Red Eye πŸ‘ Post # 48: She Takes The Cake 🍰

I mean, who does this girl think she is?

Up above the world so high? Unearned privilege is like a taint on her. Broken doll, infertile descendant of an obsolete and defunct clan, marooned in bygone days and ancestral delusions. Out of touch. Vanishing into her tower room, at the end of each day.

I am like Rapunzel, she said to me once. But I do not let down my hair. Noli me tangere.

She knows I like people who are clever with their words, so she tries to show she can do that. She is always trying to qualify for my approval. Get my endorsement.

Lineage counts for nothing, anymore.

And she and her ageing tribe, the gatekeepers of a forgotten pre-digital era, are increasingly decreasing in the status the contemporary world recognises. People like me, coming up, will have our feet on their throats one day, we descendants of slaves. Maintaining protocol, with hatred in our hearts.

Poor girlie. Mentally ill, emotionally fragile. Can’t keep her food down, when she gets stressed.

Mollycoddled, I called her. Pampered. Soft. Expecting the waters of the sea and the crowds of people to part, to let her through. That wistful charm works on some people. But she thinks herself better, yes she does. Talks equality, but acts like she is out of reach.

She needs me, though, that broken girl. On her small, stark, dark island, not feeling connected to any of her friends. Desolate, she needs me to tell her I am keeping watch. I am her Night Watchman, she tells me. A human dream catcher, to filter the pain out of what haunts her sleep.

I tell her being able to help people in need is like my heroin. And she radiates distress.

I will leave when I am ready to. When there is nothing of her left, to fight me or resist. Like a shell on a seashore. Picked clean.