If my body is Christallglas, and disclose my skin is the view of burgundy veins, I wish someone would drink up me and my empty shell smash on the wall. Sometimes it's hard to not break to.
My days are roaring and humming. Outside my window moves the world. I'm caught in an endless slow-motion loop. 22.20 Clock and I live. Still. Yesterday, he said - and he looked like trips and falls - that He will finish it. To clock 22.18. He is a liar and a master of words. One day I will know who he really is. And I will see. What to know. That's what separates the night from day. My night is waiting. For the morning. On the next beat of my heart. Or on his silence.
you have saved me the paper and pencil. I write in the air. On the wall. On the ground. With my fingers. I've been biting my fingers. My blood is so sluggish, as the room air. I wish my mind it would be. The letters swirl through my head, bounce off my forehead. Knock and scrape and pucks. They burn behind my eyes as the smoke of incense.
syllable strings tighten in the corners of the room. Connect to networks, word. In them, He. These include: I. If the room is full of its networks, I will not be able to move. I will choke on his stories.
Jasmin in fog. Jasmine with bare feet. Jasmin crumbles to dust and laughs. And the olive trees to grab a piece of the sky. It spits on their branches. Cotton candy, sticky sweetness. The moon winks frightened by the hole in the clouds down upon us. I Klaube on - jasmine - climb Mount Arafat. Scatter them among the white down, the buzz around my head. Frau Holle not pray. She washes and cleans and shaken from their beds. Jasmine in the snow. Jasmine with empty eyes. No one stoned me on the way down. I wish he would be silent.
Some days are good. Some days are silent and loud. Sister Elena says, you have to go back to the beginning, then one can choose his way. She easily persuaded in their world of white cotton underwear and flat screens. In the morning a jam sandwiches and dinner cheese pasta and Walter. Or Steve or Fred. Sister Elena has not heard his stories. She sings German hits the floor and rattling the porcelain. She beheads vials and administered bee sting. She is not glass. It is substance.
key rattle and squeaky hinges. Sister Elena hands me a bucket of water and a rag. Speechless. Behind her, a guard. He watched me not, but. She is never alone with me. I wash my life from the walls while waiting at the door. I'll write it again and again. She knows and I know it.
"You have to try way back," she says, "if one tries, one can do anything."
I nod and manage to smile. Above her head, he spins on his stories. I try not to look.
"Your mother wants to visit. Tomorrow afternoon. You should talk to her. "
Humpty Dumpty sat on the corner, Humpty Dumpty fell in the mud. I press my palms to my ears. And the king with his army, Could not put Humpty Dumpty. Sister Elena throws fresh sheets on the mattress and locks herself in her hit floor. And from me.
Maybe they give me back pen and paper, if I promise to attend meetings. Maybe if I deny Him. On my account there are more than 30 pieces of silver. Sister Elena'd like the sea, they said. She likes water and wind. She likes the sound of the waves and the summer.
jasmine blooms in winter. Minus 18 degrees. I embed the foot of the Mount of Olives, weeping. Jasmine in the snow. Her white dress - red. Jasmin under the January sun, which is changing and is silent.
Dr. Rosenberg shakes his head. Rubs his forehead. His skin is greyish-brown. Parchment. I wish I had a pen. He puts his glasses on the files. "They suffer from a severe post-traumatic stress syndrome." He looks at me with his mole's eyes. "We can help you, but only if you cooperate."
I nod and say it again on my little piece. Say what is expected of me. Sister Elena is sitting beside the desk. She is about me, stroking his head and push me back my pencil in hand. She crossed her arms over her chest. I knubble the associations around my wrists.
"It is not to say it," says Dr. Rosenberg, "You have to realize it. You have to understand it and you need to know that it is the truth. "
The truth is a speckled skin on 23 December. Nothing else. No hocus-pocus, no sand male from the small plastic cup can change that. Dream sand burns your eyes, such as methyl alcohol in the throat.
22.18 clock over. Again. He hangs on the index finger of the clock. Draws breath and smiles. Shakes his head. In his hand taken Jasmine to a bouquet. Its fragrance robs me the view. Peter Pan knew. We must not grow up. Not all kisses in the world. Growing up is to forget. Forgotten how to fly.
Jasmin flies high. Jasmin flies fast. I'm starting to. My reflexes are awake. Jasmin in a white dress. Aqueous dawn. The mark on her forehead. I close the bag and the rod shoulder. Inshallah. A land mine legs severed from his body. Masseltoff! And he laughs at me. He knows what my flowers.
© 2009 Simone wedge
(The story finished in 1st place of the first prose competition of e-Literatum, October 2009. The text, the conditions of participation and the jury can be read here .)
