A Children's Story
Entry by: SimonH
7th August 2015
Warm sunshine filters through the fabric of the curtains onto my bed, the light casting shadows in the tiny clouds of dust that swirl and dance like flurries of birds, black specks on yellow. It is morning and the bed is hot and sticky. I feel the matted cotton pulling on slick legs as I wrench myself around, it clinging to my skin. I toss the heavy duvet off of me and throw it onto the empty side of the double bed that lies pristine opposite. The two sides are reflections as through a tarnished mirror, unblemished, pure white cotton on one side and a creased, sodden mass on the other. I don't bother to turn the sheets down.
I move softly to the kitchen as though wary of any noise I make. The apartment is still and it is too early for my neighbours to have risen. Each footstep seems to echo around the hallway, the wooden floor squeaking underfoot. Creak. Creak. Creak. I wince. Pouring some water into the kettle and leaving it to boil I turn and open the windows opposite, spreading them wide. The sun is just cresting over the mountain to my left, early rays flickering restlessly over the dappled tops of pine trees that line the slopes, their darkness giving the forest its name. In the valley below vineyards loop and bend out of sight over undulating hills that arc, stretching, out of the mountain side. I can imagine the smell rising from the grapes, tart and sour, congealing the thick air with heady perfume that coils in spires of vapour like the vines that choke and twist their gnarled fingers over pale wooden supports. It could be beautiful. Fiona would have liked it. The kettle begins to quiver and shake behind me. I turn away.
As a child I'd been told many stories about growing up. About life. None mentioned pain. None described heartache and loneliness. None the slow pace of it all, dribbling and sputtering before you, each day seemingly a waste before its begun. My life is not a children's story. But where else can I go. Where can I escape to now that my childhood stories hold no illusions for me?
I close the window and retreat inside. The kettle whistles shrilly.
I move softly to the kitchen as though wary of any noise I make. The apartment is still and it is too early for my neighbours to have risen. Each footstep seems to echo around the hallway, the wooden floor squeaking underfoot. Creak. Creak. Creak. I wince. Pouring some water into the kettle and leaving it to boil I turn and open the windows opposite, spreading them wide. The sun is just cresting over the mountain to my left, early rays flickering restlessly over the dappled tops of pine trees that line the slopes, their darkness giving the forest its name. In the valley below vineyards loop and bend out of sight over undulating hills that arc, stretching, out of the mountain side. I can imagine the smell rising from the grapes, tart and sour, congealing the thick air with heady perfume that coils in spires of vapour like the vines that choke and twist their gnarled fingers over pale wooden supports. It could be beautiful. Fiona would have liked it. The kettle begins to quiver and shake behind me. I turn away.
As a child I'd been told many stories about growing up. About life. None mentioned pain. None described heartache and loneliness. None the slow pace of it all, dribbling and sputtering before you, each day seemingly a waste before its begun. My life is not a children's story. But where else can I go. Where can I escape to now that my childhood stories hold no illusions for me?
I close the window and retreat inside. The kettle whistles shrilly.
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