It is Saturday night in the city. It is warm, and my window is open, letting in a cool breeze. This is through no kindness towards me; Mother has left the window open so that I may hear the world outside. This is to punish me for my wickedness. I am unsure as to the nature of my most recent transgression but she assures me it was heinous indeed. I am to sit here and listen to the sounds of other young people enjoying the evening delights of the city.
A market is in progress below my window – the glow of its lights casts twisted shadows across my walls. The stallholders bark details of their goods and customers haggle over the matter of a few coins. There is a restaurant on the other side of the plaza, where glasses chink, cutlery clatters against plates, and people laugh. The words are indistinct but stories are told, punctuated by guffaws as punch lines are reached. I fill in the blanks, and smile. These people must lead such interesting, rich lives, out there in the city. Out there…
I stand on my bed and try to peer through the window high in the wall. I can see little, but my imagination paints me a picture. Groups of friends huddle around tables, sharing stories while waiters bustle between them. Platters of steaming food turn the air into a riot of smells as people sample cuisines both exotic and local. Bonhomie and warmth turns the night heavy.
I turn away from the window, back to my bare little room. Mother took my books to punish me for forgetting to say grace. She took my telescope when I forgot to bless her after she sneezed. She still allows me paper and pencils to write or draw, but she takes what I produce. She tells me my talents are not my talents, they are gifts from God, so my art must return to Him. I do not understand this, but I do not tell her so in case she takes the paper away too.
I lie down on my bed, and think about the gift I have been given by the Universe. It gave me sleep, and the chance to dream. My eyes close, and I melt into the arms of Morpheus, and he takes me to a world without prisons, where I can run free. My dreams know no punishments, or rules. God has no jurisdiction in my dreams.
To sleep, perchance to dream where our visions are a reality and we let slip the bonds of earth.
Adam B @revhappiness
There was a recent incident here that was similar, a child basically locked in a closet for years. Horrid, horrid people out there. Maybe one day, the MC will escape.
I like the defiance in the childs voice in that last sentence.
Yes, that’s it, as Harry said – defiance, I like that too, how she refuses to be imprisoned even though she is. Terrific voice here Icy.
Fantastic voice, Icy. I was touched by the MC’s plight, but carried along by the strength shown. Powerful little piece.
Take care,
JC
Yes, a very strong and stringent voice in this one, Icy.
Hmm, I wonder whether Mother is keeping all the writings and drawings filed away somewhere or burning them to return them to God.
Poor kid. I suppose you can’t miss what you don’t know.
This is excellent.
The first thing this reminded me of was Stephen King, but I don’t think he’d go to the same last line you did. I thought it was a great last line — it really underscores the evil absurdity of the whole thing, how Mother’s punishments have completely failed.
You captured the mother’s fanaticism well. If this were a Disney movie, she would find a way to escape. Aren’t we all trying to escape the traumas of childhood?