Wanderer Ward
Dreamscape Artist
Just a note, I didn't write the song/poem at the start. It's a Blur song.
Here it is...
I spy in the night sky don’t I?
There was a woman sitting in the grass. Her dark auburn hair tumbled unfettered down her back to mingle lazily with the fronds of fernlike greenery. Her skirts were drawn up comfortably around her knees, her tanned hands folded submissively in the lap created by her crossed legs.
Settled in the grass at her feet was a wood carving. It depicted a small red-brown bird’s nest, detailed weavings of the twigs and mud that would have been used by a bird of flesh were intricately carved into its walls. Inside were three wooden objects – two small chicks, their oiled feathers damp and rumpled; and a dull speckled egg, not yet hatched.
The face of the woman was angular. Prominent cheekbones lay below tilted almond shaped eyes which were hidden behind heavily lashed lids. The woman’s expression remained serene as air from the beating of a passing bird’s wings hit her face.
The glade was roughly circular. Bordered by a guard of thick trunked evergreens standing in an ocean of calmly murmuring bushes, it was difficult to see clearly more than several metres into the forest. Birds trilled and warbled softly through the trees, sudden flashes of colour the only other indication of their presence. Squirrels scampered nimbly along branches, their small whiskered faces inflated with the bounty of nuts and seeds stored in their cheeks, their delicate paws gripping the bark with ease. Mirroring the movement of the squirrels, rabbits bounded through the undergrowth. The white flags of their tails flaring and ducking like beacons. There was nothing for them to fear here. The place was alive.
Every now and then, the noises of the forest would cease and the grunts and carefully muffled tread of a great animal drifted through the fluttering air. This halt in activity was always short-lived; the small creatures of the forest were accustomed to the existence of an animal greater than themselves.
“Nydia? Neira? Come here please. You know what your mother is going through don’t you?â€
“Yes Papa. She told us.â€
“You know that if this child is a little boy all will be well? Our family will finally have the son we been trying for for so long.â€
“Yes Papa.â€
“But Papa, what if Mama has a girl, another daughter like us?â€
“Then we will love her just the sameâ€
Maybe the reason is that she wanted a son.
I am Amaya, third and youngest daughter and child of Aiyana and Altair.
My father – Altair – is gone. My father, a fair and just man, a caring and loving parent, his name blows in the wind like ashes scattering over a broken land. Gone. The father I never had but always yearned for. The man who was responsible for my being here I had never met. This man, so important to me, yet how can someone I don’t know, a thing I have never experienced, be important?
I am fatherless.
He is gone yet my mother remains. He has never been in my life. His presence has been sorely missed.
But it must be his fault. His fault that right now, she isn’t here.
The woman’s eyes cracked open, their sharp dark gaze directed piercingly towards a great hulking shape that had come to rest in the shadows pooled around the base of a tree. There she could see two tiny glints of light focused on her face. They shifted slightly as the edges of the shape seemed to ripple, powerfully, sickening. The creature started padding softly into the glade.
The bear shambled comfortably across the glade towards the woman. She tensed at its approach. Its great head was held proudly, its giant paws were lifted daintily but with determined confidence. It stopped a short distance from the woman who had hastily averted her eyes. Now she stared skywards, towards the white clouds that were drifting overhead. She drew a shuddering breath, filling her suddenly constricted lungs. How could she deal with the guilt?
I was born seventeen years ago on the seventh day of July. I have been told that it was the coldest cruellest winter experienced by my family. I was told that I was lucky to have survived.
My mother’s labour was all wrong. I was her third child, her body should have been prepared for my birth. But it wasn’t. She started having contractions four days before I was actually born. Later she told me that she had never been through such agony, such physical and mental exertion. She said it was worth it though. She would do it all again if it meant having another child like me. This is hardly something that a mother should say, having two other daughters.
Phoebe, Io, Elara, Leda, Callisto, Sinope…
And why am I telling you this? I really shouldn’t. I should make her seem beautiful, a loving, caring, nurturing mother, because that is what she was. I’m sure she would have been that way.
“Nydia? Neira? Your mother is not well. You won’t be able to see her for a few days.â€
“What? But she’s our Mama.â€
“She needs us.â€
“We’re her daughters, Papa. Why can’t we see her?â€
“She would want our company.â€
“She needs time to recover. It will only be for a few days.â€
Maybe the reason is that she had more important people to be with.
You can always smell the sea here. You can always see the sky, whether it be blue, grey or black. The stars always smile at you, the rain always snuggles, the sunlight caresses. The house you see is small, but you think it’s a suitable size for your family. You have brothers, three of them. You’re the youngest, you fight and scream and snap and punch… deep down you love each other.
Warm though the house is, and comfortable the company, you like walking beside the ocean. You like tasting the salty tang on your lips. Gulls wheel overhead and you enjoy their presence. Oddly, you take comfort from their harsh cries. You compare them to the squabbling of your own family. It feels nice to know that other families fight like you do. At the end of the day, the mother will still bring fish back for her chick.
Shells crunch beneath your feet, damp from the water and covered with a light sprinkling of fine sand. The scent of the forest behind the beach sweeps past your face as a cool wind blows steadily towards the straight horizon created by the sea. You once heard someone say there are no straight lines in nature. Who told you that? Whoever they were, they were wrong. You redirect your steps, towards the trees. They don’t have the same instinctive pull as the ocean, with its slowly rising swell and carefully bubbling foam, but the trees hypnotize you, dancing and waving their arms in the wind. You go to them. You obey as only a mindless person could.
Then you’re surrounded. The trees engulf you. Why are you here? You don’t like this, the smells are too close, the air too still. It’s stifling. The moss-covered rocks seem to wriggle away in discomfort, the tree trunks bend in fear. But they are still so close, overwhelming you. What is happening? You can’t see. Only trees, bushes, grass. On the crest of a wave you can see everything. Yes, you will travel down into a trough, but the open smell of salt and the rushing wind – these things sustain you.
You can’t see here.
That’s wrong. I can’t see here.
The spinning top spun, its whirring action and flickering colours battered playfully at the children’s eyes. Play with me, it laughed enticingly. A yellow rocking horse creaked gently from the motion of its departed rider. An opulent dolls house sat in the corner of the room, its cheery white washed walls and blue doors smiling invitingly. There was a red music box on the window sill, its open lid allowing honeyed melodies to melt into the children’s ears.
Sing with me.
The two girls sat on the floor, facing each other. Their features were identical. Two pairs of tree-coloured eyes stared from carefully moulded faces. Mousey hair curled dutifully around their cheeks. They sat in the same position, with crossed legs and neatly folded hands. Their clothes were the same. They were always together. With them, it was always they. Children carved from ice.
“Why is it taking so long?â€
“They’d tell us wouldn’t they? If something was wrong. They wouldn’t think that we are too young?â€
Silence fell like the blanketing darkness of night. It was not a comforting cover, rather its draped folds emphasised the vulnerabilities. There was blackness in their minds, impenetrable. The tears began to fall.
One of the doors to the room slid open and a man stood in its harsh rectangular frame. His clothes had the look of being slept in. His stance was dejected, drained. His handsome face was marred with signs of grief and worry.
“You’re playing.â€
The statement was based on the contents of the room and the girl’s presence within it, not the girls themselves.
“That’s good.â€
The door slid shut and the man disappeared, his retreating footsteps making no sound on the wooden boards.
“I just want her back.†It was a whisper.
A small whimper broke from each of the girl’s throats, sounding as one. The tears continued falling like rain dripping from arrow-shaped leaves.
Melting.
I can make it all happen to someone else. I am the wanted one.
Siblings. I would like one of those. Someone to share with. Their presence would be comforting. Maybe this place wouldn’t exist if I had company.
Janus, Dione, Portia…
My sisters never liked me. They know our mother suffered during my birth. They weren’t allowed to see her for days after I was born because she needed that time to recuperate. I was given to a wet nurse. I don’t remember any of it, how could I? I was only days old.
Nydia and Neira – twins. Before I came along, they were my parents everything. Then I was born. They knew that it was because of me they couldn’t comfort their mother. They couldn’t touch her or hug her. They couldn’t even see her. How would this have been for two children barely seven years old? They associated me with this separation, correctly. For them, I was a constant irritation, I was a target for their bitterness. Even after mother got better. She loved me the same as she loved them. She was an amazing woman to care for me after I had caused her so many problems. I didn’t understand why she would bother. I still don’t.
She must have been amazing.
“Did she have a little boy?â€
“Do we have a brother now?â€
“No, you have a sister.â€
“But… We thought you and Mama wanted a son.â€
“Papa?â€
Look at me.
The woman bit her lip and closed her eyes.
Look at me.
She gave the tiniest shake of her head, denial.
Look at me.
The bear was so close she could feel the heat radiating from its body.
Look at me.
She surrendered. The woman looked.
I will make you feel remorse.
There was darkness. She had no body. She couldn’t feel. It was as if she were nothing. She was nothing. This was her punishment.
No, she was amazing. She doesn’t need to be punished. It was his fault, not hers.
Maybe the reason is that she was too weak to look after a child. And I do not mean physically.
She could hear a song being played in the distance. It was mystical, cosmic. Her mind barely registered the noise, like the flapping of a moth’s wing against a window, just before sleep.
It’s still nature. It’s different to the beach and ocean, but it’s still natural. You are calm.
There is a girl standing beside a tree. You stare at her. She returns the look, analysing your appearance. You see eyes filled with despair. She doesn’t belong here. She looks as if she comes from another world. She’s all lines. No straight lines in nature. You thought that was wrong, the seascape horizon was proof.
But she doesn’t belong here. She’s out of place.
You realise her eyes are dark, darker than your own. Her hair is perfect, in the dim light of the forest you see how it shines. Unnatural. Blue seems to ripple over the blackness like an ocean wave. You think of your own appearance, your salt stained clothes, your ruffled hair, your calloused hands. Everything elegant about her can be compared to something common about yourself. You look like the country. She’s not better than you.
“Look at them.â€
“How can she stand to touch her? Why is she hugging her?â€
“She nearly killed her.â€
“Do you think that maybe Mama doesn’t remember what she did?â€
“She remembers.â€
“But we didn’t cause her pain. We’ve been here longer. We’ve shown her love. All that thing does is cry.â€
“She doesn’t deserve her love.â€
“How can she even like her?â€
Her hair stung her face as it was whipped about by the wind. All was still in darkness. There was no more music, nothing except the howl of the wind. A cracking sound came out of the blackness towards her like a cloaked figure, arms outstretched, all encompassing. She tried to feel, but she couldn’t move. If she had sight she would have seen splintered shards of wood, scattered like wisps of cloud. Her broken family. The unhatched egg left exposed to the hardships of life that now must be endured without a mother.
You think you should run. After all, what did your parents teach you? Don’t fraternise with people you don’t know. But what are you to do? She’s alone. In a forest. She clearly doesn’t know where she is. You think you should help. But how can you help her? You start thinking of ways out of this. She probably doesn’t need your help anyway. And look at the way she’s staring at you. She thinks you’re an idiot, standing there how you are. Can’t you move? Can’t you run?
The woman was lying in the grass, her dark auburn hair tangled and matted with sweat. Her clothes were disorderly, they seemed too confining. They strangled her like tentacles. Her face was troubled. Her eyes moved rapidly beneath her eyelids, writhing like drowning worms. Her hands were caught in a cycle of clenched fists and open shaking palms. Blood could be seen trickling from cuts where her nails had broken the skin. Eight red crescent moons.
The forest around her had changed. It had become a darker place. There was silence. No birds called. Even the leaves were frozen in motion. The forest floor was strewn with discarded nuts, partially chewed grass fallen from the mouths of now terrified rabbits. The squirrels had stopped collecting food. They lay huddled in their havens of safety, whiskers and feathers quivering, trembling in fear.
The dark grey sky was a mass of roiling, wreathing clouds. Lightning spiked towards the ground. Its sickening yellow hue broke through the tumultuous haze and the thunder that followed shattered the air. None of this caused the woman to rise.
At her feet lay the wooden carving of the nest. The walls that had previously sheltered the egg and chicks were shattered. It was her fault. It was all her fault. No childish excuses here. There’s no such thing as an uninfluenced fantasy. Nothing that pure exists.
You tried to create her how you wished she were. But she left you, that feeling of abandonment is hard to shake off.
“It’s like she’s completely forgotten about us.â€
The girls stood together at the door, their shoulders, elbows and thighs touching. The image looked as though one girl had been painted and the paper folded over to create a reflection, before the paint had time to dry.
“Open the doorâ€
Two small trembling hands reached out and the door opened with a hiss. The room inside was dark.
“Go in.â€
Two pairs of uncertain feet moved forward. They were soon swallowed by darkness.
The figure left standing outside retreated.
You wonder what you are supposed to do with her. She’s followed you out of the forest and is shadowing your footsteps through the wet sand. Although she is behind you, you can sense her discomfort. Do you think she has ever been on a beach before?
So many moons…
I followed the boy through the trees, his movements those of a startled and nervous animal, a mouse that knows there’s an eagle overhead. He glanced over his shoulder at me, the silent passage of my footsteps giving him no indication that I was trailing him. I like being silent. If you don’t want attention, learn to live in silence. Grass purred and twigs snapped as he lay his feet upon them.
The trees soon began to thin. The undergrowth had disappeared. The soil became sandy and the boy in front of me stumbled on an exposed tree root. I hope he wasn’t embarrassed I saw. Everyone trips.
The smell was different here. The scent of wet dirt, recently spattered with rain, that I so longed to inhale was far away.
You walk back down the beach. She’s shadowing you like a lost puppy. You do as you usually do when walking down the beach. Besides, what is she to you anyway? A disturbed girl trying to puncture your cocoon of calm. You try to ignore her and study the ground. As always, the shapes of the shell and twisted pieces of driftwood intrigue you. You see a pink scallop partially buried in golden sand. You bend and pick it up. The girl behind you makes a questioning noise as her quiet feet come to a stop. You turn and show her the shell.
There was a seascape painting on the wall. Maybe it was more of a collage. Yes that’s it. It was a collage.
And was it even really a seascape? I’m not sure. It had shells and seaweed, and pebbles smoothed by the continual roll of the ocean, all backed on a gritty sanded canvas. It was enclosed in glass. I wonder if you could smell the sea inside.
A large pink ribbed scallop shell sat below on a dark cedar table. I was given it. There’s no chance that I would find something like that myself. Not here.
Wait. This isn’t right. I refuse to believe that this is my memory. This isn’t even my imagination. It’s just there. On the wall, and there on the table.
Right now.
Quiet in the sky at night, hot in the Milky Way…
Aiyana wanted this baby. Once it was born, she would never leave it. No one would ever see her alone again. She would have finally earned the unquantifiable love that others had previously professed for her, yet proved false by their actions. A being born simply to be with her, to keep her company for eternity. This child would never feel unwanted, never be sad, never be left alone. The horrible gut-wrenching feeling of loneliness will be entirely unknown. She will never feel isolated.
For the first few months, it might be difficult. After all, caring for a newborn child is a demanding task. At first all the rewards received seem to be nothing but gurgled burps and putrid soiled clothing, but as that baby grows, it learns to love. The selfishness disappears; the initial sole concept of wanting develops into something more compassionate. Something resembling love. She will feel loved by this child, and she will love the child in return.
She will see her child change, mature, become a woman, or a man. She will watch her child become a troublesome toddler, the tantrums thrown those only that a mother is capable of soothing. Aiyana will be needed by this child and although need means she will be a necessity, she won’t mind. For the duration of her child’s life, she will live purely to ensure its safety.
As all children must, Aiyana’s child will grow, and Aiyana will always be the nurturing mother. She will laugh when her child laughs, share the joyous delight as her baby picks up a toy. She will shed a tear of her own when her child grieves, for who can watch one they love suffer without feeling intense pain themselves. Her role as mother will not be a duty thrust upon her because of her gender, it will be a part she performs willingly.
And when her child is grown, old enough to form and voice her own opinion, they can talk. Discuss the matters that concern a mother and daughter. Laugh together, scoff together, cringe together, and cry together. Be together.
You’re losing it. This girl following you, she is you. Or maybe she just wishes she were you. In this world, wishing and being amount to the same thing.
Outside in…
A brown bank of smog rolled sluggishly past the window, the spicy caramel colour reflecting dully off the metallic frame. No birds flew past; no butterflies dared climb this high. As if they would be able to penetrate the heavy pollution anyway, twenty-three floors up.
Below, the city sprawled. Streets crisscrossed like ruined grey ribbon, twisted and frayed in the hands of a child. Brooding alleyways lurked between buildings; their darkened walls leaned against suspicious men exchanging information in hushed broken whispers. On the main footpaths, cracked concrete bedecked with colourful parrot-feather signs - an attempt at jubilation, people scurried. Likening them to ants would be unfair. Ants have a purpose.
If I were down there, I know an army of smells would assault my nostrils. Walking past the mouths of yawning alleys usually results in the inhalation of the reek of rotting food. Mouldy vegetables, maggoty meat, stale cheese (or maybe just things that smell like that, all things seem to decompose to cheese). The meat, the flesh of an animal that died to feed humanity, going to waste.
Passing decorated shopfronts, shelves covered with goods that nobody needs, a new odour prevails. Fast food. Fast, because everything here needs to be. Chips cooked in six-day-old oil. (You know they let that solidify overnight don’t you?) Hamburgers with gherkin that nobody ever wants, included just so the meal is not classified as confectionary. Not even the occasional seagull that braves the stink of man wants that gherkin. I’ll have a sugar burger for lunch.
On the street, the acrid smell of vomit. Someone’s drunken insides, mixed with stomach acid and thrown up on the sidewalk. The shiny black shoes of businessmen avoid the mess. A woman wrinkles her nose in distaste. And by doing that, it’s really going to go away isn’t it?
Over all this, the fumes of petrol. Cars roar past impersonating lions. There’s really no need for all that noise. They’re not going fast.
I could lay my hand against the false marble wall of the pub and feel it. The vibrations of the city. The ingrained smells, the shaking noise, all entrapped within a smooth white speckled wall. A wall that too is an imitation. Is there anything natural here?
Back in the apartment, twenty-three floors up, I see this. Averting my eyes from the horrors presented by the window, my immediate surroundings offer no relief from the artificial image. My entire environment is superficial.
There’s a fridge buzzing to my right. No one taught it how to hum a melody. The kitchen is full of light. Powerful down lights eradicate the possibility of shadow. The green light on the microwave glares at me. 5:26 it says. You can stop now, I should reply.
I wriggle my bare toes on the floor. Tiles. Moving I can feel the episodic lines of mortar where the dust gathers. I mustn’t forget to vacuum before he comes home.
The leather chair in which I recline squeaks and moans with each of my movements. I don’t want to talk to you chair.
Speaking to inanimate objects, that’s normal isn’t it? Why not do it? There are so many things to talk about. Remote, what’s the point of having you if you’re all the way over there? Fruit bowl, why are you so empty? You’ve been feeding me well lately, but I didn’t eat everything. Do you have a black hole for a stomach? Shower head, don’t face that way. Don’t ignore me. I’m over here.
There is a plant on the dining room table that I water. Or maybe poison is a better term. How many dangerous chemicals are in the water I wonder? How much chlorine can a person digest? I have good conversations with this plant. After all, it is alive.
But wait. This isn’t me. I don’t live in this high-rise apartment with its plastic walls and searing lights. That’s not me causing the beige leather chair to squeal. I don’t see the people in the street. It’s not me who sometimes scurries with them, going about aimless tasks that offer no satisfaction. That’s only for them. This isn’t me.
And who was the “he†who is coming home soon? No one I know.
I don’t live here.
I am Amaya.
A song permeated the rooms of the apartment.
Maybe the reason is that she hated the city just as much as you do, but why then did she leave me behind?
Vega, Capella, Hadar, Rigel, Barnard’s Star…
There are bound to be influences. Rather, intrusions.
I remember lying in bed as a little girl. I could hear the joyous gurgling of water in the fountain outside my window. If I concentrated enough, I thought I could smell the stone over which the water ran. I thought I could hear the bubbles blown by the golden fish lazing just above the pebbled bottom. I could sometimes taste the fragrance of the water lilies against my tongue. That only happened when I was almost asleep. I realise now that the reason I pictured the outside so vividly was that my own room was so dull. It smelt of lavender, an artificial scent under which the musty odour of carpet could be detected. The walls were white, smooth and unadorned. It was always very clean at least. There was a small polished chest made from chocolaty wood in the corner. Inside it were my toys. I didn’t have many of those.
If I tilted my head against the white pillow I could see a slit of sky through the window. It was not black, why is night always described as black? It was dark blue mostly, sometimes grey when I woke in the predawn, but not black. I could only see one star through the window. If I was awake long enough I could watch its topaz passage against the dark backdrop of the night sky. As the world rotated no other stars came into view through the window slit. There was only ever the one.
No, that was supposed to be the nice place. My idyllic environment. No musty smells, stars everywhere.
I remember lying in bed as a little girl. Sometimes if I was quiet enough, I could hear the conversation of the two girls who lived in the apartment next door. They always sounded happy, their quiet warbling speech often punctuated by tinkling bouts of giggling. They always seemed to be together. They were never lonely. Sometimes I could hear an older, deeper voice. Their father I assumed. He didn’t seem to scare his children. His rumbling phrases always ended with the children laughing, a delighted high-pitched shriek that only the young are capable of producing. I wondered what it would be like for my father to make me laugh. I was never able to fully form that concept in my mind. Reality was far too overwhelming.
I constructed an entire world inside that apartment next door. My own world was so dull and frightening. Theirs was much more fun. They had pets and plants, their rooms were full of life. It smelt of lavender, a scent that reminded me of fields, fields I had only visited in books.
“She can’t keep this up. She’s cracking.â€
“Be quiet. She’ll go back to her own world soon and then we can play again.â€
Stop criticising me.
Wolf 359, Betelgeuse…
You look in the mirror and you see yourself. Do you like what you see?
I don’t think it really matters. Physically I am myself, in any situation.
If she didn’t like what she saw, what could she do about it? Answering that question won’t make her life easier to accept.
You don’t think her mother saw what she had given birth to and recoiled in disgust?
Of course not. Mother’s don’t do that kind of thing.
But how would you know that? You’ve never had a mother.
If there was anything wrong with her, it would have been the mother’s fault anyway. What blame can you lay at the feet of a squirming newly born baby?
I don’t think it would have anything to do with appearance. I’m a normal human being right now. I haven’t been operated on or given cosmetic surgery to make me look the way I do. I’m normal now; I must have been normal then. There must be another reason.
You think it must be another reason? How many excuses can there be? How many are you prepared to invent? Have you considered that it wasn’t because of you? You’re sure she had no other people of importance in her life?
What about her father?
I don’t have a father.
She does have a father. It seems she doesn’t like to admit it, but the fact is there. She exists, therefore she has a father.
I wish I didn’t.
Ah, yes. But what’s the point in wishing?
Stop this. Stop mixing this up. I was happy. I wasn’t here. For once I was alone, imagining, in a world of my own.
But it wasn’t an ideal world was it?
She tried her best. What can you expect of her? How can she accurately create something she has never experienced?
You should be so full of anger. You must be, yet you still believe that she was a wonderful mother. A mother who would do anything for her child. She didn’t manage to keep you did she?
I’m sure that wasn’t her. That wasn’t her fault. It must have been him.
Him? So, you’ve admitted you’ve got a father?
It was his fault. He hates me. He must have hated her too.
But he’s the one that is with you now isn’t he? And where is she? Do you think she has another family, another child, a daughter who she loves and dotes on? Do you think that daughter has siblings who keep her company? Brothers and sisters she can share with, laugh with, be loved by.
No. I refuse to believe she would leave me for someone else.
You can say that, but what do you really think?
Maybe she trusted someone to look after you.
You mean my father? If so, her trust was misplaced.
That man you live with, how do you know he really is your father? How do you know if you’re even related to him?
I grew up with him. He’s always been there.
You know that doesn’t mean anything.
What does she really know? What can she really identify as fact or fiction?
Stop it. This was fiction, and you’re ruining it.
You’re not Amaya.
Sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun …
The fadeout. A setting sun. A dying Amaya.
I am in my room now. I don’t remember coming in here. But I often do that. Create my own world to escape the one I’m in, yet remain active in both. I haven’t done the vacuuming yet.
There’s a poster on the white wall opposite me. A grizzly bear – my favourite animal. I can see it’s dark form when I’m lying in bed. Sometimes it scares me, sometimes it comforts. I like imagining myself as a bear. Top of the food chain. King.
And there’s a collage on my wall, seashells, seaweed, and sand. Debris from a coastal storm. But not collected by me.
My name is not Amaya. It’s just Mae. Hello, I make people. What do you do?
Let me show you my profile. Not one of the ones I’ve created. The real one.
I am Mae.
I am seventeen years of age. Soon I will be eighteen. Independent and away.
I live alone with my father.
I never knew my mother, but I like to convince myself. A loving, caring, nurturing person. I’m certain she would have been that way.
Sometimes I find it hard to convince myself.
I hear footsteps travelling along the carpeted corridor outside. He must be home early. I silently scurry from my room into the kitchen. The green microwave light is still glaring at me, the beady eyes of a technological alien. 5:28. So much can happened in two minutes.
But I haven’t done the vacuuming.
“Mae! Where are - ? MAE! You lazy [censored], you haven’t done anything! How can you expect to live in my apartment, making mess and being a constant irritation if you don’t do any bloody work? Get out here and start making dinner! I’m having a shower and I want everything clean by the time I’m out. I wish you’d just leave like your mother did.â€
The daily rant.
Maybe the reason is that she hadn’t done the vacuuming.
Perhaps I’ll resurrect her another night. Amaya, the girl with no father. Or perhaps I’ll try someone else for a change. Someone on a farm do you think? With her own dog or horse? She can go riding whenever she wants. In the mornings a light white mist hovers above the open paddocks she can see out her window. Her name will be Faye.
“Yes Dad.â€
There was a mechanical mutter as the song changed in the stereo. Mae hurried to make the dinner, a meal that would not result in her being yelled at.
All these dirty words, they make us look so dumb…
They make me look so dumb.
Years have passed. You’ve been eighteen and older. You yourself are pregnant with your first child. You have married into a caring family. You haven’t seen your father in years, and you never did see your mother. Don’t let this happen to your own child. You should have learnt from your own childhood. I hope you have. Don’t follow the cycle of the abused becoming the abuser.
I don’t want to be recreated in the mind of another child. None of us do. Our company does not reflect reality. You’ve made it this far. Remember how hard it was? You don’t want another person to experience what you endured. You do not want your children to look upon you the way you looked upon your own parents. And you know running away does not help.
From now on, I will speak to you no more. I’m never visiting your mind again, in sleep or in full consciousness. Don’t live in your mind, life in the real world with the loving people you have found will be much more rewarding.
Does that sound too didactic? Maybe that’s what you need to get the point across.
…And it looks like we might have made it… It looks like we’ve made it to the end…