(no subject)
Born Lucky
She felt constantly on the verge of tears. Something, anything, she didn’t know what exactly-what or when, but it always managed to push her over her edge, over her border.
Always Always Always. Pushing.
And she’d just sit, and weep inside. Torn and shredded but you could always tell by looking at her. Just a glimmer of wetness in her eyes, a streak on her cheek, a river bed now dry in her make-up.
She thought she was ok, she thought she was steady, level. But the balance tipped so easily...
It was quiet in the house, in the kitchen, just the clock, the sound of her finger on the paper, tracing the words, making sure that the words were really the words they were, they kept moving around, the letter reforming into sentences she dreaded seeing. Lies posing as truths, truths posing as lies, “foul is fair and fair is foul”, war or peace-the war for power is over, but the battle for peace has only begun. The kitchen is empty.
It was windy and the leaves were raining down. The tree were stripped naked that day.
No one told her it would be this hard, maybe they forgot.
“Dammit.”
She whispered, then folded the paper neatly, dropped it into the fireplace, it would make good kindling when it got chilly. Her fingers pressured her temple, it ached constantly now, she knew she had to stop crying. She went to the bathroom to get some more tissues, blew her nose. She caught her reflection in the mirror, began scrutinizing herself. Found a few pimples, she knew she was getting her period again; picked at the skin, she made herself stop, it would scar. Then she saw the black smudges on her face, and puzzled over where it could have come from. Then she remembered, oh yes, it was ink from the newsprint, from her fingers to her face as she tried to hold it in, if she didn’t show it, it wouldn’t be real. She took a face cloth, and rubbed gently, and kept rubbing till her face was tingling and raw. It hurt, and she was satisfied, so she could still feel. She washed the cloth out, and placed it over the little radiator to dry.
Just tears. Lots of tears. She was puzzled one evening, days before, when the character the novel she was reading, was described as having cried tears of joy. She never knew there was such a thing. Tears hurt. Crying made your nose run, it made your eyes blurry, it gave you a headache if you cried for a long time, made your mascara run. Absolutely ruined your make-up. She examined her tears. No, not these. These weren’t joyful tears. “Where is the pill in all this jam?”
She remembered the pair of swans she saw on the little lake, as she drove on the highway, orange cones and construction tape, and the paths in the water left by their paddling feet. Just a glimpse, just enough time for those synapses to fire, just enough time for her brain to recognize them as swans, that they were really swans. (that words were really words)
And Christ she was scared.
She ran up the stairs, pounding their carpeted surface, muffling the determined and rough steps she wanted to be heard. The tea in the mug she held sloshed and spilled and stained the carpet. She went to the bathroom again, and threw the tea bag out. The tea had gone cold anyway.
She dribbled all the remaining tea out. Rinsed it out, looking out the window.
The symphony played her head. Then Mozart’s Messiah. She sang it in college, she was one of the few women who’s voices could reach those notes, but tuning was hard, she always had to work on it, but when she managed to free the voice it was free and it floated and thundered and she missed that, she missed the power and beauty she felt when she was singing.
She hummed what bits she could remember, she forgot most of the Latin, but she could hear her voice crack even in her head and cursed herself for her laziness, for not being vigilant enough about her tuning. Suddenly she remembered the mug, and that the water was running. She remembered she was looking out the window, at the leaves.
She’d never seen leaves like that, raining down, just like snow.
He was somewhere over there, “rebuilding democracy”. Bullshit.
‘People are so scared over here’ his voiced played in her head, words on the computer screen. He went on. ‘The zoo is the most depressing. The animals are caged and barely have room to turn around in. They’re starved. One of my buddies lost a few fingers, trying to feed one of the animals. Stupid thing to do really, but he was drunk. Didn’t pull his hand away fast enough. Some of them are crazy. Do you think animals can go insane?’
‘I love you.’
She whispered the words.
She couldn’t believe it, when he said he wanted to go over there, be in the military. But now he was over there, she wasn’t sure where, and he had the big bull’s eye of his Americanism always on his back. What he didn’t know when he went, what she didn’t know when he went, was that she was going with him.
‘People don’t understand. We break into their homes, complete strangers with guns, and the women scream and the translators shout. And I look at the kids looking at me. I can’t look at them back. I don’t want to see what they’ll remember.’
“I don’t understand.” She closed her eyes.
She sat at the computer and she wanted to scream that they’re breaking into her home too-turning everything over, hacking an axe through locked doors, throwing laundry everywhere-dirty and clean together with no regard for the difference.
I’m screaming too!
She ran downstairs again, retrieved the newspaper, began reading it again, maybe she’d misunderstood. Maybe the words were wrong.
She felt constantly on the verge of tears. Something, anything, she didn’t know what exactly-what or when, but it always managed to push her over her edge, over her border.
Always Always Always. Pushing.
And she’d just sit, and weep inside. Torn and shredded but you could always tell by looking at her. Just a glimmer of wetness in her eyes, a streak on her cheek, a river bed now dry in her make-up.
She thought she was ok, she thought she was steady, level. But the balance tipped so easily...
It was quiet in the house, in the kitchen, just the clock, the sound of her finger on the paper, tracing the words, making sure that the words were really the words they were, they kept moving around, the letter reforming into sentences she dreaded seeing. Lies posing as truths, truths posing as lies, “foul is fair and fair is foul”, war or peace-the war for power is over, but the battle for peace has only begun. The kitchen is empty.
It was windy and the leaves were raining down. The tree were stripped naked that day.
No one told her it would be this hard, maybe they forgot.
“Dammit.”
She whispered, then folded the paper neatly, dropped it into the fireplace, it would make good kindling when it got chilly. Her fingers pressured her temple, it ached constantly now, she knew she had to stop crying. She went to the bathroom to get some more tissues, blew her nose. She caught her reflection in the mirror, began scrutinizing herself. Found a few pimples, she knew she was getting her period again; picked at the skin, she made herself stop, it would scar. Then she saw the black smudges on her face, and puzzled over where it could have come from. Then she remembered, oh yes, it was ink from the newsprint, from her fingers to her face as she tried to hold it in, if she didn’t show it, it wouldn’t be real. She took a face cloth, and rubbed gently, and kept rubbing till her face was tingling and raw. It hurt, and she was satisfied, so she could still feel. She washed the cloth out, and placed it over the little radiator to dry.
Just tears. Lots of tears. She was puzzled one evening, days before, when the character the novel she was reading, was described as having cried tears of joy. She never knew there was such a thing. Tears hurt. Crying made your nose run, it made your eyes blurry, it gave you a headache if you cried for a long time, made your mascara run. Absolutely ruined your make-up. She examined her tears. No, not these. These weren’t joyful tears. “Where is the pill in all this jam?”
She remembered the pair of swans she saw on the little lake, as she drove on the highway, orange cones and construction tape, and the paths in the water left by their paddling feet. Just a glimpse, just enough time for those synapses to fire, just enough time for her brain to recognize them as swans, that they were really swans. (that words were really words)
And Christ she was scared.
She ran up the stairs, pounding their carpeted surface, muffling the determined and rough steps she wanted to be heard. The tea in the mug she held sloshed and spilled and stained the carpet. She went to the bathroom again, and threw the tea bag out. The tea had gone cold anyway.
She dribbled all the remaining tea out. Rinsed it out, looking out the window.
The symphony played her head. Then Mozart’s Messiah. She sang it in college, she was one of the few women who’s voices could reach those notes, but tuning was hard, she always had to work on it, but when she managed to free the voice it was free and it floated and thundered and she missed that, she missed the power and beauty she felt when she was singing.
She hummed what bits she could remember, she forgot most of the Latin, but she could hear her voice crack even in her head and cursed herself for her laziness, for not being vigilant enough about her tuning. Suddenly she remembered the mug, and that the water was running. She remembered she was looking out the window, at the leaves.
She’d never seen leaves like that, raining down, just like snow.
He was somewhere over there, “rebuilding democracy”. Bullshit.
‘People are so scared over here’ his voiced played in her head, words on the computer screen. He went on. ‘The zoo is the most depressing. The animals are caged and barely have room to turn around in. They’re starved. One of my buddies lost a few fingers, trying to feed one of the animals. Stupid thing to do really, but he was drunk. Didn’t pull his hand away fast enough. Some of them are crazy. Do you think animals can go insane?’
‘I love you.’
She whispered the words.
She couldn’t believe it, when he said he wanted to go over there, be in the military. But now he was over there, she wasn’t sure where, and he had the big bull’s eye of his Americanism always on his back. What he didn’t know when he went, what she didn’t know when he went, was that she was going with him.
‘People don’t understand. We break into their homes, complete strangers with guns, and the women scream and the translators shout. And I look at the kids looking at me. I can’t look at them back. I don’t want to see what they’ll remember.’
“I don’t understand.” She closed her eyes.
She sat at the computer and she wanted to scream that they’re breaking into her home too-turning everything over, hacking an axe through locked doors, throwing laundry everywhere-dirty and clean together with no regard for the difference.
I’m screaming too!
She ran downstairs again, retrieved the newspaper, began reading it again, maybe she’d misunderstood. Maybe the words were wrong.