Fiction
So I haven't written a fictional short story in a really long time but today seemed to inspire one. Here it goes.
Outside, the soft crashes of raindrops against the bedroom window created curtains of undulating sound. Inside, the sound of suave strumming from Damien Rice's "Cannonball" escaped the crevices of her speakers. Inside, she stared at the person on the other side of her full length mirror.
Her eye corresponded with the crack that had long been installed in the top right corner of the mirror, though she could not recall how it had cracked. She looked into her eyes, those golden flecks in a pool of deep emerald, framed by premature wrinkles. She had once been told that those golden flecks were like the last glimmers of the sun before it retired beneath the horizon. She had been told that once.
Right now her forehead held lines of concentration, containing the mysteries of her painful past. This was the forehead her father had kissed when she was a child. He had tucked her secure under the warmth of her blanket, and as he left he had said, “I love you kiddo, always and forever.” Back then she didn’t know that forever could be so short.
She followed the curves of her smooth brown hair, which fell just below her shoulders. Every strand of her hair recalled the salty wind that blew through it on her trip to the beach with her boyfriend. Every single strand remembered dancing freely in the breeze, under the warm sun that struck her hair, letting her blonde highlights show. She remembered the way he looked at her as he pushed her hair behind her ear.
She looked at her lips, at the soft cupid’s bow and at her full lower lip that she often bit in nervousness. He was her very first kiss. He had flashed his goofy grin, the one she loved so much. He had taken her soft cheeks into his hands and she had felt safe in the frame of those strong fingers. She remembered the way his lips fit into hers, and even though it was her first kiss, she would not believe there existed a more perfect fit.
She looked at her long neck, inside of which rested “a brilliant set of vocal chords,” or so her voice teacher had said. Her voice teacher had told her that her voice was like a modern Billie Holiday, that she had the potential of making the heart weep or smile through a roller coaster phrase of notes. But she didn’t sing anymore. The emotions that once used to bring depth and strength to every note never found their way to her again.
Her eyes followed the neck down to the narrow shoulders, the skin stretched tight over her bony frame. She observed her arms, following the outline of her shoulders down to the forearms. Her boyfriend had begun to reveal a side of him she had not seen before. He had become controlling, forceful, demanding. She remembered the bruises, his very grasp recorded in imprints on her skin. She remembered the fights, the yelling, the tears. She remembered when she couldn’t deal with it anymore. The finger imprints were now replaced with reddish lines, the skin still irritated by the blade. It was the only way she could feel anymore.
From the forearms hung small, frail hands. Her fingers were bony but long and graceful. She used to look out at the night sky, feeling empowered as she placed the moon in between her thumb and index finger. She could almost feel the warmth of the light from the moon, feel the stars falling all around her, feel the energy from worlds beyond. She could feel.
She studied her legs and the knobby knees peeking out from under her skirt. She used to have recurring dreams of running. Running in a great expanse of land. No one else but her, in a land of cattails, daisies, and green grass. In her dream she could never judge how long she ran, but to her it was forever. As she ran she could feel every strand of grass brush against her bare foot and the air around her smelled sweet like sugary springtime. And then she would speed up. So much, in fact, that she would be on the verge of flying. She could feel the heels of her feet lifting up towards the sky, and then it would be over. She would awake to reality.
She looked down at her feet, remembering all the roads she’s traveled. She was never a fashion expert, but she always liked shoes. They took her places. But now, as she tried on every pair she had, she couldn’t help but ask if she was going anywhere at all.
She lay in her bed, lulled by the sound of rain and her own thoughts. And as her eyelids grew heavier, the rain threatened to wash her away to a dreamland full of daisies and cattails.
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