My heart hurt deep inside my chest. I sat at the window in the darkness, watching for the reflection of moonlight and armor. I twirled a strand of my hair, a compulsive habit I started years ago. I told myself I would watch for just ten more minutes, but that ten turned into ten more, and then another ten after that. I talked out loud to myself, "he's not coming", I said, "go to bed". I lay down then, only to jump up for one last look out the window. Finally, the silence overcame me, I heard it as it settled in for the night. I liked the quiet as my mind sighed, floated in the stone-blind silence, all imaginings that pierced my mind during the light were released to become vague, dim memories. The dark was my shot of Novocain as I drifted off to dreamless sleep.1
In the morning, the daylight danced on my bedroom floor like fluttering lace butterflies, and when I got out of bed, I stepped over them, like a game of hopscotch drawn with bright colored chalk on a whitewashed sidewalk. My neck was stiff, the back of my head ached, my eyes, puffy, bloodshot. I remembered that that he didn't come over, he didn't even call. My vigil at the window was useless again, my stares into the darkness no longer able to conjure him up, wish him there. The bright rise of sunlight hurt my eyes, the stark reality of another naked, exposed day slapped me awake, and I was afraid to leave my house once again. I needed to recover from my loss, accept my failure, and file it alongside the others that slipped through my sticky fingers. 2
I had a doll when I was a little girl, I called her Pearl. She had a clear plastic tear pasted on her cheek. We were alike, the doll and I, with threadlike streaks etched deep in our faces, cry lines and crows feet, furrows for salted tears. Her charcoal eyes angled downward, sad, round, tragic, gray eyes shadowed by an eave of slick brown bangs. Pearls poor, pitiful eyes and her clear plastic tear seemed to glow in the dark, and when I lay in my bed I would stare at her eyes, waiting for her to blink or wink or close them to sleep. Each night, as I watched Pearl and her clear plastic tear, my eyes would be drawn to the darkness outside my window. My eyes had to look, I had to see if the demons would appear. 3
"Monsters arent real", mother said. "They are all in your mind", she told me. "Go back to bed, go to sleep, dont get up again", she mumbled. So when I was alone and afraid in the night, I crawled into my closet and folded up like a collapsible cup. I forever fought a multitude of fears in my bed in the dark as I watched them, evil monsters, crazed wildcats, huge-mouthed lions with flowing manes. The dark frightened me, I cringed as I wondered what lie in ambush beyond the limits of my eyesight, but I was also drawn to it, and I stared with wide eyes at the bumper of our car, a branch of the oak tree in our front yard and the porch light on the house across the street. 4
The demons of my youth always appeared sooner or later, as I stared, transfixed, into the dark. They were there, each one standing perfectly still, not moving, staring back at me with diamond white eyes. One always crouched under the bumper of our car, a shimmering black panther, while another, a black and white checkered jackal, squinted at me as its head poked from behind the oak tree in the front yard. Across the street, on the neighbors front porch, wavy shadows turned into ominous shapes under the dim light of the small yellow bulb above the screen door. They would appear if I stared long enough, motionless, silent, stalking me until I closed my eyes in exhaustion. 5
I tried to look beyond my field of view. I wished for my Prince Charming to ride up outside my window on his white horse and slay all the demons. The images had held me prisoner in my own jailhouse, protected by disguises worn during the day to hide their identity. Only at night could they be seen, their armor useless to them when they dared emerge from their lairs. I refused to give in, to accept constant failure, so I perch nightly at the window, and salty drops stuck to my cheeks like poor, pitiful Pearls clear plastic tear, and I waited again for more than another night of darkness. 6
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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Lindsey
That was beutiful! I love how it seemed to pull you in with it's sadness, then take over with diferent thoughts. My favorite part was when you talked about the monsters at night.
beginning: 4, language: 5, plot: 2, ending: 3, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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WOW
This was really good. I could picture the black panther and jackal, and even Pearl in my mind as I read this. It was really well written and so descriptive. Like moonlitmirror said, it really is captivating. It flows wonderfully, each sentence like a new adventure.
Tears
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I thought this was very captivating. Each line just fed off the others, creating a really beautiful peice of writing. I love the way you said things, and how you explained the title with the doll. Creative and really lovely
thanks for sharing. I liked your imagery.
~blessings~
~rora -
Becky this is a beautifully sad write, but during our childhood those monsters really do exist or they might just as well. In our minds they are there, so they might as well be real. I remember having nightmares when I was a boy, and they could not have been more real. Many nights I woke my parents up, because I was crying from nightmare that I had been dreaming. Your story is really wonderful and brings back such sadly good memories.
Damon D. Brewer -
You definitely have found your nitch in the world of writing. Very euphoric. I seemed to be sucked into this piece. Almost as a fly on the wall, watching this girl lay with her doll, and peer out the window in fear. The minor details, and inquisitive thoughts behind this piece make it stand apart from the rest. The only part that saddened me, was the fact that it ended. Wonderful write.
-Ken -
o this was beautiful! i can definately identify with your metaphoric writing style, i believe it adds so much depth to a great idea. This is wonderfully written, such style, and what a concept. Great write.
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In the morning, the daylight danced on my bedroom floor like fluttering lace butterflies, and when I got out of bed, I stepped over them, like a game of hopscotch drawn with bright colored chalk on a whitewashed sidewalk.
OMG...the imagery in this! Incredible... I so envy those with the ability to see that deeply!
Outstanding write.. truly...the monsters of the night.. Sigh..
And I do belive they are there..
Hugs..
Mary Ann -
whoa I loved this. Tremendous imgages I get from this. you are amazing as usual. I had one of those Mrs. Beasley dolls...it was a love/hate relationship. one minute I hated her and her polka dots and the next I couldn't wait to hug here LOL.
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Fabbity-fab
excellent; enrapturing.
"The dark was my shot of Novocain as I drifted off to dreamless sleep."
Your writing style is in some ways comparable to my own (or at least your wording is similar to what I attempt to convey). The hair is an excellent motif. Keep cranking out literary gems like this one. (J'adore the title: it sounds like a radiohead song... only deeper and not yet explotied by halfwitted teeny boppers).
Edited on Apr 26, 3:23 p.m. because 'DIGITAL. NAME CHANGE.'.
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