The Pickles Dance About My Fingertips
I have decided that it would be good to type up the second part of the Fabled Avery story because...well...because I have nothing else to do. My legs hurt.
...Chapter Two
...Weapons For Insanity
"Jamie?"
"Yes, Avery?"
"Why do mommy and daddy hit us?"
"...Because they're angry with us."
"Why?"
"Because we did something wrong."
That was the third time that dark night that Avery had walked into Jamie's room. This time he had been able to muster up the courage to speak, asking the question that had been bothering him for as long as he could remember.
"Why do they hit us because we do something wrong?" Avery, age five, asked his older brother Jamie, clamouring into his brothers 'big boy' bed and snuggling underneath the dark blue covers next to him.
"Because it's bad to make mistakes...they show us that by hitting us," Jamie, twelve, said, pushing his long black hair out of his eyes, looking at his brother with a kind, patient expression and speaking in his soft, quiet voice. Avery brushed his black hair, already long at his yound age, out of his face, imitating his brother and and looking up at him with wide, innocent blue eyes.
"But-! But-! When I go to my preschool, Mrs.Pittam tells us it's wrong to hit! See, see, Jaye hit Kayle and she started crying, and Mrs. Pittam was real angry, she, she said 'Jaye! You go to the time-out corner right dis instaint!' And then she told everybody, she said hitting is bad and you should never, ever do's it. So why can mommy and daddy hit and Jaye, Jaye can't, Jamie?"
......
spleeeeee....I don' feel like typin' this no more. So I will type up something shorter, and then go to bed. I've only had three hours of sleep in the past two days. Blegh.
[Something Untitled]
It was suffocating. Sitting inside that house. Like the walls were folding in on her, at the point just before their collapse, where you're holding your breath, tension, fear, and anxiety welling up in your heart as you realize the impending crash, the destruction of the frame and foundation of your fortress...Except the walls weren't really falling, but destruction, however in a different sense, was coming soon. The only place she felt she could escape from the pressure, the hot, still air crowding all around her, making it harder to breath, was outside. The cool dusk air was comforting and replenishing like a glass of ice water after sweaty, grueling work. The openess of outside (open, despite the houses crowded close together, brushing shoulders on the strange coldesac) was a relief- no crushing walls leaning in on you, eager to leanr your secrets, watching your every move, to smother her- no celing holding her in like a prison door, the blushing sky above open, round, cool, and welcoming.
And yet, it was not enough. The anxiety, the panic, the anxiousness was dulled, but not deadened. There was still a tug of longing to escape from something, something, but no way to, held back by responsibility and obligation, strings, tethers, the catch in this deal. She was freer- at least, she felt freer- but she was not free. For time would pass, and the end would come- no matter what she wished for. She felt like Pinnochio- walking without strings, but a puppet nonetheless.
The sky was darkening, a sinister force holding a black shadow over the Earth, turning day to night. She wanted to revive it, to reach up and kiss the sky, bring the blush back, and leave the cold, dead canopy behind. She wanted to take off, to fly away, leaving her troubles on the ground, never to look back. Now, under the dark, dissapproving stare of the sky, it felt like running, this idea- sweaty faced, hot breathed, and wide eyed from a dark, daggered figure- like MacBeth, confident- but the play is already written, and it was fools confidence, fools hope- for, like MacBeth, she was doomed to perish.
Though she knew it, her fate, she still hoped, still wished everything was as before- laughing, careless, foolhardy teens, spending all their time together, oblivious that they, their own being, would form the cracks in the foundation, weakening their shelter. Now the laughter was gone, hollow echoes rebounding off the walss, widening the cracks, malicios humor at the look of reprouch and regret on their faces at the sight of what they had done.
Now, cracks stretched and widened, hardly anything holding them up was all that was left. And soon, the wear and tear on the wall will have been enough- soon, they would collapse. Even though she was outside, not matter where she flew to, no matter how fast she ran, there was no way to escape the destruction of her, of her life. All that would be left were crumbling ruins, and the weak sillouette of a girl, abandoned in the wrekage.
Thank you, and now I shall traipse, as best I can with useless, worn out limbs, to my beddy-bye. So...bye.