Status: This is the strangest story you will ever have the pleasure of reading.
The Entanglement of Cat and Rin Schrodinger
Ch. 9
Chapter nine
Rin
“Rin, honey?” A melodically sweet voice filters into my room, breaking the dark hood I put over myself. I roll over on my bed and tick off another mark on my wall. Sixteenth time that she’s wanted to ‘talk’. “You awake?”
I do a quick light and sound check; make sure there are no holes in the curtain or creaks on my stage. I am ready. Curtain up, stoplight on me. “Yes.”
My mother opens the door to my room and goes to the windows, which are open. Frowning, she slams them down and draws the curtains. She hesitates, then smiles at me. “It’s so hot outside. It’ll help when the curtains are closed. I can get you an air conditioner.” Her reasoning is flawed, but I know the logic. Our apartment is on the fourth floor, with a clear jump to rock solid concrete below. The windows usually stay locked, but the housekeeper must’ve opened them with a key thinking, reasonably, that it would be good for me to have some fresh air. But reason and logic never mixed well in our house.
She sits on my bed. “I know we’ve gone through this before, but I think you’re lying to me when you always say you’re okay with this. I need you to tell me the truth. You can trust me, right?”
I nod, eyes fixed on the white curtains that just a moment ago were billowing with summer breezes. And yet you never trust me. I think. Images of hidden scissors, kitchen knives and even sewing needles flash through my head. A sewing needle. Imagine trying to kill yourself with that. I almost laugh. My mother points her gaze directly on me, marking down a note in her head for the therapist. Laughs at random pauses in conversation. Possibly nervous from anti-social tendencies?
A pity, I think. I’m really quite sane today.
“Alright, well. Felicity’s mom has all my numbers including the concierge of the hotel in Boston. You’ll call me every night. If you want, of course. Felicity’s mother is also giving me daily updates.”
Felicity, I think. Red hair always in a bun, used to have freckles, before she discovered make up. Giant posters with mottos like “Hoppy Halloween” with little frogs on them, or “Be proud of yourself lickity split” with slobbering puppies papered her wall four years ago. Now covered by her favorite models. Same difference. A little interesting; found a beheaded Barbie under her bed once. But kind. Her mother works in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. My mother says no connect at all, but just to be ‘safe’.
“Rin…Rin!” My mother is staring again. I feel my face like it’s being burned into. “Yes. Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine..with it. This.”
“Al…right. I’ll help you pack. You can just—“
“I’m done.” I gesture to the single black suitcase.
“Oh.Well…I guess I’ll be leaving then. They’ll be here at about eight fifteen. The emergency numbers are on the fridge…”
“Fine.”
“Did you eat today?”
I hide my ice cold fingers behind my back and smile. “Yeah.”
My mother gets up off the bed, making it creak. She hesitates at the door just like when she was coming in. The situation is in replay. A broken record, an misguided anagram. I stop the tear before it gets larger. “I’m fine.” I whisper. She nods decisively and disapeers.
I dim the stage lights slowly, closing my eyes. The effort with my mother took away any remaining sanity I kept in reserve. This week is going to be hell. My mother is running out of old acquaintances with daughters to shove me on. It never works out, never has. Has anything ever worked in this cage? I can’t remember.
So, run, says one side.
A second tone hisses to my right. Rift. Coming.Tear. When. Soon, Now. Waiting: Broken flashes of light for a car window. A child crying for dead parents. A purple velvet couch. A frightening garden of white and green. A blackened village. A peacock colored dress. Blue. Brown. Turquiose. Black.
Just wait for it… the other side murmurs, I’m coming…
Rin
“Rin, honey?” A melodically sweet voice filters into my room, breaking the dark hood I put over myself. I roll over on my bed and tick off another mark on my wall. Sixteenth time that she’s wanted to ‘talk’. “You awake?”
I do a quick light and sound check; make sure there are no holes in the curtain or creaks on my stage. I am ready. Curtain up, stoplight on me. “Yes.”
My mother opens the door to my room and goes to the windows, which are open. Frowning, she slams them down and draws the curtains. She hesitates, then smiles at me. “It’s so hot outside. It’ll help when the curtains are closed. I can get you an air conditioner.” Her reasoning is flawed, but I know the logic. Our apartment is on the fourth floor, with a clear jump to rock solid concrete below. The windows usually stay locked, but the housekeeper must’ve opened them with a key thinking, reasonably, that it would be good for me to have some fresh air. But reason and logic never mixed well in our house.
She sits on my bed. “I know we’ve gone through this before, but I think you’re lying to me when you always say you’re okay with this. I need you to tell me the truth. You can trust me, right?”
I nod, eyes fixed on the white curtains that just a moment ago were billowing with summer breezes. And yet you never trust me. I think. Images of hidden scissors, kitchen knives and even sewing needles flash through my head. A sewing needle. Imagine trying to kill yourself with that. I almost laugh. My mother points her gaze directly on me, marking down a note in her head for the therapist. Laughs at random pauses in conversation. Possibly nervous from anti-social tendencies?
A pity, I think. I’m really quite sane today.
“Alright, well. Felicity’s mom has all my numbers including the concierge of the hotel in Boston. You’ll call me every night. If you want, of course. Felicity’s mother is also giving me daily updates.”
Felicity, I think. Red hair always in a bun, used to have freckles, before she discovered make up. Giant posters with mottos like “Hoppy Halloween” with little frogs on them, or “Be proud of yourself lickity split” with slobbering puppies papered her wall four years ago. Now covered by her favorite models. Same difference. A little interesting; found a beheaded Barbie under her bed once. But kind. Her mother works in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. My mother says no connect at all, but just to be ‘safe’.
“Rin…Rin!” My mother is staring again. I feel my face like it’s being burned into. “Yes. Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine..with it. This.”
“Al…right. I’ll help you pack. You can just—“
“I’m done.” I gesture to the single black suitcase.
“Oh.Well…I guess I’ll be leaving then. They’ll be here at about eight fifteen. The emergency numbers are on the fridge…”
“Fine.”
“Did you eat today?”
I hide my ice cold fingers behind my back and smile. “Yeah.”
My mother gets up off the bed, making it creak. She hesitates at the door just like when she was coming in. The situation is in replay. A broken record, an misguided anagram. I stop the tear before it gets larger. “I’m fine.” I whisper. She nods decisively and disapeers.
I dim the stage lights slowly, closing my eyes. The effort with my mother took away any remaining sanity I kept in reserve. This week is going to be hell. My mother is running out of old acquaintances with daughters to shove me on. It never works out, never has. Has anything ever worked in this cage? I can’t remember.
So, run, says one side.
A second tone hisses to my right. Rift. Coming.Tear. When. Soon, Now. Waiting: Broken flashes of light for a car window. A child crying for dead parents. A purple velvet couch. A frightening garden of white and green. A blackened village. A peacock colored dress. Blue. Brown. Turquiose. Black.
Just wait for it… the other side murmurs, I’m coming…