|life like dolls by william eng
||[Jun. 6th, 2009|03:34 am]
the cracking of the door beat like so many memories of lashings and thrashings and 'what could have led her here,' thoughts like screams bent against the cracking of the door. and she pounded against it so hard that at one point she swore the sound was of her own wrist breaking against the weight of something so enormous in her heart and mind.|
i want to be home. i have to get home.
so many days marked off in her mind, drawn down like a line from such a point of no return. it was christmas day, she remembered so faintly. So vividly did she remember thinking, 'just let me go back five minutes, just let this not be real,' then suddenly, 'this is really happening.'
'i wouldn't call myself a frail girl,' she retorted to her brothers description of who she was so many ages ago. 'i'm tough, and i'm clever too! tougher and cleverer than you!' she said without raising her voice, kept stern with a quiet severity. 'you're only bigger than me, and more daft.'
he smirked and replied, 'regardless of what you think you are, you're still a child, and children play with other children at such parties. now, go run along with the other wee ones. go on now. i told you.' but she couldn't help but look back at him, with what he guessed was an empty despair, but what she knew to be a frustrated questioning of 'who the hell must he think he is.'
it was a christmas party, she remembered as she clanked her fist again at the slowly weakening door. damaged, she gasped, red like a brick hit her face in the eyes. red so perfect it must be her own--so dismal and sweet it smelled against the rotting wood. she grew faint, not at the sight of her blood but at the realization that all of this was slowly killing her. she thought of the girl that walked up to her brother so many ages ago, and laughed with a quieting rebellion, 'you weren't so young but three years ago, and you'll always have been so young three years ago. when i'm so old you'll be older still and i won't have cared that someone was younger than me, that someone so much older was never the more wiser or clever or tougher. so don't ever condescend to me again. there's no need... because you've made your point clear, and you've made your point of no consequence to me.' how often she felt such wit descending their familial staircase away from his degradations all saved up for such a perfect moment... such an ultimate moment.
with a turn of the heel she walked away from him down the stairs to the level of children, who played with toys stacked high in a room meant for a child never born. she felt it's non existence like a toy elephant in the room being played with by, "Margaret put that down. That's not a toy!" she turned around to see Mrs. Garrison, the lady of the house, scold one of her husband's employee's children. All she could think was how surprised she was that Mrs. Garrison could remember her name. Margeret dropped the mouse trap with a snap. How queer she felt in a childless house full of children, it felt important but the reason escaped her. It just felt queer.
She screamed. The blood, the pain and the arrogance of the door ejaculated from her mouth in a torrent of terrified despair. "Just let me out of here!"
Mrs. Garrison picked up the mouse trap and placed it neatly behind the toy chest. This was a place for preserving, except for Christmas... especially on Christmas. Today the childless room would be mildly interrupted by timid children nestled safely between a rock, a hard place, their parents and a stampeding white elephant named, "Nathanial..." Mrs. Garrison sighed. She tried not to notice her secret intimation. But there was something in that gaze between her and Mrs. Garrison, and Mrs. Garrison and the pillow marked N that felt stranger than sorrow, and more desperate than despondence. There was something sinister there punctuated by Mrs. Garrison's pointed brow that arose a quivering smile. Gooseflesh erupted all over her. Mrs. Garrison was staring now at her. She looked down.
Without a cry or warning she jumped to her feet and with every fiber of need and neccessity rammed her shoulder straight into the weakest break of the door. Heaving with shock and broken splinters. Blood scraped her cheeks, wet and patched with grief. She touched them first before realizing it stung with a breeze. No more stale air. She inhaled and looked twice around. She was free... No... she would be.
To be continued.