Anything But Red
1
It was like gaining consciousness for the first time, or like waking from a dream unsure whether or not it could have been reality. Nothing before-hand mattered; it didn't exist. The entirety of my life had been a surreal experience- more like it were being watched through a television screen than actually lived, and it was probably better that way. My body is numb, but my throat aches enough to make up for the lack of feeling everywhere else.
Looking back, my life is like an alternate universe. I can never remember the linear flow of events, only the defining moments; the breaks in static. It jumps all over the place like fingers trying to distinguish patterns among stars.
The smell of baby powder. It's the earliest memory I have. Puffs of powder and clouds of smoke spiraling up through the sunlight in the blinds. The feeling of cheap second-hand silk on my fingers as I tugged at the hem of my mother's dress. Neglect. The sound of baby cries. The heavy steps of steel-toed boots stomping across the floor in annoyance.
She was born when I was three, and I remember wishing she wasn't, trying anything to get rid of her. Shutting her up in cardboard boxes and pushing her out to the street like an unwanted kitten; closing her up in the closet; pushing the shopping cart around the corner when my mother wasn't looking. And she just cried.
Everything in the room is white, haunting me. I count the tiles on the linoleum floor, and once I've done that I count the tiles in the ceiling. The fluorescent lights are blinding. The bed is white. There is no blanket, no shower curtain, and no mirror in the bathroom. If I were really desperate, I could drown myself in the porcelain white toilet bowl. But I wasn't desperate. I had completely come to peace with it. No... I had given up.
Looking back, my life is like an alternate universe. I can never remember the linear flow of events, only the defining moments; the breaks in static. It jumps all over the place like fingers trying to distinguish patterns among stars.
The smell of baby powder. It's the earliest memory I have. Puffs of powder and clouds of smoke spiraling up through the sunlight in the blinds. The feeling of cheap second-hand silk on my fingers as I tugged at the hem of my mother's dress. Neglect. The sound of baby cries. The heavy steps of steel-toed boots stomping across the floor in annoyance.
She was born when I was three, and I remember wishing she wasn't, trying anything to get rid of her. Shutting her up in cardboard boxes and pushing her out to the street like an unwanted kitten; closing her up in the closet; pushing the shopping cart around the corner when my mother wasn't looking. And she just cried.
Everything in the room is white, haunting me. I count the tiles on the linoleum floor, and once I've done that I count the tiles in the ceiling. The fluorescent lights are blinding. The bed is white. There is no blanket, no shower curtain, and no mirror in the bathroom. If I were really desperate, I could drown myself in the porcelain white toilet bowl. But I wasn't desperate. I had completely come to peace with it. No... I had given up.