anyone in her family for years-since she moved to New York City.

Taking a seat across from her, she remained still as if studying her before hesitantly reaching out and grabbing her sister’s hand, intertwining their fingers and looking down at it. Sid used to be her voice and though their parents thought her mute behavior would have just been a phase, it wasn’t. Cherie had forgotten how to speak all together and she was afraid to know what she’d sound like if she ever did.