"Tap, tap, tap...." The methodical sound of raindrops clunked dully against the car window. Kara leaned her head against the back seat and waited for her mother to come out of the huge office building, and back from signing the divorce papers. A strand of coppery brown hair fell over her half closed eyes as he watches the rain streak down the glass. She had never been one to sulk, pout or even show a whole lot of emotion, even during big ordeals, and Kara vowed stubbornly she wasn't going to break that tradition now. So what if her parents were getting divorced? She hated her father anyway. He'd never even showed up half the time, and when he did, he'd vanished downstairs or plop down in front of the tv and bitch and complain anyway.
She glanced at the building through the trees. Seeing no sign of her mother, she turned the engine over and popped a tape into the cassette player. With a click, the song started in the middle.
"I make it a thing when I gazelle on stage to believe in myself.
"God, hurry up... " she mouthed at the door which stood and stared back. The building looked to Kara like an ugly face, it's huge black mirrored doors blacked out teeth, and it's windows, pale and blank eyes. She imagined the building devouring the trees that hung heavy headed under the rain's assualt, as her mother got hastily into the car. She frowned at the song lyrics and looked at Kara.
"I thought we agreed you didn't need to listen to this trash."
Kara knew arguing over this would be futile. She shrugged and took the tape as her mother handed it to her. " I guess." The rest of the car ride home was silent.
Kara wordlessly removed her boots and coat before walking up the stairs to her room and closing the door behind her. They had only just moved a week ago, and most of her things still resided in the house with her father. Kara hated the dingy walls, the bare ceiling with its steadfastly clinging shreds of paint that perhaps once was white. 'Eggshell' her mother had called it. 'Antique' was the word she used for the house itself. 'A dump' was Kara's reply. Ahhh, the negativity. Better than indifference wasn't it?
The coffin shaped bed's springs squealed loudly as she plopped onto the bed and picked up a pencil. Drawing on her walls had become a habit, a kind of artistic outlet for Kara, and already there were numerous dragons, knights, bats, and other such odd characters strewn about the walls in no pattern. She'd been working on this particular drawing for three days now, and it was awfully strange. A tall man, his frame thin and lithe, garbed in outlandishly odd vestments. Wispy hair floated over his collar as he reached out a clawed hand as if beckoning the onlooker. His face was strong, despite its refined features and sharp cheekbones. She shaded in the height of his boots, and began humming quietly.
Falling, falling...and hands, catching at me, grabbing me, ow! Let go!
No wait, hold me...don't let me fall. Screaming, falling, baby sobbing.
Don't take him away! I'm sorry! Please!! Always falling, colours
shifting, blurring, blending. Sharp gold, no, blue. Bright lights.
Harsh voices, yelling, crying, you're hurting!! "What's the last thing
you remember, miss?" Nothing nothing nothingness sheer and utter
complete blank. Earth, falling away beneath me, wish him back, I can't!
Please, help, white. All white. And the hands...the hands...
Kara sat up straight, gasping for breath, her legs frantically pushing
away the hands that were not there. She jumped up, standing on her bed,
and blinked several times, pressing herself against one wall for support
and trying to get her heartbeat back under control. Slowly, she calmed
and sank down into a huddle on her bed, back pressed against the wall,
arms wrapped around her knees, holding them against her chest. She
forced herself to think rationally about the dream.
"Shit, I thought I'd gotten over that flashback." The worst trip of
her life. Her parents had come home to find her huddled on her bed,
sobbing and screaming about blue hands and blackness. Her baby brother
was gone. They had called the police and taken Kara to the hospital,
and from there, she had been transferred to a drug rehab for the next
six months. Acid had been a hard habit to kick, but the terrifying
flashbacks had given her the impetus she needed. Of course, the police
did their best to find little Christopher, but after a year, there had
been little hope of him ever turning up. Her parents were devastated,
blamed each other in a desperate attempt not to take it out on Kara,
that was the beginning of their marital troubles. And now, after two
and a half more years of tension that occasionally crested in all-night
screaming matches, they were ending it. As far as Kara was concerned,
it was about damn time.
Chapter III
She sighed, the nightmare still fresh on her thoughts. The
luminescent
green figures of her clock stared back at her, almost three in the
morning.
Intently awake, she cast back her bed covers and sat up. It was dark,
nothing
strange about this darkness, she thought. Yet something didn't seem
right.
She leaned over and opened the drawer to her bedside table and dug out
her
Walkman and a pencil. She mashed PLAY a few times until the tape finally
started rolling. She sat listening in the dark for a while.
"I make it a thing when I gazelle on stage to believe in myself.
I make it a thing to glance at window panes,
and look pleased with myself....”
She turned on the lights. She froze. She could have sworn she left
this
tape in the car. She Shrugged and dismissed the thought, thinking of how
her
mother despise ‘trash’ in her car and probably put it in her room. She
tested
the tip of her pencil, and satisfied with the gently dulled end, she
knelt by
her
wall, as if in sacred communion, and began to pray with deft sweeps of
her
pencil. This was the only time she could think.
I don't look like them. I don't act like them. My mom, the school
slut.
My father, the track star. Me? Ha, that's really funny. Me? My
expression is
here. Here. I'm an artist.
The artist’s pencil flew sharply over The Man’s boots, bringing them
out, creating the ultimate dadaist expressions and shades; Shock your
audience. The artist stopped and stood up. The artist was not satisfied.
She
laughed. The artist was never satisfied. Her own worst critic. Sometimes
she
could feel the insides of her reach out through her fingertips, and she
would
paint with her eyes squeezed shut, afraid of whatever monster stood
ready to
gobble her up inside his suburbia-like stomach. Her eyes were shut
tonight.
Sometimes the most vivid images would flourish under that blindness. She
would go to bed without ever even opening her eyes to see what the
artist had
resurrected. Ignorance is bliss. But tonight, it was different.
Something was
different. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Blink. Blink.
I make it a thing to glance at window panes,
and look pleased with myself.
Took it so bad, sat in the correction room.
Took me a van and a kick in the moon.
Well I ain't going to suck no radar wing cause inside this tin is tin,
Would you like technoplate cause I'm your candidate..."
Submitted by Dreamer. Visit her at Dreamworld Or Contact her at hollowdreams@hotmail.com.
Submitted by Anonymous Contact @: hotpinkbean@hotmail.com