The Caged Girl Sings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man wacthes a young girl through her window night after night, and sits front row to her deepest of secrets.

Submitted: August 14, 2012

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Submitted: August 14, 2012



The Caged Girl Sings
I had stared inside the creamy pale skinned girl's window every night for months. I had watched as she cried herself to sleep. I had seen her sing to no one in a melancholy voice as she combed her hair in the mirror; her brown thick waves poofing out and becoming unknotted, creating ease to pull her hair out of her tear stained face. I watched as she lied profusely to her boyfriend over the phone, hanging up and chucking the device against the wall without a second glance. This creature; so lost and beautiful. It was not her perfectly formed body that held me captive, no not in the slightest, it was nothing but her own nature. She lived a captive life, and was so unbearabley vunerable sometimes I couldn't stand to watch , and yet to everyone she faced she bore a mask of inpenetrable steel.
I fell in love with her in a sense. A bird, on the outside of the cage, watching a girl twist and tangle inside her own. Saddening, maddening little thing that I couldnt stay away from. I came home every night from work,eager to pull back my drapes and wait to see if she was there, if she was alright. She was always there, not always the latter. I had seen her secrets, her life the tornado, my room the eye of the storm. I contemplated saving her, but how? I was legally a certified stalker.
"Hello yes I've been watching a young woman every night and..."
And he hit her, he spit on her, he smashed her face into the ground and laughed like he was just waiting for her to say "uncle". Like this was all a game and not her precious heart, her precious body, her precious smile, that he was anhilating with every blow to her frame and mind. I hated him more than any beast that had walked the planet. He represented evil in the shape of a father.
And I was a coward.
Who was I to make a call that she herself wasnt willing to make? I didnt even know her, what her reasons for staying, and hopelessly enduring, were. No I couldnt do it. This is what I told myself anyway. In truth it may have been that I feared that she would hate me, and if I really let myself be honest, it was because I was afraid she would go away from me forever, where I would never know if she was safe. So I watched night after night, ensuring that if and when she was hurt, she was at the very least "alright." The sense of the word applying in a very different manner to her than most. I was consumed with the girl. I thought of her more than I thought of my own self. I was withered with guilt and shame and fear, and I never missed a night. I wouldn't and couldn't rest in my own bed until I was certain she had her head on her pillow, her mind somewhere far away. The only times I felt my mind reach a glimmer of peace was the nights I saw her sit in her room alone and cry. When she cried she sang herself through it, her eyes closed, both hands on both sides of her face; shielded. Her window cracked so generously as to allow me to hear her soft fragile voice, floating around my head and granting my soul morose beauty. I knew this meant he was not home, his black truck wasn't hiding in his dark dusty garage. She never cried when he was in the house.
The night I saw her stumble into her room, face and shirt splashed with blood, the horror of the situation sunk its teeth into me like a overpoweringly venemous snake. I desperately reached for the phone, dropped it, and scrambled like a mad man to retrieve it. The amount of blood caught me off guard, I knew what it meant; nothing would ever be the same. She had to go to the hospital immediatly, the crimson blood looked like she had been ambushed with a full paint can, it meant nothing but sure death. By the time I came back up already dialing the 9 my quick glance in her direction made me freeze. She was standing motionless in front of her mirror staring at herself blankly. She wore a look of shock, and her tears were cutting through the blood on her cheeks, mixing together so red tears fell from her face. She touched her cheek gently and smeared the blood downward never taking her eyes off her own face. Bringing her hand in front of herself she stared for a moment, I saw her lips curl into a wild hollow smile.
I knew what she had done instantly and I fluttered between relief and astonishment, fear and disgust. I watched her all night in stunned silence barely willing myself to breathe. After a short while of examining herself in the mirror, her red splashed unbattered face, she showered off her father's blood and went about her night in a giddy causual manner. A bee had stung my heart; I saw a monster. She was free, but not at all.
I never saw the man again, and when the cops came to my door as I knew they would, with questions in their eyes and suspicion on their face, I told them the man and his daughter were nice peopl., I wished them best of luck in the search, but I never saw a thing.

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