|
EARLY MOURNING I ran my index finger over the cushion of the faded rug, ran it so the crimson patterns turned lighter, turned darker, based on the position of each blade of yarn. Sitting cross-legged, attempting to chat about the weather, nonchalant. The words blurred by my tongue. Now, in a shower just a little warmer than necessary, just enough to burn my skin from the inside out, I scrub away the powdery dreadlocks that formed in my hair and the shrapnel thatís dug into my sole. It stings a bit, but no more than anyone elseís salty mascara-massacre cheeks. An unopened box of tissues on the bathroom boudoir. I like it that way. My powder-puff pink cardboard trophy. There is no blood on the bottom of my foot. Sangfroid, I am. Not there. On both accounts. Clouds wait ominously on the television screen. They lingered throughout my cleansing ritual. I saw them on the bathroom mirror, behind my little plaque, they laughed as my lip broke crimson under the pressure of my tooth. The heat from the faucet had numbed my skin. My looking glass likeness also was distorted. Capricious like a child with half the facts and all the suspicion I went to the Red Cross, searching for the sentimental fool within. Not there. Just some detached kid watching herself reflected in the volunteerís ridiculous red-framed spectacles. Trying to explain sheís seventeen. Honest. Those chipmunk cheeks always give me away. All I wanted was to suffer a little. All the shock with none of the victimhood. My body no cleaner than before I bathedóstill little pieces of steel resting just below skin, still dust molecules that wonít loosen their grip any. Much more eerie than anything in a five second news clip. The shadowy girl on the newly polished coffee table looks up at me. She doesnít seem to wear the remnants of melancholy that I canít wash off. Still, I see her mimic me as I walk about in a dreamlike trance, the lead in a mafia film where the villains set down their artillery and say: ìWeíre on your side, kid. Just a test, to see if youíve got the stuff.î I hadnít studied. Couldnít tell you what to circle in number two lead. It was just something I noticed on the 6,7,8 oíclock news. Sporting black all the way to my boots, itís the obscure smudges I make in charcoal that paint my reality. Iím no different than the granite widow in the opaque lace veiló itís her lack of tears that she hides. Now, shampooing again, I am just passing the time until the mirror girl is ready to grieve. - Rachel Moran |
||
|
< Previous |
Next > |
|