Wednesday 14 May 2014

Melting mist



I look in the mirror, and she looks back.   She is all dried out, I never looked like that.   I don't know who this person is. The grey listless hair is all hidden in my turban of a towel, and still I don't look like myself. The deep groves on the cheeks, bags under the eyes, blue-ish lips of a heart sufferer. Yellowing eye scleras of a liver patient.  Yeah, I should be thankful it wasn't cancer.  The skin hangs off this person, especially on the inside of her upper arms. I pick up my arm to check. Yep, still there. I pinch myself with disgust. It's better to hide this mirror, before I smash it. Better to never look into it again and not recognize myself. I hate what I see so much that I hang my damp towel over the mirror, and walk away, trying not to look at the wasted veiny legs and the protruding tongue of the belly. How wonderful to be naked, though. I sit in the rocking chair by the window, and let the sun settle on my withered body. The only touch I've had for the last 20 years was either doctors hurting me, or the blessed sun. Oh, bliss. I rock and sip my tea, and doze off.
Later, when the sun is down, I'm walking the tiny apartment like a tiger walks his cage. Back and forth. The silence is ringing in my ears. I tidy up a bit, and the noise in my head is getting louder and louder, to counteract the buzzing, ringing, screaming silence.
"Again?! – I see myself running after Dave, him being only 6 or 7, no more. I'm holding his pants, and the buckle hits him hard, once, twice, three times. Once on the back, once on the head, and once on the hand he put up to cover his face. Then I cry, and kiss his bruises, and swear to never, ever do it again, and what a silly boy he is not to know that I love him. And want him to succeed. And to be a good boy, and not to steal peaches from the Spearman's garden. And not to hit the boys he plays with, because it's bad to hurt others, doesn't he know?"
I cover my ears, and of course it doesn't help, because the noise is on the inside. By now it's night. Damn the night. I wish nights were never created, never came into being to torment me. My heart is racing, and my lips are dry. If only I was blessed with such a gift as crying. What a relief it would be. But my eyes remain the Sahara they've always been.
"You witch! Nobody could ever please you, now can we? For every toy and every piece of paper you tell them off, for every grade, every move has to be controlled, mine and theirs. Nobody is ever good enough for you. There are your damn rules to mind, you sit like this and you move like that, wipe with this and don't move that, or else your wrath spills forth. People don't dare breathe in this house, have you noticed? When was the last time we had guests? May you never breathe again. May you choke on your words, your damn criticism, your endless picking, your perfectionism, your rules and regulations. God, what a witch I married! If you tell me again to hold my tongue in front of the kids, I shall see you in court! " – and I see his hunched back, marching away from me, on that sunny Sunday morning, when the snow finally melted, and I was left alone, with two kids and one immaculately matched and color-coordinated house.
The noise gets louder and louder. Screams, yells, crying, blames, just painful words come back to me magnified by a thousand, and with the screaming silence surrounding me, it's more than I can bear. I quickly throw on some jeans and a sweatshirt, grab my cigarettes and a purse,  and run out, slamming the door on that deafening silence. I'm hardly running, though. An old lady of 67 cannot and should not run, even if she feels no older than 15 on the inside. I walk the darkened streets. It must be past midnight by now. All the shops save for the 24/7s are closed, barred, and dark, too. Mt my footsteps are resoundingly loud, but at least, they drive away the screams and the silence. I pass a drunk, and a stray cat follows me. The river flows just as always, I can hear it but not see it. Memories plague me here, and I turn my back on it. The rare pedestrians are barely shadows, barely there, just as I am, nothing more than a shadow. A drizzle is hanging in the air, but the drops are so tiny that they create a mist, but do not wet me. It would've been nice to get drenched, I'm burning, inside and outside. My skin is on fire. I open my sweatshirt, then take it off. A half-naked elderly woman with disheveled grey hair, marching through the night. Some sight I must be. I look into the lit-up window of a pharmacy, sometimes there is a pharmacist on duty, and he helps me chase the ghosts away. But today it's closed. I collect all the drops off the pane and pass the wet palms over my face, keeping them there for just a minute.  Let the mist be instead of tears, for I have none left. I lean my burning cheek against the window.
The city is waking up when I finally reach my home. The street-sweepers are out, and my legs feel like cotton-wool. I get the key in on the third attempt, drop my bag down, and light up. Another night. I'm chilled through. The hot shower washes off the grime, and tears, and voices, and memories. Time for bed. Two hours of blessed relief… then again. But just before I crash, I pick up the phone, the really nice old fashioned house line, and smash it hard against the wall. I'm too wiped to kill it, but a crack appears in it. That will do for today.
When I wake up, I don't know the time. I check the clock, then instantly forget what I saw there.  And who cares, anyway? Same for the date. It must be spring, because it's warm, and we already had a winter. Yes. We did. I curl into a tiny ball in my bed. Please, I beg. One more hour. Just a few more minutes. But cotton candy melts in my mouth, and sleep melts in the air. Clouds melt, and ice-cream… I think that melts, too. Doesn't it? Or maybe it was chocolate. A shrill noise whistles into my melting dreams. I pick up the receiver.
-Mrs. Abramson? Hi. I'm calling for the clinic… would you like to.. – the voice is saying something, which I can't quite figure out.
My voice is rusty from lack of use, and some bubbling noises escape before I can master it.  -My son hasn't called me for a year – I say. Who knows, maybe two? I've lost count.
-er…Um.. would you like to talk to somebody professional about that? I'm just a secretary, - she chirps.
I smash the phone again, this time successfully. The crack widens, the chirping stops. Damn it. I count the pieces – two, three…
I pull myself out of bed, carefully avoiding the mirror. Then get dressed again, this time nicer.
There is a bus stop right outside my house. I get onto the first one that comes. To the circus? Oh, sure. Life is a joke. One big circus. Haha.
There is a young woman sitting opposite me.
-My son hasn't called me for a year, - I say. Somehow, it's very important that she should hear that. But she jumps and moves away. I target a man in a leather jacket. But he slips away. I will, I must find somebody who will hear me. And then he will call. I know it. He will call today, if only I find somebody who will listen to the end.
-Excuse me.. my son hasn't called me for a year. Do you hear me? A year.


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