Link: ecm.myportfolio.com
All was darkness, thick and black. She pulled herself along
the soft ground, her eyes straining against the void. But then, yes, just there,
a pinpoint of light. She moved towards it, she was beckoned, and as she did she
could see it dancing and bobbing, illuminating the thorns and the thickets.
Still closer she crept, until in the light she saw it, velvet red, a flower, a
rose, a bramble, a bush! The color called to her, so vibrant, so alive, and she
reached out her hand, toward the light, toward the rose, but ouch!
Quickly she withdrew her hand and examined it in the prick
of light. Her palm, pale in the moon glow, except where her blood pooled
crimson red like the rose. It oozed into the cusp of her hand, a dam once solid,
now broken, rivers of red, reclaiming their old dried beds, creeping along the
folds, the valleys, the creases and crevasses of her palm. She drew her hand up
to her face and pressed it hard against her mouth, the metallic taste flooding
her senses.
She rolled onto her back and stared into the darkness. She
let it envelop her until there was no distinction between the world outside
herself, and the world inside herself. Until she was the blackness, and the silence,
and the flavor of metal. And then it was over, there was a whisper of movement,
and a sliver of light, and she was just herself again.
The light continued to creep across the darkness, a silver
crack in the world, growing larger and larger, threatening to envelope all,
until suddenly there it was, the mother moon, with its soft round face, smiling
down at her. She started to smile back, but her smile was smothered by a sudden
revelation, because there, creeping across that perfectly craggy moon face was
a single tear. But how can that be? There is no water on the moon! And then she
saw it, illuminated by that silver glow, the roses, there were more now. The
moon was taunting her with roses!
She gasped at their beauty, and slowly reached a hand
towards them, she knew if she could just touch them, if she could just feel
their exquisite petals, their perfect pastoral leaves. But still, just beyond
the flowers, the moon continued to smile, that sad smile, and she knew what the
moon was waiting for. She knew what the moon wanted. But she also knew better
than to smile back at the moon.
She withdrew her hand, pressing it between her back and the
soft ground beneath her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She could create her
own darkness, where she could hide and wait for the moon to disappear, where
she could wait for the sun to rise again.
Rose’s mother knew it was too late, she had again failed to
connect with her daughter. She reached a hand out to caress her face, but then
she thought better. She remembered what happened last time. Instead, she raised
her hand to her own face, wiped away the tear that betrayed her, and retreated
from the dark room to the too bright hall, and the doctor she knew would be
waiting to console her.
No comments:
Post a Comment