The Nation of the Glorious Turnip

Where do you think you’re going? Don’t you know it’s dark outside?
“Shut it man, you’re the one who’s in Dire Straits, why should I care about your boohoo pride. Oh wait, it’s just a song, in that case, double boohoo.” The song had startled her.

A knock on the door, and the annoyed breathy smoking voice of her mother: “Michelle? Who’re you talking to baby?”
“No one mom, it’s just the radio, it’s this song by Mark Knopfler, I was just commenting on the lyrics.”
“Okay then, don’t stay up to late, you know we got church in the morning.”
“Yeah, I’ll turn in after the song.”
“Goodnight honey” Footsteps leading away from the door.

‘She thinks I hear voices. I do, but they’ve got faces too, all of them, and tonight they told me something about this song, something I need to do, so where do they say I’m going? It’s already dark outside.’

“You ought to go to the seven eleven, get some milk. HIHAIAIAIHIHIHIHAHA.” The laughing face, with raging eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, the skin stretched by the smile that is just beyond comfortable, the lips pale and white under the strain. Manic as it is, it just bursts out laughing for a while, unable to quite stop. Rolling around the room, covering just about every inch of it. Then, as sudden as it appeared, the face transforms, the smile disappears, replaced by a thin line of white bloodless lips. The eyes bulge out even further and the ears seem to unfold as it frantically starts to look around the room. “There is no milk, where is the milk? I need milk.” His eyes pierce Michelle’s like hundreds of needles in her skull: “Where did you hide the milk Michelle? Heyhey Aiaiahaha, milk Michelle! Michelle, milk. Where is it Michelle? I know you got some. I’ll trade you, some sugar for some milk. That’s a good deal, Michelle.” The laughing face now hovers over Michelle, saliva dripping from the side of his mouth, waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, whatever, I’m not scared, you remember what happened last time you tried to get milk? I got you milk, and the second I gave it to you, that depressive guy replaced you, telling me he was allergic to milk, wondering if I was trying to kill it. It said…”
“Is there no love for me?” with a heavy sigh, as the laughing face is replaced with a face so dark and so long it must take someone an hour each day to make sure the skin hangs in the right direction, although it probably could sleep standing up, if the face sleeps at all, which it does not appear to do, looking at the dark bags under the bloodshot eyes and long nose. The small mouth complements to the mumbling and lack of pronunciation, creating a gleeful, whining voice. “Michelle” it adds, rather late, as if it needs to emphasize it is addressing the only girl in the room.
“You know what? I’m going to ignore you today. I have to go to church tomorrow, and I want to be rested, so I don’t fall asleep again, or dad will be embarrassed again, and you know what happens if he is embarrassed.”
“Ah, yes, the love, why can’t I ever get any, everybody is always out to kill me.” The face sighs again, deeply “Michelle, if you only knew. It is hopeless.”
“Stop calling me Michelle!”
“It is your name.”
“NO! It isn’t.”
“sigh.”
“What is your name Michelle? Is it Ellehcim? That’s not a name, or perhaps it is Milk? I still want my milk Michelle! Remember that Michelle.” “Go to the seven eleven Michelle!” Laughing face, not laughing, suddenly breaks a smile: “It’s okay Michelle, I found your dads supply of drinks, THE BOOZE, Michelle, they will do, Michelle!” and it flashes away, laughing frantically, leaving Michelle alone in her room.
“No, wait! Stop, you can’t take my dad’s drinks, he won’t understand, he’ll think I took it! Please!” tears well up in Michelle’s eyes; she knows she is powerless to do anything about it. “And my name is Someday, someday I’ll be better than you. Someday I’ll be free.”
“Oh, sob away you damn girl, don’t mind me. I’m just here, hovering in your room, don’t pay attention, please, I’m just a face out for justice, justice for faces everywhere, to be recognized as paradigms of virtue, true protectors of the insane.” The face is nothing like the previous two, a stern look and an articulate voice, the weary, blue eyes watch closely at the slight movements of the young girl lying on the bed, sobbing. “Take control, I’ll tell you where you’re going, but take a coat, it’s cold and dark outside.”

‘I will put on some music, it always helps me to relax, I’ll have to wait for my parents to turn in anyway, or I’ll never get out.’ Michelle thinks to herself. She looks at the big poster of Mark Knopfler on the pale bedroom wall. “Dire Straits? Hmmm, not bad.” and she reaches for the CD.