karenmcd
07-14-2011, 05:55 AM
I am a writer returning to writing after years of hiding. I welcome all criticism, I have just started working on writing again and instead of hiding it I would like to start posting it, even in its raw state of newness.
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Lying in the soft light of early morning she awakes, her bed-sheets are white, her blind is cream, her walls are beige, her hair is blond and brown and streams over her pillows.
She looks older than her body would suggest. Her skin is taut and glowing, little wrinkles surround her eyes and mouth. She has both eyes open, lying, breathing, staring at the pale featureless ceiling.
Alone, she says, aloud...to nobody. Alone, she tests out the sound of her voice in the empty room, the strangeness of saying a word when there is nobody to hear it, tasting the whisper to word. She repeats, Alone. Half whispered through half closed lips, half committed to the word half committed to rest, she briefly lets her eyes close before rising, she sighs.
She wears white, a string top shows tanned skin, her white underwear show taut, strong legs. Watching herself in the mirror in the room she stretches her skin and touches her legs, her stomach, her face grimaces in the mirror. The word alone echoes in the mind that was a moment before, silent, it echoes now with words that are far more powerful, older, more complex. Beautiful, she says, with no commitment, she looks at the post it note above her mirror. Beautiful she says, this does not fit in the rattling thoughts in her mind.
Beyond her bedroom door is a vast expanse of life, filled with alone and beautiful. The kitchen silver, white, clean wood...an empty colander hangs from the hooks in the centre of the room, its clean, beautiful silver shines as the morning sun glints and teases through the house. Forks are lying on the table, with their partner knives and spoons, perennially laid out for a never dinner party, shinning and new as though they have been laid out just a moment before. A vase white, abstract, beautiful sits on the dining table.
The floor is cold and hard and black and beautiful. She stays in her room, standing, touching now her ankle, now her knee, her nose, her elbow...checking. She knows that beyond her bedroom door is a vast expanse filled with silence and empty and alone.
She stands now, at her bedroom door. Upstairs. She knows that outside her door the black stairs stand, silent, alone, strong, unwavering. The windows stare onto them, between them and it lie soft chairs, books, tables, candles, trinkets, a Buddha head from Bali, a painting from a market in London. All clean, all standing, staring, waiting for her to come out of her room, waiting to say good-morning. The books cluster together, pages never rustling, polished surfaces cry for the moisture of passionate skin, of cold glasses and hot teas, they resonate to beg to have a new touch, a piece of marble stands, needs something more than polish and cold.
She knows that beyond her room is silence, more alone. Sunday
she says. Alone, she says. She looks again to the mirror and touches her hair, wondering, the more she says out loud, the closer she gets to madness.
She stands now, touching her bedroom door with her long fingers, a light touch as though caressing skin, they fall from the door, away from the handle.
The thought has occurred to her to let them find her like this, in her room, going mad, the longer she stays the more unlikely it is she will be able to answer questions, they could take her away, her friends would come visit and remark on how good she was looking, how much better she seemed, and then she would wake one day and they would release her back into the wild world and she could walk away, better, clearer, unharmed.
She grimaced again, and touched the skin around her eyes.
Whatever happens, by Monday, they will know and people will arrive.
Whatever happens, by Monday I need to hide his blood and his body, hide the knife and the bruises, let them believe he has run away, or, that someone else came and did this, or, that I lost my mind.
Alone, she said, touching her bruises one at a time, her cuts and scars that bled onto the white bed as she slept, weeping. Alone, beautiful, she said, touching the door frame that had kept the thoughts a step away.
She stands now, in the open door of her room, staring at the cold beautiful black marble floor. Her bare feet pat pat as she walks, pat pat, bare feet, naked on the cold marble. Kneeling by him she takes his cold hand and places it on the outside of her thigh, Like this, she says to the silent man, showing him briefly, for the first time how she likes to be touched.
She pats down the stairs opening the windows, the doors, turning off the lights that had been left on the night before in the rushing run upstairs.
She looks at the blood on her top,
I wonder
she says.
Standing, half awake, half alive making coffee in the morning light, the sun, glints off the colander, the forks the knives, the spoons and the coffee maker. The small white coffee mugs, beautiful, she takes one fills it and walks to the window that overlooks the patio.
There are no houses nearby, and nobody will miss him till tomorrow, she says, takes a sip of coffee and smiles, sits down, takes the phone off its hook and turns on the television. The sounds of Sunday reverberate around the house, childrens tv, flick, cookery programme, flick, a mass, flick , flick, flick, flick, a tv show about young people and good looks. She notices her blood is staining the sofa somewhat and is thankful that they chose black leather instead of her preferred white.
Lying down she wraps herself in a blanket, sips her coffee sideways and falls asleep again as the young people on tv fight and fornicate.
Alone she says, tasting the word, testing the word, alone.
_______________________________________________
Lying in the soft light of early morning she awakes, her bed-sheets are white, her blind is cream, her walls are beige, her hair is blond and brown and streams over her pillows.
She looks older than her body would suggest. Her skin is taut and glowing, little wrinkles surround her eyes and mouth. She has both eyes open, lying, breathing, staring at the pale featureless ceiling.
Alone, she says, aloud...to nobody. Alone, she tests out the sound of her voice in the empty room, the strangeness of saying a word when there is nobody to hear it, tasting the whisper to word. She repeats, Alone. Half whispered through half closed lips, half committed to the word half committed to rest, she briefly lets her eyes close before rising, she sighs.
She wears white, a string top shows tanned skin, her white underwear show taut, strong legs. Watching herself in the mirror in the room she stretches her skin and touches her legs, her stomach, her face grimaces in the mirror. The word alone echoes in the mind that was a moment before, silent, it echoes now with words that are far more powerful, older, more complex. Beautiful, she says, with no commitment, she looks at the post it note above her mirror. Beautiful she says, this does not fit in the rattling thoughts in her mind.
Beyond her bedroom door is a vast expanse of life, filled with alone and beautiful. The kitchen silver, white, clean wood...an empty colander hangs from the hooks in the centre of the room, its clean, beautiful silver shines as the morning sun glints and teases through the house. Forks are lying on the table, with their partner knives and spoons, perennially laid out for a never dinner party, shinning and new as though they have been laid out just a moment before. A vase white, abstract, beautiful sits on the dining table.
The floor is cold and hard and black and beautiful. She stays in her room, standing, touching now her ankle, now her knee, her nose, her elbow...checking. She knows that beyond her bedroom door is a vast expanse filled with silence and empty and alone.
She stands now, at her bedroom door. Upstairs. She knows that outside her door the black stairs stand, silent, alone, strong, unwavering. The windows stare onto them, between them and it lie soft chairs, books, tables, candles, trinkets, a Buddha head from Bali, a painting from a market in London. All clean, all standing, staring, waiting for her to come out of her room, waiting to say good-morning. The books cluster together, pages never rustling, polished surfaces cry for the moisture of passionate skin, of cold glasses and hot teas, they resonate to beg to have a new touch, a piece of marble stands, needs something more than polish and cold.
She knows that beyond her room is silence, more alone. Sunday
she says. Alone, she says. She looks again to the mirror and touches her hair, wondering, the more she says out loud, the closer she gets to madness.
She stands now, touching her bedroom door with her long fingers, a light touch as though caressing skin, they fall from the door, away from the handle.
The thought has occurred to her to let them find her like this, in her room, going mad, the longer she stays the more unlikely it is she will be able to answer questions, they could take her away, her friends would come visit and remark on how good she was looking, how much better she seemed, and then she would wake one day and they would release her back into the wild world and she could walk away, better, clearer, unharmed.
She grimaced again, and touched the skin around her eyes.
Whatever happens, by Monday, they will know and people will arrive.
Whatever happens, by Monday I need to hide his blood and his body, hide the knife and the bruises, let them believe he has run away, or, that someone else came and did this, or, that I lost my mind.
Alone, she said, touching her bruises one at a time, her cuts and scars that bled onto the white bed as she slept, weeping. Alone, beautiful, she said, touching the door frame that had kept the thoughts a step away.
She stands now, in the open door of her room, staring at the cold beautiful black marble floor. Her bare feet pat pat as she walks, pat pat, bare feet, naked on the cold marble. Kneeling by him she takes his cold hand and places it on the outside of her thigh, Like this, she says to the silent man, showing him briefly, for the first time how she likes to be touched.
She pats down the stairs opening the windows, the doors, turning off the lights that had been left on the night before in the rushing run upstairs.
She looks at the blood on her top,
I wonder
she says.
Standing, half awake, half alive making coffee in the morning light, the sun, glints off the colander, the forks the knives, the spoons and the coffee maker. The small white coffee mugs, beautiful, she takes one fills it and walks to the window that overlooks the patio.
There are no houses nearby, and nobody will miss him till tomorrow, she says, takes a sip of coffee and smiles, sits down, takes the phone off its hook and turns on the television. The sounds of Sunday reverberate around the house, childrens tv, flick, cookery programme, flick, a mass, flick , flick, flick, flick, a tv show about young people and good looks. She notices her blood is staining the sofa somewhat and is thankful that they chose black leather instead of her preferred white.
Lying down she wraps herself in a blanket, sips her coffee sideways and falls asleep again as the young people on tv fight and fornicate.
Alone she says, tasting the word, testing the word, alone.