The Window Sill

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Rain as seen from the window. Photo courtesy.

The soft sheets of rain brings back memories of a time when she was alive, a time so far gone, overtaken by the insanity of her sentence on earth, overtaken by the departure of those she once lived for. The soft sheets offer no comfort, and there she weeps in disdain of the world. 

From one cloud to another, thunder rolls inside her empty head and the husk left behind by the many who broke her heart. She feels like a Messiah who died for nothing, the savior who was torn apart for a people that turned their faces away from him in his last breath, in the last throes of a vain death.

She remembers, bless her, she does, the demons of her past. Maybe she still is the nightmare that lurks deep in the evening sun. Maybe she still is the confusion in the order all around her. Maybe she is the chaos in the peace. Maybe she is the slave to the freedom all around.

There is nothing in the past and there is nothing in the present. The only life is that outside her glass house. God has not been kind to her. He poisoned her eyes and her heart. He spared her life but took away her sanity. He surrounded her with walls of solitude. Loneliness is power, she believed, but endless days at the windowsill taught her that it indeed was a curse.

 A swallow stops by the window and their eyes meet. She stares in disdain. “She’s free, how unfortunate” her lips mouth. She listens to the rough rasping from its throat. “Bless her, she can croak. If I were a bird I would have chosen to be a song bird.”

 

A swallow chirping. (courtesy)

Her right hand again crosses over to the left. That is the last touch she remembers. The previous longing and soothing feeling turned to dust, evaporated from her life and has never returned. Some doors, she knows, had better remain closed and paths forgotten.

Intersections of pain, bitterness and jealousy have driven her numb to everything and she does not know what she feels anymore. What is time but the enemy that ceased to be kind, a god that no longer listens?

There is no comfort in the wooden chair and darkening sky, and again she rises from the window sill. The cat rises in turn and rubs herself on her feet. She kicks the creature away and it bursts into a ball of feathers.

A smile crosses her chapped lips and blood spills out of the many cracks. Her mind is gone. She is surprised there was one in the first place. The dark shadow follows her to the dusty bed of the prison of her making. The door to the dreaded rooms shut with a sharp clink and the demons crawl down form the walls.

Yesterday it was scorpions. Today, she knows, will be full of snakes. Loneliness spends on the side of her bed.


 

 

 

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