the_grey_girl
12-06-2003, 09:21 PM
"I don't know why you don't keep a key," he says,unlocking the door for me, unlocking the door.... "Then you wouldn't have to wait for me."
Each time, I run back like the desperate child I am,shaming myself with my fear but unable to control the smallest parts of me that demand safety. This time he finds me huddled by the door to avoid the steady rain, drowned and completely broken. He is kind these times, these repeating scenes of my failures, while he opens my past with his key. Behind the door, the rooms change without really changing. Nothing stays the same over time, does it? Except me. I see him age, hair graying, eyes more lined and tired. It occurs to me like a cold stab, there may be a time I come back and he is no longer here. Why should he stay here forever, in this spot in a huge world, keeping his life the same as if a haven for me. My room, my bed, the plastic eyes that stare accusingly with a dusty gaze, "You forgot us, didn't you? You forgot... but we'll show you.... we'll show you...." I'm afraid of them, their still hostility of waiting motionlessly through time. I am not the child they loved; I am some monster that took her away. While I stand frozen watching them watch me, he touches my shoulder, "How bad is it?" because he knows. He knows me. He knows if I am here, it must be really bad.
Bunny came out from under the bed, with realization finally in her eyes. She knows this room, these toys, and lies on the small bed hugging them tightly, answering with her tears. She sees what is real and who she is and who he is, who He is.... He spent his life raising two children, one for himself and one to fly away. The wife and the daughter. Ironically, however, the wife flew while the daughter continues to fall at his feet, wings crushed, crying weakly for mercy. ""How did you become this fragile? I tried to make you stronger than this," he said once, voicing his disgust, "but she destroyed you." How angry I was to hear it, how driven to prove him wrong! But I am shattered, proving nothing except how right he was and I am a failure. I was given everything through his hands -- my music, my art, my understanding of the world... a world where I plunge from the sky like rain each time I try to fly. I am not beautiful. I have no talents. I am as ugly and small and worthless as I feel. He says, "No, my love, you are an angel." How funny that is.
The past is tangled in the present here, and the hand that is stroking me once balled into a fist, breaking my nose. That image flashes in my mind, and although supposedly you cannot remember pain, it sears through my mind while his fingers comb my hair. The hand that covered my mouth preventing the scream, its pressure against my teeth to the point of breaking them.... I feel it as he strokes me in my adult skin, knowing my child's fear, my endless well of need. I belong here, don't I? I have always been his, from the time he lifted me and stared into my eyes, telling me this was my home now and carrying me to my room, this room.... Yes, I have always been his.
I'm in trouble. "Whatever happened, we'll work it out," is the comforting promise, the reply for an adult mind that I don't possess at the moment. He knows that, doesn't he? He always knows. Patting his lap, he whispers, "C'mere bunny, it's ok," and I cling to him as I have always done, giving him the child he remembers who loves him despite the memories. She accepts this love while I finally rest, nursing my wounds until I grow strong enough to fly again.
Each time, I run back like the desperate child I am,shaming myself with my fear but unable to control the smallest parts of me that demand safety. This time he finds me huddled by the door to avoid the steady rain, drowned and completely broken. He is kind these times, these repeating scenes of my failures, while he opens my past with his key. Behind the door, the rooms change without really changing. Nothing stays the same over time, does it? Except me. I see him age, hair graying, eyes more lined and tired. It occurs to me like a cold stab, there may be a time I come back and he is no longer here. Why should he stay here forever, in this spot in a huge world, keeping his life the same as if a haven for me. My room, my bed, the plastic eyes that stare accusingly with a dusty gaze, "You forgot us, didn't you? You forgot... but we'll show you.... we'll show you...." I'm afraid of them, their still hostility of waiting motionlessly through time. I am not the child they loved; I am some monster that took her away. While I stand frozen watching them watch me, he touches my shoulder, "How bad is it?" because he knows. He knows me. He knows if I am here, it must be really bad.
Bunny came out from under the bed, with realization finally in her eyes. She knows this room, these toys, and lies on the small bed hugging them tightly, answering with her tears. She sees what is real and who she is and who he is, who He is.... He spent his life raising two children, one for himself and one to fly away. The wife and the daughter. Ironically, however, the wife flew while the daughter continues to fall at his feet, wings crushed, crying weakly for mercy. ""How did you become this fragile? I tried to make you stronger than this," he said once, voicing his disgust, "but she destroyed you." How angry I was to hear it, how driven to prove him wrong! But I am shattered, proving nothing except how right he was and I am a failure. I was given everything through his hands -- my music, my art, my understanding of the world... a world where I plunge from the sky like rain each time I try to fly. I am not beautiful. I have no talents. I am as ugly and small and worthless as I feel. He says, "No, my love, you are an angel." How funny that is.
The past is tangled in the present here, and the hand that is stroking me once balled into a fist, breaking my nose. That image flashes in my mind, and although supposedly you cannot remember pain, it sears through my mind while his fingers comb my hair. The hand that covered my mouth preventing the scream, its pressure against my teeth to the point of breaking them.... I feel it as he strokes me in my adult skin, knowing my child's fear, my endless well of need. I belong here, don't I? I have always been his, from the time he lifted me and stared into my eyes, telling me this was my home now and carrying me to my room, this room.... Yes, I have always been his.
I'm in trouble. "Whatever happened, we'll work it out," is the comforting promise, the reply for an adult mind that I don't possess at the moment. He knows that, doesn't he? He always knows. Patting his lap, he whispers, "C'mere bunny, it's ok," and I cling to him as I have always done, giving him the child he remembers who loves him despite the memories. She accepts this love while I finally rest, nursing my wounds until I grow strong enough to fly again.