White Plague

Disconnected.  Afraid, but no enemy.  Her heart lurched, blood-filled pockets of desperation, unfulfilled.

Her aubergine anger washed over her like cheap paint, pushing against an invisible canvas.  Working for her rest.

Then soft, just out of reach.  Teasing and entreating.  White coated soul with red tips, pushing her brain.  Red-fingered crust on chalk boards, searing.

Belly heart beat, leaden.

On clouds' lilting whisper, bringing, fulfilling, soothing.  Rain -- sun-soaked rain, washing and drying husky corners, wearing down edges to child-protect.  Peace-like lies.

Then the laughing.  Surround sound, walls full of mocking-choke cafluffle, full of grotesque faces, elongation, skewed.  Devil-soaked realities come from within and without.

Her own voice screaming for attention, help.

Darkness feathering softly all around her, keeping her on its edge.

Coal's lump from deep inside drilled her instincts, firing one question after another, keeping her intrigued. Searching.  Then crying.

For more.  "Bring it on again," her agony cried, again on its edge.  No way out, but out itself.  And more.  Wanting.  Repulsing.  Yearning.  Despising.  Hoping.  Hating.  Blind.  And full seeing.

Then the morning.

And again.

Family just shook their heads.  Ain't no matter, nothing to be done now, they said, heads held high, a-thankin their God it weren't them.  Neighborhood saved.  Self-flagellance praised.  Martyred for the cause of one stray lamb.  They bore it as with duty, in the name of love.  Birthdays, Christmas and every Sunday.  Then just every Christmas.

Ten years gone.  No more Christmases even.  Alone again.  With tormenting friend who pleases and detests.

Will the circle be unbroken?  Not in this house of white plague.

Copyright © 2002, Carla René
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