Post by llama on Oct 29, 2016 1:51:32 GMT -4
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The mornings are always the best part of my days. Sun shines in through my one window upon the dusty floor, one of choppy wood that easily splinters. I would know of this; part of my nightly routine is to pick wood from the soles of my feet, so that I may sleep a little bit better on my mattress. It really isn't too much, the mattress, but it's a nice place to sleep nonetheless. Yes, a quilt my grandmother made and that mattress.. nice resting place, one where I can relieve this heavy load upon your back.. but never mind that; I'm supposed to be telling you about my mornings.
I wake up as the first rays of light shoot down through the one window. I don't expect you to know this; you're always still asleep after a night of hard work doing.. well.. whatever you do. When I get up I go straight to my mirror propped up against the wall, border less and cracked, and brush my gnarled hair. The brush doesn't really help all that much, but I figure if I brush it enough every morning then I'll look pretty again. Never mind that; this is about the mornings.
Following my brushing, I go out to our living room and tidy up the bottles and sweep up the ashes from the floor. I put this trash by the door because you forbid me from leaving this house cause you know how if I could get out there I could steal away a boy and make a family and help both of us. I don't want to defy you though, pa, I really don't. I must admit that my guilt-filled mind has tried to run once or twice, standing in front of the door, looking at that unlocked knob. If I were to leave I'd defy you and expose what you don't want exposed so I won't walk out that door. I will walk out though. So I won't.. but this is about the mornings.
From the living room, past the door with the trash there beside it, I go to the kitchen to fix you some food. I don't need much myself; just a little bit will be fine for me, don't want to burden this house anymore than I have to. I cut and prepare some bread, your bread, and lather on some honey, your honey. I won't clean this knife though; it's better use this way. Would have just been wiped off or licked up by you or the other kids down the hall, ones better suited for outdoor living, so I'm sorry pa. It would just be better use this way. Here I am writing to you about this morning.
I have found a way to disappear. I have found a way to reappear.
Pa, you say you don't want me showing up in the day so I always stay in my room. Mornings are the best parts of my days even if I just go around prepping and cleaning for you and the rest of the house. I still get to go though; to go. But when you do talk to me it ain't nothing but hard feelings towards me. Words that make the tears stream down my face. A burden upon this house, you say. A burden upon this world.. so here I am writing to you about this last morning.
I go from the kitchen, the honey knife still in my hand, and back to my room. I shut this door like I always do, making sure it remains shut unless you come in, which you never do, or I get up in the mornings. I go to my mirror, brush my hair again, trying to straighten out some beauty into it. Knife by my side, the blade glazed with honey, brush on my head, I need your condolence and your trust. I needed it.
I lie down on this bed. This nice resting place. Borrowing never hurt no one, whether it be a utensil or food or place. You get it back, of course, but you'll have to read this and look at me and touch me to get it back. And that'll be the last time.
