Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Not Dead

Note: This post should be read after Perfectly Still

Everything is vaguely familiar. The headboard is at my head, the footboard at my feet, yellow and blue gingham wallpaper to my left and throughout. There are stuffed animals, books, photos of friends and other sparkly d├ęcor delicately placed upon the modern Victorian Princess-Style hutch, glowing peacefully by the light of the moon. The door is beyond the foot of the bed, open. The hall is there, the linen closet, bathroom, second bedroom. I feel the house, the street just beyond the front door, the town, the freeway beyond, big cities and oceans.

It’s a silent scream that fills only my head and tears at my heart alone. Mommy! I can see their bedroom, visible just beyond the unassuming white eyelet curtains. It would take forever to get to her. As if being poked fun of on the playground, the heaviness of the proposition finds its place in my bones and stills me even further. Left turn out of the bedroom, to the dark foyer. Doorbell chimes and whipping belt closet to the right, front door straight ahead, shadows, mean and nasty, lurking. Mommy. Another left turn to pass through the olive green tile counters along the yellow-orange squares covering the linoleum floors. The light from the streetlamp flowing through the Redwood tree and brick columns, illuminating the dining room table with its hideous memories always makes my heart skip a few beats and my legs move faster than before. I had a bad dream. Another left turn to the dark and cavernous rear of the family room that leads to the laundry. The wood paneling is awful, like stinky dog shit on the walls with extra long coarse black hair strewn perfectly and vertically every few inches throughout. I’m afraid. Just off of the family room, the smallest room in the house is the laundry and has four doors. One leads to the room itself. One to the back yard of the house that I’m not allowed to go to anymore without permission. Really afraid. One to the hot water heater that hisses and slaps at its sides as you walk by and the yard of the neighbor who, every day, suns herself like she’s a rattlesnake preparing to hunt for her next meal. I need you. The fourth door leads to their room. The hinges almost always squeak as if being projected by a bullhorn. Travelling down the dark hallway to the room is like being in a tunnel. The smell of the space strange, unfamiliar and not like home. I’m afraid of being alone in the dark. It's an unspoken, if not sporadically enforced, rule: No Children Allowed. But mommy, please!

I am still frightened, still unable to will my body into action. My breathing is still labored and the blankets are heavy but in reviewing this vision I have come to realize that everything is exactly the way it always is, has been, and will always be. This house, these people, the entire universe surrounds me and it doesn’t matter. I am alone.

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