Window.
She could never look through the glass and see. All what would transpire is her own reflection, if it was treacle rain lurking down the window pane or if it was rays of sunlight creating colours from hitting the glass, all she would see is a frail-self. Dorothy had created a prison in her mind, it was something she needed, blocking out external forces. She didn’t need to be influenced by the world outside, monsters were created from society, without society to bother her she couldn’t become the monster she was always so convinced she would become, the same sort of monster she had lost her family too. So her logic of thought went.
Day after day the window would show something different outside. Trees would dance with the songs of the swaying wind, bellowing her to come to the ball. Other days the birds would scurry and flutter forming patterns, looking like nature had choreographed a show just for her. She held her hand up to the window, she palmed the outlines of her face and swept them across like a brush, hoping she could somehow change the shapes of all the lines she had earned, every crevasse of age she hoped would melt away. All would be well if she could manage to go outside. But she built her own prison, each wall cluttered with photographs of her old family, long perished to yesteryear.
In the evenings, when the sun would set, she would look out of the top window, leaving it wide open so she could only see the landscape and nothing more. Sometimes she hoped that the figures in the background were the figures of her family, but as they stepped further and further in to her view the faces would be foreign and unknown. A cruel jest of her conscious twisting the knife of her hurt, evermore.
Dorothy had been cutting her own hair for years, but on this day, November 7th, 2011. It was a Monday. She had managed to dig the scissors too deeply into her scalp, a drizzle of blood dripped past her forehead, droplets ticking off her eyebrow one at a time. It fused with the tears of from her eyes, tears of sadness rather hurt. She had finally seen past the surface, the reflection she only allowed herself for so many years, she had cut off her pain, all her hurt, she was nothing more than a zombie trailing the shoes of her old life. She was a living ghost of herself.
Her hands had become weak, her wrists were always notoriously thin, and with her lack of nourishment she had become weaker still. As she walked towards her front door she had seen the lock had rusted over with the key jolted inside. Her body too nimble to be able to release it from its chambers she quickly gave up after an effortless turn. She raised her eyes in a proclaimed look to the heavens, hoping that she would be able to find her way out of her self-made tome. Then she remembered: the back door. There was always a way out.
She walked towards it. With each step she thought would be a step towards leaving her negative self punishments behind. With the blood slowly drying across her head she finally began to accept she was being too hard on herself. Love was not lost, lives were not gone, history has not been shaped around her actions alone. It was out of her hands and as the dried blood flaked as her eyebrows rose, she began to take a deep breath; a gust of air had swept through the house, timed perfectly with her epiphany. She found the back door, unlatched it with a painful twist of her arm and let the world hit her every being.
She took one step out of the house to let her soak up the world. Staying stationary for hours, she just looked. Outward, in the distance she saw familiar figures. They looked like people she might have known once, she slowly stepped back inside, letting the door slip into its frame with ease. She stayed inside, looking at the window. She couldn’t bear to look pass the glass, she just couldn’t bear to see. Every act that had locked her in this house was beyond her decisions, but every line and wrinkle on her face she felt was a decision of hers and hers alone. Tomorrow she would try again to take another step outside, but for now she would rest her weary body, slowly, letting herself forgive herself. Slowly, she’ll allow the hurt to fade.
Day after day the window would show something different outside. Trees would dance with the songs of the swaying wind, bellowing her to come to the ball. Other days the birds would scurry and flutter forming patterns, looking like nature had choreographed a show just for her. She held her hand up to the window, she palmed the outlines of her face and swept them across like a brush, hoping she could somehow change the shapes of all the lines she had earned, every crevasse of age she hoped would melt away. All would be well if she could manage to go outside. But she built her own prison, each wall cluttered with photographs of her old family, long perished to yesteryear.
In the evenings, when the sun would set, she would look out of the top window, leaving it wide open so she could only see the landscape and nothing more. Sometimes she hoped that the figures in the background were the figures of her family, but as they stepped further and further in to her view the faces would be foreign and unknown. A cruel jest of her conscious twisting the knife of her hurt, evermore.
Dorothy had been cutting her own hair for years, but on this day, November 7th, 2011. It was a Monday. She had managed to dig the scissors too deeply into her scalp, a drizzle of blood dripped past her forehead, droplets ticking off her eyebrow one at a time. It fused with the tears of from her eyes, tears of sadness rather hurt. She had finally seen past the surface, the reflection she only allowed herself for so many years, she had cut off her pain, all her hurt, she was nothing more than a zombie trailing the shoes of her old life. She was a living ghost of herself.
Her hands had become weak, her wrists were always notoriously thin, and with her lack of nourishment she had become weaker still. As she walked towards her front door she had seen the lock had rusted over with the key jolted inside. Her body too nimble to be able to release it from its chambers she quickly gave up after an effortless turn. She raised her eyes in a proclaimed look to the heavens, hoping that she would be able to find her way out of her self-made tome. Then she remembered: the back door. There was always a way out.
She walked towards it. With each step she thought would be a step towards leaving her negative self punishments behind. With the blood slowly drying across her head she finally began to accept she was being too hard on herself. Love was not lost, lives were not gone, history has not been shaped around her actions alone. It was out of her hands and as the dried blood flaked as her eyebrows rose, she began to take a deep breath; a gust of air had swept through the house, timed perfectly with her epiphany. She found the back door, unlatched it with a painful twist of her arm and let the world hit her every being.
She took one step out of the house to let her soak up the world. Staying stationary for hours, she just looked. Outward, in the distance she saw familiar figures. They looked like people she might have known once, she slowly stepped back inside, letting the door slip into its frame with ease. She stayed inside, looking at the window. She couldn’t bear to look pass the glass, she just couldn’t bear to see. Every act that had locked her in this house was beyond her decisions, but every line and wrinkle on her face she felt was a decision of hers and hers alone. Tomorrow she would try again to take another step outside, but for now she would rest her weary body, slowly, letting herself forgive herself. Slowly, she’ll allow the hurt to fade.
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