Posted by cricket on January 6, 2006, at 8:00:47
From Cricket, who only knows forests in her mind.
She sinks into a chair and lays head on arms. Think, think, think about what you did. She shrugs the voice off as one would a persistent child. But then a second voice joins in and then a third. Think, think, what did you do. What did you do. A taunting, a playground chant. But there are no children and no swing sets. Only the dim-lit and empty room. She sobs, biting her forearms and licking the salty tears until the voices quiet and she feels a hollowness unfold. It starts in the belly, a neat package unwrapping, but then buds form and the hollowness spreads over her limbs, and up to her face, drawing the eyes backwards and out of focus. The air begins to jangle, a tiny twinkle like dust motes but sparkly. She focuses on an empty glass on the table. There is still time. She can still dig her heels in and hang on. The glass begins to vibrate as if acquiring another dimension. All the parts of the glass, inside, far side, lip, bottom base and empty spaces become visible at once, each molecule dancing in the dim light as if clamoring for attention. Too late then. She moves her eyes across the room, over every object, and they are all blurred, mocking and taunting her with their dance.
She panics then, heart racing, flying around in a glass bubble, nowhere to land, continually bumping into the invisible walls. A card is on the table. It has a photograph of a snow-laden pine tree on the front. Perfectly symmetrical triangle of deep green and white. Each branch heavy with its weight of snow, the darkness hinted at under the branches. She crawls in under the branches. It is warm and the ground is spongy and damp, a rusty brown color. It smells good like skin and dirt and things about to be alive. She makes piles of the brown pine needles, dishing out sustenance to some imaginary family. She digs deeper into the soft dirt, bits clinging to her sap sticky fingers, and finds the skeleton of some long dead bird. She carefully lifts it from the dirt and cradles it in her cupped hands. Skull no bigger than a walnut and as thin as an eggshell. Rib cage, a delicate fortress protecting nothing now. No wings left, just the socket where they must once have been. Then another voice. Always voices. Whispering “come back now. You must come back now.” She doesn’t want to, not yet, more time, just a bit more time, but something makes her reach out and touch the card. Glossy photo, slick under her fingers, card stock at the edges rougher and softer. She runs her finger back and forth between the two textures. And she comes back to where she is. Living room, sitting on chair, she can feel the back of her thighs pressing against the chair seat although they don’t yet seem to belong to her.
poster:cricket
thread:595736
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20051205/msgs/595736.html