Classical Sass

Edges

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So, I am kind of having a face-off with my next blog entry.  It is far too babbley (even for me) and I keep having meltdowns because nothing says what I want it to say as exactly as it needs to be said.  Thusly, I am going to post a thing I wrote awhile ago; it’s based off of a dream I had while not waking up from a low blood sugar.

Edges

My eyes open and tell me that I have been sleeping in my childhood bedroom, the one I used to share with my younger brother.  Lying on my side with my back to the wall, I see that all the furniture is gone and the rug on the floorboards is brownish, dirty, and unraveling around the edges.  The lighting is vague enough to make me wonder whether it’s a lack of light or a lack of eyesight that prevents me from seeing clearly.  The atmosphere in the room is muddy, thick, and unkind.  I glance at the window refusing the room fresh air, and try to remember if the glass was always opaque.

The stagnant air in the room makes my ears feel especially prominent.  Stagnant could be an understatement; this air has not been disturbed– it is oddly unruffled by my breathing, and clings sullenly to my cheeks, resenting my movements.  The utter silence in the room make the noises in my mind clamor obnoxiously, and I get the oppressive notion that the room is eating my sounds, swallowing any registered vital signs.

I roll onto my back, digging my heels into the mattress until I am propped against the wall.  The sheets entangled around my waist are now in clear view: they’re gray-blue, grime streaked, and furthermore, seem to inform me that I am responsible for their sullied state and sour smell.  My face tenses in an involuntary grimace as I attempt to eliminate inhaling from the act of breathing.  I faintly remember that the bed in here used to be a bunk bed, placed against the wall adjacent to the single bed currently keeping me off the floor.

I can feel my hair sticking limply to my cheeks, the uncomfortable itchiness across my scalp declaring that it has been several days since it’s been cleaned.  I push it out of my face and realize that the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing is just as filthy as everything else; the cotton has that over-soft texture unique to extremely dirty clothes.

I blink, slowly putting everything together.  Dirty everything.  Still disoriented.  Funny furniture.  So very quiet.  And the forlorn query echoing in my mind: ‘How long have I been sleeping?  Was I sleeping?’

I get out of bed and go to the door, feeling steady on my feet and certainly less dizzy than I’d expected.  I place my hand on the doorknob and find that the door will not open.  In fact, the doorknob doesn’t even turn – it’s as though the handle was put there for decoration.  The queasiness hits as I realize that I did not expect to be able to open this door, that I’d actually looked at it as a door only out of habit.

Panic.  I sink to the floor, crumpled and limp on the mangy rug, and try to remember anything prior to waking.  With my lids half closed, I hear my mom’s piercing, accusing, tones, her angry, indignant, fear making my ears tingle.  My breathing thins and fades into my subconscious as her bent figure fills my head.

I’m remembering her yelling at me.  I’m remembering that I couldn’t make her understand.  I remember her certainty, her unshakeable verdict: ‘Who are you??’ as though her awareness of me horrified her, and I feel irrationality pricking at the edges of my mind like the scratchy tag inside a pair of new pants.

What else, what else, there must be something else…

I sit very still, trying to peel tangible memories from slippery thought.  The only sensation I can accurately feel is my mom’s rage, a shouting, terrified, shriek that leaves my shoulders and neck cold and vulnerable.  I hear her voice and I think that no one could possibly be that mad, unless it was insanity that drove her there.

Insanity, that drove her there.

I can feel the room, with its opaque window, naked floor, and fake door, surrounding me, taunting me.  She, in her insanity, put me here.  Or…

Insanity, that…

I put my hands to my forehead and squeeze, because despite the thick air and the dead stillness everywhere, the room is spinning, and if I don’t hold on to something, I know I’ll be lost in this mean, little, room forever.  I think that if I hold on, then maybe consciousness will slow down, I won’t accept this…my eyes are as wide as they’ll go, struggling to see, or not to see…

Who is insane?  This insanity, that…but my memory seems gray, elusive, and it won’t stay in one place.  Who, who is insane, is it my mom with her uncharted rage, this insanity that…I, in this room, this mean, dirty, room…locked door, fake door, why is the window opaque?  Who…

I’m staring at the room and blinking very fast.  Where did all the pieces go, what is missing that could possibly make this sensible?  Could it be that there are no missing pieces?  If there are no missing pieces, then the puzzle must be me…

This insanity that paints everything the color of a chameleon, this insanity that shows me the floor but never lets me walk upon it, this insanity that…

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