Descriptions

The window opens. But it does not open. It opens for light. The curtains cerulean. A miniature of a sky. It dazzles up the gloom yet contradicts the rain. Most still life do.

Then there is the rain. Frolicking. Tongue tasting. Like some old tear-case. Travels torridly. Travels instinctively. Lost in the cosmos of the shell of earth and water. God has given her wings of gossamers. In her grey-blue I see myself. My own eyes black one on the left deep brown on the right. I saw it on the window screen. Sighing as it goes down. A long breath. I wonder if I could pinch it. It looks soft as cheeks. Cheeks of nimble fat. Like fairies of legend. Or fairies of young tales. The windows are dichotomous. They open as halves. Like sliced fruit made of glass. It’s the only window I’ve seen. It is painted brown. I read of white windows. Shutters. But I have not seen them aside pictures. They look half open like a flower drowsy waiting for the sun. Waiting for something; half-waiting.

Polished wood. I have not seen anything else. I have read of grilled beds and less furnished wood. My bed gleams. Like some star dust twinkling as a nursery rhyme, as ageless as a nursery rhyme. I am ageless as a rhyme. I do not know other things. I am stuck. In polished wood. The cotton rain of a bed sheets. Frilled pink. I like it for sunsets. But the pink of the bed is a nursery rhyme and it looks old and angry. Like a sunset gone awry. The cushions are soft. Too soft. Like I am going into them. Like when I eat bread. My father brings me bread and fish and chocolate. Chocolate when he is happy.

My hair was long and brown. Now it is like father’s. I am waiting for him. When he sees my hair he screams as what have I done! There are tears over his eyes…he wants to hit me. As he did when I was a child. I just tell him I am tired of the dressing room brown and my long hair brown. So polished and neat.

During the afternoon I am served tea or coffee. Always in china cups. Once I broke one and father punched me. I wanted to see a mug. But he says mugs are for the uncouth. I want to see mugs. I have read of them. The china is porcelain. So glassy and smooth. Like some living being waiting to reach out and polish out my blood. There are two tea sets. The thin vine stripped Lucinda Belle and the over flowery purple English Rose Satin set — one of these I broke. They looked so smooth like something unnatural. I did not like them. These sets of tea. Pouring me with their smug smiles. Washed and prepared just for us. Teasing me of the disabilities of less company. Their smoothness a plague. My skin their breeding ground. My entire body they corrupt.

My father smiles too much. As though I am very happy to be here. Be here with him. In this ivory tower of a Rapunzel Complex. Everything is in disarray though everything is neat. But it is dishevelled. I know. The polished wood smells like an insect. No warmth expands. I can feel my lungs screeching inside. What is this madness? Why am I subjected to it? This extremity of seclusion like a rain drop forced to not dry. Not to meld with earth. This wasn’t a normal existence.

Everything was coated and furnished with the enormous bleeding ore of artificiality and I could not stand it any longer.

“Father, I want to leave.”

“ You are as horrible as your mother!”

“ Where is she?!” I screamed, “I have never seen her my entire life as you trapped me in this room!”

My father looked at me with the eerie strangeness; reminded me of birds who feed off carrion, “ And you’ll never see her.”

Something in me grew voluminous; an ocean in dawn, heat foam and waves. My eyes were large now, “ Father…” I attempted to register, “ What did…you do…”

My father smiled and came towards me and hugged me, “ She too wanted to leave me as you did. You can’t just leave people. That’s wrong and you know that right sweetheart. It was swift. There were some roses she was fixing and she didn’t know and I just came forward with my knife and — ”

I pushed him away and looked at him from that angle that was really him; the selfish and the cruel: “ You monster… you killed my mother…”

“No, don’t you understand!” father was enraged, “That woman would have left us!”

“I’m leaving too.”

There were a few moments of silence but then her father screamed and charged at me with… a… knife. Grabbing the Satin teapot I smashed it against his face — out of fear; this man couldn’t possibly be my father right?

Then I hurried out the door and saw light. Out open. I wanted to cry. But my tears were rejected. As shock came in.

There were bodies of blood. There were bodies everywhere!

Now I realized it…the cruel truth…

…of what my father was.

I slowly walked out of the derelict building whose only cleansiness was my cell.

As I walked outside I heard a crash.

I know; it’s window glass…father you…bastard…

I quickly started walking.

This was no longer a polished world of tea cups and tea sets.

I have come out of the grandiose to meet life…