Indigo.
mother?
Mother went to the hospital today, I doubt she’ll be coming back.
Father reacted quite optimistically, a stupid façade that I wish he would just end; he said she’d be back in no time. He’s lying. I’m not allowed to see her just yet, he said, but I’d reckon he’d allow me to in a few days. He’s the type of person that would change his mind after he properly thought of the situation, basically meaning he wouldn’t think of the situation properly at first. I thought it funny actually; he likes to contradict himself, without knowing that he does. I caught him sweating bullets when I asked about mother, I don’t know why, and I didn’t really care actually. I don’t even know why she’s in the hospital in the first place. I suppose it was an illness, god forbid it was another genetic thing, that it will eventually come down to me, that’ll be a drag. I hate hospitals. That’s why I didn’t even bother to ask to see her. Not like he’d let me anyway, he’s not following his normal thinking and acting patterns now, I don’t what to expect from him, when I normally always do.
At one point I begin to think that she’d already passed on. I barely saw my father, I couldn’t ask him if my dear mother was still alive or not. If I wasn’t too much of a straightforward person, I would have pitied the poor man, unfortunately of him, I was quite a straightforward person and he knew that. He seemed to be avoiding me; poor man probably couldn’t bear to tell his eleven year-old daughter that her mother passed away. Maybe she hasn’t even passed away yet, I don’t even know.
My mother had a secret, a secret that she told me. In fact, she told me that she didn’t even care that if I told father or not, why is it even a secret? I have no idea. There was a locked drawer in my wardrobe, I never knew what was in it, nor did I care. But a few times I saw mother come into my room at night and opened it. She assumed I was asleep of course, though I obviously wasn’t. One night she glanced at me in the exact time where I would risk peeking to see what she was doing. This resulted of her having no choice but to tell me what the hell she was doing in my room in the middle of the night.
She said she was reminiscing, and I laughed. In my locked drawer she kept old tokens from her loved ones. All of them are either dead or never spoken to again. There were books and necklaces, pieces of writing and dried flowers, movie tickets and an old record. She picked each one up with such tenderness that I have never known her to posses. Some people say that she used to pick me up like that, when I was just a baby. Needless to say, it never happened since. She told me story after story, almost like a bedtime lullaby that she would sing every night. Each story with a loving undertone, and at some point she would shed an occasional tear. I loved this time of day, a special time with my mother. No one knew, no one had to, neither of us ever wanted anyone to know, it was none of his or her business. She had always said that she wanted to destroy each and everyone of it, but she didn’t have the heart. What a weak old women.
There was one night when she smiled and told me, that she only trusted me because I was like her. We were different. All the women in our family were. We didn’t have a choice, nor did we want our lives to be any different than it already were. We were indigos. It was different to each one of us, but for me I was the girl who thought and acted like I was 10 years older than I actually was. What we do have in common is that we liked to be left alone, imagine that in family gatherings. Men never understand, that’s why we didn’t even bothered.
Now as I imagine dear mother rotting away in a hospital bed, I would occasionally open the locked drawer, pulling out various items and remembering every line of the story that she told me about it. The stories have two things in common; they all have beautiful beginnings but would have dreadful endings. Mother said the only way to get a beautiful ending is to have a dreadful beginning. I understood her of course, but I am sure that I am incapable of doing so.
Many people have told me throughout the years that I am a person that doesn’t care about anything but herself. I consider it a compliment. There are too many people being ‘selfless’ in the world, whatever that means exactly, someone should be selfish.
One night, as I opened the drawer, ready to fill my night with another story. I thought about what my mother would think if she knows that I have been opening the drawer without her being there. Then as I thought that, I laughed and realized; I didn’t care. I picked up one of the books and started to read it over. But as I was turning a page halfway through, it ripped. I froze. Then I ripped the whole page off. The page floated down to my bed, the yellowing pages contrasting with my dark pillow. After that, I just couldn’t stop, page after page floated down to my bed, and after I finished one book I picked up another one and started ripping out the pages too. Mother said she didn’t have the heart to destroy them, but I did, and I am going to make something beautiful out of them.
Day after day, mother stayed in the hospital, day after day, father didn’t let me see her, also day after day I pretty much locked myself in my room, only coming out occasionally to get food from the kitchen. What is it that I’m doing in there you ask? I’m making something beautiful of course. It was a dollhouse, a standing and nearly complete dollhouse that was made from the things in the drawer. Floors and walls were made out of paper pages, so were the beds and the roof and the chimneys and the chairs, there were flowers and old movie tickets on the walls, acting as paintings and wall ornaments, necklaces hung from the ceiling as chandeliers.
I was proud of it, I have never made something that I could be proud of and I was glad of this achievement. I stared at it as soon that I have finished it. What is mom’s reaction going to be? I honestly don’t care, because frankly, she told me herself that she doesn’t have the heart to destroy them although she really wants to. It’ll be such a shame if she would just destroy them; I however not only destroy them, but made something beautiful out of the broken pieces.
One night, days after I finished the dollhouse, I heard faint footsteps coming up the stairs and in front of my bedroom door. Then the door creaked open, light flooding to my room from the bright hallway. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep, but I don’t need eyes to know who was in my room now. She was back. After two weeks in the hospital, she was back. I would say that I’ve missed her, but then I would be lying. I could say that I was worried about her, but then I’ll be lying again. I could say that it was good to have her back, but that’ll be another lie. I’ll have to go to church every Sunday to redeem myself if I said what I thought, so I didn’t. Her footsteps walked in my room slowly, I knew her eyes were scanning the room the way they always do. But then mother’s breath got caught in her throat; I knew what she was staring at. I smiled, knowing the look in her face.
You see, I have a secret of my own, something that I included in hers. In the biggest room of the house, there was a casket, an open casket with a body in it. It was my mother, the small paper replica of my mother, she was small, white and dead, just like what I thought I would see when I see my mother back in this house. In a casket, not breathing. Coal black figures surrounded the casket, faceless paper shapes that I colored black with chalk. Across the hall, in a replica of the library in real life, sat the figure of my father. Reading his troubles away, a glass of alcohol by his side. And outside, in the frozen pool near the garage, was me. Skating. I drew a smile on my face rather than the somber expression on my father’s.
There was silence for a minute or two, before my bedroom door swung closed softly. Needless to say, it never opened in this time of night ever again.
Father reacted quite optimistically, a stupid façade that I wish he would just end; he said she’d be back in no time. He’s lying. I’m not allowed to see her just yet, he said, but I’d reckon he’d allow me to in a few days. He’s the type of person that would change his mind after he properly thought of the situation, basically meaning he wouldn’t think of the situation properly at first. I thought it funny actually; he likes to contradict himself, without knowing that he does. I caught him sweating bullets when I asked about mother, I don’t know why, and I didn’t really care actually. I don’t even know why she’s in the hospital in the first place. I suppose it was an illness, god forbid it was another genetic thing, that it will eventually come down to me, that’ll be a drag. I hate hospitals. That’s why I didn’t even bother to ask to see her. Not like he’d let me anyway, he’s not following his normal thinking and acting patterns now, I don’t what to expect from him, when I normally always do.
At one point I begin to think that she’d already passed on. I barely saw my father, I couldn’t ask him if my dear mother was still alive or not. If I wasn’t too much of a straightforward person, I would have pitied the poor man, unfortunately of him, I was quite a straightforward person and he knew that. He seemed to be avoiding me; poor man probably couldn’t bear to tell his eleven year-old daughter that her mother passed away. Maybe she hasn’t even passed away yet, I don’t even know.
My mother had a secret, a secret that she told me. In fact, she told me that she didn’t even care that if I told father or not, why is it even a secret? I have no idea. There was a locked drawer in my wardrobe, I never knew what was in it, nor did I care. But a few times I saw mother come into my room at night and opened it. She assumed I was asleep of course, though I obviously wasn’t. One night she glanced at me in the exact time where I would risk peeking to see what she was doing. This resulted of her having no choice but to tell me what the hell she was doing in my room in the middle of the night.
She said she was reminiscing, and I laughed. In my locked drawer she kept old tokens from her loved ones. All of them are either dead or never spoken to again. There were books and necklaces, pieces of writing and dried flowers, movie tickets and an old record. She picked each one up with such tenderness that I have never known her to posses. Some people say that she used to pick me up like that, when I was just a baby. Needless to say, it never happened since. She told me story after story, almost like a bedtime lullaby that she would sing every night. Each story with a loving undertone, and at some point she would shed an occasional tear. I loved this time of day, a special time with my mother. No one knew, no one had to, neither of us ever wanted anyone to know, it was none of his or her business. She had always said that she wanted to destroy each and everyone of it, but she didn’t have the heart. What a weak old women.
There was one night when she smiled and told me, that she only trusted me because I was like her. We were different. All the women in our family were. We didn’t have a choice, nor did we want our lives to be any different than it already were. We were indigos. It was different to each one of us, but for me I was the girl who thought and acted like I was 10 years older than I actually was. What we do have in common is that we liked to be left alone, imagine that in family gatherings. Men never understand, that’s why we didn’t even bothered.
Now as I imagine dear mother rotting away in a hospital bed, I would occasionally open the locked drawer, pulling out various items and remembering every line of the story that she told me about it. The stories have two things in common; they all have beautiful beginnings but would have dreadful endings. Mother said the only way to get a beautiful ending is to have a dreadful beginning. I understood her of course, but I am sure that I am incapable of doing so.
Many people have told me throughout the years that I am a person that doesn’t care about anything but herself. I consider it a compliment. There are too many people being ‘selfless’ in the world, whatever that means exactly, someone should be selfish.
One night, as I opened the drawer, ready to fill my night with another story. I thought about what my mother would think if she knows that I have been opening the drawer without her being there. Then as I thought that, I laughed and realized; I didn’t care. I picked up one of the books and started to read it over. But as I was turning a page halfway through, it ripped. I froze. Then I ripped the whole page off. The page floated down to my bed, the yellowing pages contrasting with my dark pillow. After that, I just couldn’t stop, page after page floated down to my bed, and after I finished one book I picked up another one and started ripping out the pages too. Mother said she didn’t have the heart to destroy them, but I did, and I am going to make something beautiful out of them.
Day after day, mother stayed in the hospital, day after day, father didn’t let me see her, also day after day I pretty much locked myself in my room, only coming out occasionally to get food from the kitchen. What is it that I’m doing in there you ask? I’m making something beautiful of course. It was a dollhouse, a standing and nearly complete dollhouse that was made from the things in the drawer. Floors and walls were made out of paper pages, so were the beds and the roof and the chimneys and the chairs, there were flowers and old movie tickets on the walls, acting as paintings and wall ornaments, necklaces hung from the ceiling as chandeliers.
I was proud of it, I have never made something that I could be proud of and I was glad of this achievement. I stared at it as soon that I have finished it. What is mom’s reaction going to be? I honestly don’t care, because frankly, she told me herself that she doesn’t have the heart to destroy them although she really wants to. It’ll be such a shame if she would just destroy them; I however not only destroy them, but made something beautiful out of the broken pieces.
One night, days after I finished the dollhouse, I heard faint footsteps coming up the stairs and in front of my bedroom door. Then the door creaked open, light flooding to my room from the bright hallway. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep, but I don’t need eyes to know who was in my room now. She was back. After two weeks in the hospital, she was back. I would say that I’ve missed her, but then I would be lying. I could say that I was worried about her, but then I’ll be lying again. I could say that it was good to have her back, but that’ll be another lie. I’ll have to go to church every Sunday to redeem myself if I said what I thought, so I didn’t. Her footsteps walked in my room slowly, I knew her eyes were scanning the room the way they always do. But then mother’s breath got caught in her throat; I knew what she was staring at. I smiled, knowing the look in her face.
You see, I have a secret of my own, something that I included in hers. In the biggest room of the house, there was a casket, an open casket with a body in it. It was my mother, the small paper replica of my mother, she was small, white and dead, just like what I thought I would see when I see my mother back in this house. In a casket, not breathing. Coal black figures surrounded the casket, faceless paper shapes that I colored black with chalk. Across the hall, in a replica of the library in real life, sat the figure of my father. Reading his troubles away, a glass of alcohol by his side. And outside, in the frozen pool near the garage, was me. Skating. I drew a smile on my face rather than the somber expression on my father’s.
There was silence for a minute or two, before my bedroom door swung closed softly. Needless to say, it never opened in this time of night ever again.