Misunderstood

A grandmother sees what is beneath the eyeliner

words 974

When I heard frantic knocking on my front door, I glanced at the bedside clock, and wondered who it could possibly be at 1.55 am. Of course, in the space of a few seconds, I’d run through the possibilities—police with bad news, a car accident, perhaps a neighbour in trouble, or was someone warning me my house was on fire? All these thoughts and still the clock told me barely a minute had passed.
         ‘I’m coming! I’m coming! For goodness sakes.’ I grabbed my dressing gown from the back of the door and hurried as fast as my old legs would take me to find out what all the fuss was about.
         Cautiously, I opened the door, just a few inches, but the sight of my granddaughter’s distraught face led me to open it wide. “Whatever’s the…? I spluttered. But she raced past me and up the stairs without saying a word, leaving me speechless and gaping at the retreating figure. The door to the spare bedroom slammed shut.
         I decided a cup of tea was called for before I did anything and went to put the kettle on. As I waited for it to boil, the thought crossed my mind whether to give Libby’s parents a call but decided against it. My daughter, Libby’s mum, would probably make a scene, she’d insist on coming over and dragging her sixteen-year-old home. No, I’ll drink my tea, and go back to bed.
         I’ve been sleeping downstairs—since my recent hip replacements I’ve found the stairs problematic. I close my eyes to the sound of a steady beat of music coming from Libby’s room. I listen to an ethereal voice singing the lyrics.

Place me in my casket tonight
Because I'm already dying inside
Pale skin so cold to the touch
Like a rose in bloom when we blush
Dark eyes meet under the sky
The stars are out, we're alive in the night
My hollow heart finds it too hard to trust
We're all alone until we turn back to dust

The following morning, I climbed the stairs. Gritting my teeth, my hips complaining, I tapped gently on Libby’s door. There was no answer, so I opened the door as quietly as I could. She didn’t stir. I stood and watched my beautiful Libby sleeping. The thick eyeliner and mascara she’d taken to wearing lately, had left black smudges all over the white pillowcase. Her tearstained face seemed almost clown like—the black eyeliner under her eyes had run, marring her white cheeks. Despite the dyed black hair, which disguised her naturally fair tresses, and the black lace and velvet attire which she’d arrived in, to me she was still the sweet little girl she’d always been. I placed the cup of tea I’d brought for her on the table and closed the door.

I called my daughter. It didn’t go well.
         ‘You should have called me last night, Mum,’ she yelled down the phone, ‘you have no idea what she’s putting us through?’ she paused to draw breath. ‘Have you seen the state of her?’
         ‘It’s just a phase, love,’ I spoke calmly, ‘ you ought to be pleased she knew where to come to feel safe.’
         ‘I’m not allowing my daughter to turn into one of those Goths, Mum. It’s unhealthy. Send her home as soon as she wakes up.’
         The call ended abruptly.

Later that morning Libby came downstairs, she’d washed her face and reapplied the thick eyeliner.
         ‘Hungry love?’ I asked.
         She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Gran,’ she spoke softly.
         ‘It’s ok, love. I’m pleased you came.’ I gave her a hug, noticing the large holes in her stretched earlobes.
         I coaxed her to eat and waited a while before I spoke. ‘What’s been going on sweetheart?’
         ‘You wouldn’t understand, Gran.’
         ‘Try me,’ I smiled.
          She remained silent. I waited.
          ‘My posters listen to me more than my parents do,’ she spoke so quietly I barely heard.
         My first thought was that’s a great line but decided to keep my opinion to myself. I recall being her age and going through my own ‘Dark Phase.’ We’d listen to groups like The Doors—Moody, poetic, brooding music. I modelled myself on Janis Joplin and her raw, emotional intensity. I wore red lipstick as my armour, I thought, looking at Libby’s attire, maybe she wears black for the same reason.
         ‘Are things difficult at school, Libby?’
         ‘School, home. everywhere.’ She shook her head. ‘I practice looking tragic in case someone finally notices.’
          I remained quiet. But I was there, listening, noticing, seeing her.
          ‘They call it a phase, but I call it survival,’ she lifted her head defiantly as if daring me to deny how she saw the world.’ She continued, ‘If I disappeared would anyone notice?’
         ‘I would,’ I replied, before adding, ‘don’t hate the world, Libby.’
         ‘I don’t hate the world, I just don’t trust it.’
          I reached across the table and took her hand, the black nail polish chipped at the edges. I didn’t trust it either,” I said. ‘Not at sixteen.’
          Libby lifted her head, her beautiful blue eyes, ringed in black liner, looked in to mine. She seemed surprised.
          ‘Yes, I was sixteen too once and just as confused.’ I gave a wry smile. Everything feels permanently confused at sixteen, love.’

I called my daughter later that day. I told her Libby would be staying until she felt ready to come home.
         ‘Mum…’ she began to argue.
         ‘If you want her to trust you, then stop trying to repaint her.’ This time I ended the call.

My daughter thinks eyeliner is the threat. She’s wrong. The real danger is a child who believes she could vanish, and no one would notice. I will notice. And always will.

Written for

SURVEY

Journey Through Genres: Official Contest  (E) Write a short story in the given genre to win big prizes! #1803133 by Writing.Com Support

Prompt: Gothic genre