The night before today had started with a tumultuous fight, between a mother and a man who sought to fill the role of a father. The contents of said fight were not to be discussed nor questioned, and were rationalized through a promise of sleeplessness and exhaustion.
The blinds hung shut, and, deprived of life or light, I fell into a deeper sleep, letting the darkness prowl for endorphins to manipulate, and seek the asylum of a healthy body in one not strong enough to fulfill such requirements. The perforating silence was comforting, like holding the cold, blue hands of a blind wanderer, roaming through the outskirts of my synapses, captivated by the myriad of motor and afferent neurons, where electrical impulses flickered to life, giving way to bioluminescent thoughts. Yet anatomy stood alone and barren in the face of my mother’s unrest. Floodlights were turned on, illuminating the room as if it were a stage, igniting the performance of a lifetime. Time was running out again. Reiterated tardiness fueled my predicament.
Makeup and music. Messages, calls and yells from across the garden. It was as if Romeo and Juliet were in the 21st century, only that Romeo was a frustrated mother of one, and Juliet was a frustrated child of two. I wasn’t trying to goad my mother, or maybe, subconsciously, I could have been. Habit.
I scuttled a floor below. A car was ordered, setting a three-minute timer for its arrival, enunciating every tick and tock marked by the clock on the vertical tapestries. Its circular face mocked me, its hands passing down my judgment. In the circumstance of such delays and detours, only the tonalities of baroque piano could be deemed fit to mark the ending of the stopwatch.
Twelve. Twelve minutes late to an appointment set by my mother, further away than expected, slowed by the retaliation of the sky to my mother’s previous endeavors. Drowning and sickening, fifty shades of grey were not merely enough to describe the dullness of the sky and its raining parade.
Agony. Winces and whines, uncontrolled, impulsive expressions. A woman, short, not slim but far from the scales that indicated signs of being overweight, stripped away my hairs and follicles, apologizing with every pull. She was terrified of my reactions, guessing the places that would endure the most and the locus of my sensitivity. The hour went by fast, for once time was not wasted. Chit-chat. Questions. Answers. Gasps then awes. The dichotomy between a woman’s sensual perception and pain-numbing curiosity was an indecipherable phenomenon.
For the reader, and only for their eyes; I do realize that the trail of my thoughts takes an incohesive approach, but as we all know, life’s experiences are both ephemeral and abundant, and in-kind quite superficial, thus I find no other way to be fitter to describe the series of events that encapsulate this brevity of existence we call life. As such, I left the appointment, and the woman, short, not slim, yet not the latter, navigating through the brooding storm.
Nature is a beautiful thing. Romantizsed more often than not. Complex yet steady in its creations. I had no sense of direction, or maybe some, but regardless I headed through the rain, feeling my hair soaking into the back of my coat, hiding my bag in the safe havens of the trench coat. And then, only for a moment, time stood still. A droplet had hit my face, blindsiding me. Only for a moment.
I’d always choose the beauty of a nature-born storm over the mayhem installed by an in-house, emotion-based tempest. By the time I had gotten home, I was drenched. It seemed as if Romeo had settled down, such that the perforating silence could infiltrate my brain and bring peace once more.
Violeta Banica
