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Horse made of glass - Part 6 Horse made of glass - Part 6
by Katerina Charisi
2017-06-25 10:32:21
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She woke and rubbed her eyes with her fists. It took her a few moments before she realize in which room she had slept. She put an arm to the side of the bed and found it empty. She took a deep breath and stood up, went to the window and pulled the curtain and saw the light purple and pink sky; she then left the room and went in the kitchen.

hso_400She poured water in a pot and lit the gas hob and waited for the water to boil while she rested her hands on the counter, staring at the full sink, nodding to the dirty dishes and the dirty glasses and the pots with thick grease in their bottoms. When the water bubbled she turned off the gas and poured the hot water in a mug with a spoonful of coffee, she stirred and went outside. She sat on the sofa and put the mug between her legs, feeling the warmth to the inside of her thighs and lit a cigarette. She watched the day forming before her and closed her eyes as the smoke curled and burned and got in her nostrils, then held the mug with one hand and rubbed the spot where the mug rested between her legs.

She often lost track of the time she had spent up there. She lost track of the years. Was it five? Was it fifteen? What had happened in those years? She couldn’t tell. Nothing had happened; nothing at all. She just got older and watched her life slipping through her cupped hands like water. Sometimes she thought her life was standing right in front of her, a woman a lot like her but not her at all, the woman maybe she should be or the woman she wanted to be after all those years, but still wasn’t. She thought she saw her standing with an angry look in her eyes for not living. She thought she saw her turning her back and disappear.

Sometimes she thought that everything around her was stretching and pinching like she was in the ocean’s bottom. She felt her existence all blurry, her movements thick and slow like trying to walk in quicksand, while she was just pulled down until she couldn’t move or even breathe anymore. If someone asked her about her life all those years on the mountains, she would have nothing to say. It was like her life had paused when she decided to live with him, like she was standing before a frozen amusement park, carousels stopped and horses up and horse down, people motionless while they walked or laughed or just stood and looked around. A man ready to shoot the heavy ball to the cans. A kid’s tongue almost touching a dripping ice cream. Lights flickering. Wheels waiting to turn. And she was just there, feeling the numbness of her legs, the dead voice in her throat, unable to move, just waiting for everything to start moving again, her life moving again, so she could move too and start again from where she had left everything.

She remembered one day she decided to write their story. Maybe it was her own story she had to write. She felt that she had to explain things to the boy, while she didn’t exactly knew why. It was the guilt, probably. She felt guilty for being more like a living dead and nothing else. She wanted to tell him “I’m not her! I’m not. You don’t know me. I wish you could really know me. I’m not what you see.” The one she used to be though was too far to reach again. Maybe that was why she had to explain. Maybe she knew she would never find herself again.

She went to a bookstore and bought a notebook, thick and heavy as a phonebook, with a hard, illustrated grey cover. She imagined the dry pansies and daisies pressed between its pages and the hundreds of smiling pictures she would stick, and all the things she would tell him, still not knowing why she felt the need to explain anything to the boy only and not the little one too.

She remembered her trembling hand as she filled a few pages after all these years without writing at all, and she remembered calling the boy “Sweet November” for being born in November 15, and she remembered calling the little one “Sunflower” for being born in July 23, but no more than the first couple of pages ever written again, for she counted Novembers and they were seven and she counted Julys and they were almost four, and there wasn’t really anything nice to share in the blank pages except the same old days going by.

She had thought it would be nice for the boy to have something from her that would be only for him once he grow up, but as their lives went on she came to think that this notebook would be more like a cursed burden he would have to carry all of his life and not a thousand pages of sweet childhood memories of a peaceful life on the clear skied mountains. She didn’t want him to carry such a heavy book of unhappiness, of her failures, of her explanations for all the mistakes she allowed to happen.

Oh, how different she had imagined her life would be.

 *********************************************

Horse made of glass – Part 1 -Part 2 -Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6Part 7 -

 


    
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