Monday Afternoon

The first Monday in ten weeks that I haven't had to wake up at any particular hour has gone quite nicely so far. I'm back at my parents' house for the holidays. Things are calm for now.


Last night, I laid awake thinking for what seemed like a very long time. I've been doing some reading to try and quiet my brain, but it's done little.


This is what I thought about. Work of fiction and imagination. Enjoy. 


So here I sit in the middle of this blank white room, the walls staring at me like blind eyes forward, always looking but never sensing. They whisper, the walls--very soft, quiet murmurs, wind brushing past willow trees. They remember what happened in this room every day, every hour that someone was here, leaving memories behind for someone to stumble upon.

The blanket is plush on the old carpet. I shift my weight slightly and feel its softness under my feet and wonder what softness is made of. Perhaps a series of sensations picked up by nerve endings in my chilled feet that dash up my spinal cord to my brain? So literal. So perfect. Not what I was looking for at all.

I ignore the softness. It makes me think too much. I stare harder at the walls, almost expecting them to blink. I fail the staring contest first, nearly grumbling at the unfair advantage the walls have over me. I glance to my side. A tiny splash of color. My interest is piqued. I crawl across the thick blanket and grasp at the color. A marker. Delighted, I scramble underneath the blanket, to see what other treasures it might hide. More markers. A rainbow splayed across my lap, such a stark contrast to the white of the walls, the black pleats of my skirt, the soulless grey of the blanket.

I lock my eyes on the walls again. They have met their match at last. I carefully uncap the first marker, a lovely green, and look quizzically at the the tip, wet with ink. I crawl to the closest wall, careful not to stain my white shirt with marker. I set the point to the wall, waiting just a moment, then slash. It's like drawing blood, green blood, the first attack on a silent, mocking enemy.

I lose myself completely. I watch the walls become a scene of God knows what, my markers sliding and slashing across their surfaces, my mind vomiting whatever comes up. My hands do exactly what they're told.

After what seems like hours, I finally breathe. I look up at the walls, toward my creation, my lovely monster sprawled across the room.

But it's gone.

Vanished.

My hands are covered in ink, but the walls still stare at me with their blind, hateful starkness. Not a drop of color on them.

I fall to my knees. I scream. I cry. Nothing. The walls won't even echo. My voice is lost in the void.

And then the moment comes in which we wake. I won't remember this. I grasp at it, trying to keep a hold on the memory of the dream, and as my eyes open...I feel it slip away.

fin