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Now, she sits on a chair near a barred window at the back of her small room. Facing the sun, she doesn’t say a word. Her face holds no expression, but there’s an overwhelming sense of calm here. The fly sits on the wall now, watching us. Her gown is white. Her thoughts are scattered, emotions “impaired”. She hasn’t lost her beauty. They label her “withdrawn”; she won’t recognize me. The door closes behind me, the fly jumps in terror and I call out her name.


Submitted:Apr 24, 2013    Reads: 20    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   


The ticking clock echoes off the cold tiled walls of the long, narrow corridor. It dances with the steady rhythm in my chest, and the unsettling clicking of my boots. The bright fluorescents above me ignite a pounding in my head and the eerie green of the tiles intensify the lurching of my stomach; a feeling more subtle when I had first emerged through the thick double doors. Its cold here. The cruel, icy air sends goosebumps up the back of my neck, but cannot seem to put an end to the palms that sweat, uncontrollably, making it difficult to grasp the beads in my hands. It took me ten years to get here and just as long to walk down that hallway.

Room 223 on the left. He unlocks the door so that I may enter. I take a breath. White. The color consumes the room. A single bed and an end table; a book sits on its surface. The Bible. A fly is angrily buzzing around the room, shattering the silence. There's an Iris plant in the corner across from a small bed. The plant, that one lonely flower, is the only source of hope for her here. The deep purple color calls for immediate attention upon entering the compact, unfriendly space. There seems to be a magic attached to it, one that slows the angry pounding in my chest, one that separates this room from the merciless hallway.

It was almost ten years ago now. Her dress, it fell so naturally over her hips and swayed barely touching the floor. I could see her through the light provided by my nightlight. The liquid smooth purple accentuated her every curve. The light behind crowned her, a golden angel, but her eyes said otherwise. Her long raven hair was tied up into a loose, messy bun, leaving the dress in its deserved spotlight. "Sweet dreams my little girl" and a sweet kiss was left to linger on my forehead, until she stood up and headed for the door. I'd listen to her every step all the way down the hall. The sound of the front door confirmed her exit. The smell of jasmine lingered in the bedroom. I'd hold onto that until sleep provided a merciful escape.

The ticking clock echoes off the cold tiled walls of the long, narrow corridor. It dances with the steady rhythm in my chest, and the unsettling clicking of my boots. The bright fluorescents above me ignite a pounding in my head and the eerie green of the tiles intensify the lurching of my stomach; a feeling more subtle when I had first emerged through the thick double doors. Its cold here. The cruel, icy air sends goosebumps up the back of my neck, but cannot seem to put an end to the palms that sweat, uncontrollably, making it difficult to grasp the beads in my hands. It took me ten years to get here and just as long to walk down that hallway.

Room 223 on the left. He unlocks the door so that I may enter. I take a breath. White. The color consumes the room. A single bed and an end table; a book sits on its surface. The Bible. A fly is angrily buzzing around the room, shattering the silence. There's an Iris plant in the corner across from a small bed. The plant, that one lonely flower, is the only source of hope for her here. The deep purple color calls for immediate attention upon entering the compact, unfriendly space. There seems to be a magic attached to it, one that slows the angry pounding in my chest, one that separates this room from the merciless hallway.

It was almost ten years ago now. Her dress, it fell so naturally over her hips and swayed barely touching the floor. I could see her through the light provided by my nightlight. The liquid smooth purple accentuated her every curve. The light behind crowned her, a golden angel, but her eyes said otherwise. Her long raven hair was tied up into a loose, messy bun, leaving the dress in its deserved spotlight. "Sweet dreams my little girl" and a sweet kiss was left to linger on my forehead, until she stood up and headed for the door. I'd listen to her every step all the way down the hall. The sound of the front door confirmed her exit. The smell of jasmine lingered in the bedroom. I'd hold onto that until sleep provided a merciful escape.

Now, she sits on a chair near a barred window at the back of her small room. Facing the sun, she doesn't say a word. Her face holds no expression, but there's an overwhelming sense of calm here. The fly sits on the wall now, watching us. Her gown is white. Her thoughts are scattered, emotions "impaired". She hasn't lost her beauty. They label her "withdrawn"; she won't recognize me. The door closes behind me, the fly jumps in terror and I call out her name.

There were bright flashing lights of blue red and white that danced over his house that night. The lights created playful patterns on the lawn. They danced their way into the windows and decorated the already splattered walls. The ballet of lights and color attracted the attention of the neighbors and the story behind their chaotic dance caught the eye of media. The police performed their march. They marched in, guns at the ready and found him upstairs, mangled. Mother sat at the piano, not far from the massacre, playing Fur Elise, unaware of why the authorities had arrived. Her royal dress violently torn, yet she smiled.

My chest begins to sting with every cold breathe I manage to take in. Ten years. I still couldn't come up with a word. Not one question to put the pieces together, to stop my shaking hands. I look at her, to the fly bouncing along the window and back at her. I wonder if I'm more like her than I know. Genetics, the many variations of possibly inherited characteristics, the roll of the dice. I wonder if I'm just as trapped as she is now. Talking is useless. She ignores my words. The fly scurries past my line of sight and lands on the door frame. He's close to an escape now. I call her name again. Nothing. Once more, softly. The sound that the palm of my hand makes against the door frame would have made anyone jump, but not her. The buzzing stops.

There were bright flashing lights of blue red and white that danced over his house that night. The lights created playful patterns on the lawn. They danced their way into the windows and decorated the already splattered walls. The ballet of lights and color attracted the attention of the neighbors and the story behind their chaotic dance caught the eye of media. The police performed their march. They marched in, guns at the ready and found him upstairs, mangled. Mother sat at the piano, not far from the massacre, playing Fur Elise, unaware of why the authorities had arrived. Her royal dress violently torn, yet she smiled.

My chest begins to sting with every cold breathe I manage to take in. Ten years. I still couldn't come up with a word. Not one question to put the pieces together, to stop my shaking hands. I look at her, to the fly bouncing along the window and back at her. I wonder if I'm more like her than I know. Genetics, the many variations of possibly inherited characteristics, the roll of the dice. I wonder if I'm just as trapped as she is now. Talking is useless. She ignores my words. The fly scurries past my line of sight and lands on the door frame. He's close to an escape now. I call her name again. Nothing. Once more, softly. The sound that the palm of my hand makes against the door frame would have made anyone jump, but not her. The buzzing stops.





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