Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild

More documents

Recommendations

Info

The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing Amanda Ahner Bright Lights They never turn these lights off you know. Cold words tumble from her lips as she sits, stone still, a frozen embodiment of apathy. Her long wheat blond hair cascades from her shoulders, glinting dully in the harsh industrial light of the white room. No days, no nights, no passage of time. A cold perpetual sun. Hard light to drive the insane, insane. The words cut through the deaf silence with no echoes to greet her ears. The sound is dead on her thirsty being. Her voice, her thoughts, her memories, no longer soothe the loneliness, yet she continues to speak. There’s no imagination in the brightness, only the cold hard truth. Slowly untangling her lithe body from its crosslegged position, she lifts herself from the floor. A hint of regret tints her harsh tone. In the dark, I could imagine you were here with me, that I was there, with you. Nostalgically she wanders through the room, as if it were a place from a dream. I live in the memories these days, the bright, blinding memories. She stops at an invisible kitchen sink, her voice softer now, like ice. His blood was so beautiful. The blood that washed off my hands, and spiraled down the drain. I remember I kept all the lights on that night. I wanted to watch them die beside me. Pacing across the open floor she wades through the memories, remembering her daughter’s whimpers in the dark. Callie was her name. She always needed a nightlight at her bedside. A vivid image of Callie’s midnight tears scrawled across her mind. The night the bulb burnt out, I came to her, and held her close in the darkness. Closing her eyes, she wraps the unseen child in her arms and rocks her back and forth to an unsung lullaby. But now, I’ll never hold her and I’ll never hold him. Her calm face breaks into an anguished grimace as she shouts into empty space. But he’ll, he’ll never hold Her. And I’ll never have to wonder when he’s coming home, or who he’s with. I’ll never find them in our bed! Retreating into the back corner of the cell she holds windScript 28 herself in pitiful self-righteousness, lamenting her condition to the lights, her only audience. No, I never did anything wrong, I didn’t kill him. They shouldn’t have locked me up. He betrayed me! Betrayed our life together! The life I built! She thinks of the home that had been ripped apart by his adulterous excursions, a home that at the back of her subconscious, she knows never really existed. Tears began to stream down her light blanched face. In this living nightmare of the mind she won’t accept the truth that lies before her. Rising from the corner she ambles to center stage, her eyes large and mournful but her voice calm. They told me she is dead, but it can’t be true. They just don’t want me to look for her when I get out. She remembers that they told her she’d never get out. She would be stuck in this room, forever. The room with the lights. She pauses and her fragmented thoughts return to the man, her husband, who’d betrayed her. He must have taken her away. He took her away, yet her rational mind knows the truth. He’s dead. I killed him. Slowly she lowers her slim, colourless body to the floor where she kneels in cold reverence, eyes closed, her face empty. The blood, his blood, her blood, drips onto the sheet, onto the floor. It trickles down the knife, down my arm. I hear a footstep behind me, and I turn. “Mommy?” I hesitate, but my hand is too quick, and she falls to the floor. Awakening from the trance, Sara blinks her eyes rapidly and then settles herself crossed legged on the floor. They never turn these lights off you know. No days, no nights. No passage of time. A cold perpetual sun. Hard light to drive the insane, insane. volume 24
The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing i’m getting older, balloons fill my room. my mommy takes care of me. she could buy me whatever i want. i wish, feeling alone and helpless, i lay in my bed for someone to tuck me in. i cry. thrusting my mind into lunacy, anxiously chewing on my slowly crippling nail, glued to my ever-shrinking memory. glued to my ever shrinking memory, anxiously chewing on my slowly crippling nail, thrusting my mind into lunacy. i cry. i lay in my bed for someone to tuck me in, feeling alone and helpless. i wish, she could buy me whatever i want. my mommy takes care of me. balloons fill my room, i’m getting older. 29 Victoria Pawliw Daughter to Mother windScript volume 24
Page 1 and 2: The Magazine of Saskatchewan High S
Page 29: The Magazine of Saskatchewan High S

Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild

Create successful ePaper yourself

Delete template?

Save as template?