I’m neglected.
Everyone is battling something. Be it broken relationships, irresistibly happy friendships, overwhelming parents, less money, hunger pangs, daily routine or just the need to be well-connected or the need for warmth.
For me I guess, I am just looking at warmth, in its literal sense. Most nights I lay alone, on my large white bed with my head slanting against the bed post — awake or just asleep, with my head on the pillow.
Some days I sleep with my eyes closed but most days, I sleep with my eyes open. Let’s not even get to the days I don’t sleep. Tonight, it’s the same. The windows are slapping against the sill way too eerily, the white curtain is swaying not just callously, but unbelievably quickly. Isn’t that weird, or is that an oxymoron? Anyway, I look at the ceiling and I’m distracted. There’s this thunderbolt lightning spreading like wild fire, or am I looking at it in slow motion? They strike and look like purple nerve endings across God’s dark canvas, lighting it up and my room turns purplish grey for that split second. God’s canvas. God. What irony!
I’m in my best frock tonight. A white frilly one. My cheeks are flushed red, whether it is happiness or anxiety, I do not know, my hair’s made up in a bouffant in the front, I smack my lips to proudly display my red lipstick, bat my eyelids again to check my golden eye makeup out and roll my eyes to feel the blue eye lenses. And here I am, waiting. The wind’s howling away to glory and I feel cold, I want warmth.
This solitary silence is killing me — another irony. And so, I begin my parade to the children’s toy room.
I creak the door open, peep in and smile — a vicious, twisted smile and the wind-chime, stupid wall hanging, chimes faster and louder. I know what I am about to be and exactly what I’m expected to do.
I don’t want to be just another neglected ouija doll anymore.
