house

by Jessica Garver

Icy statues, minutely sized, whirl specter-white through bitter cold and inside with her entrance. Tussled strands fight vehemently, they streak vengeance across red...red, red blood haphazardly smudged like badly worn rouge.
Her face, white - the white of hasty retreat or stumbled flight in angry winter. The white of a sick-humored clown complete with menstral-blooded cheek.
Wildness in her gaze and wild tattered feet stained from sharp rocks and bits of thorny weeds beneath such a porcelain doll blue cotton hem. The hem splattered dark by winter snow and something thicker, something darker. Something which frolicks in rivers down her sweet nightgown and pools gently along the swell of her breasts and protruding mother stomach. A stomach made fat and bulging by his unknowing semen, but more loved by that dripping plasm than her body by his own sacrificial hands.

Hands...hands handshandshandsGraspingclutching

Hands reach for her, charitable smiles forced into sleepy lips, and questions mounting behind their eyes. Sounds engulf her, chatter, grunt, squeel, chatter. She cannot hear them. Her ear is bleeding, damaged, and the blood clots noise out (she remained unable to hear her own screams in the end).
A twisting inside, like first cramps or a bad dinner. Gutted and crawling through her stomach, the leech of pain encompasses her.
A cry from her lips and the faces surrounding her turn, confused. The hands withdraw. A parady of movement surrounds her, really quite funny if she were in the mood for humor, as the faces swim closer, then, disgusted, shrink back. Thoughts crowd in her head...the faces have no body, and isn't it odd how the snow has filled the room with white?

and at last, her smile. A beautiful smile. Free from wincing, her teeth are mostly missing and the red colored lips more burgandy than she would have wished. But a beautiful smile still.

The faces don't notice. Too caught up in their moment of triumph and embracement they don't see her smile, the gift her face has given her. And them. They don't see the flush of blood on white.
Her smile fades, a dusk shadow without moonlight. She has realized just how alone she is, even here.

still alone and hurting


by Jessica Garver
Copyright @ 1995
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