Some Days

Here is the prompt for Magpie Tales this week.

I do so love participating in this. If you haven’t already why not give it a try?

Here is my tiny tale –

The sun came out of the rain and I was able at last to pull the window wide to the day.

The morning light caught me, a glance, russet and beige, strained through rusty clouds.

The corners of the room smelling of coats dragged on wet pathways stood to attention, whipped by the wind pushing through the trees.

Another night was gone.

The morning unfolded but the mystery lingered.

The night and all its interlinking webs.

I push the window tight at night like a door to a tomb.

I dream of being safe at night, of my mind being clear enough to sleep; but I am neither safe nor filled with clarity.

Sleep doesn’t come. In spite of pills and booze and milk hot enough to blister lips. I am convinced tryptophan and vodka counteract one another. I am a hyperactive child clawing at the walls, a wolf howling at the moon. The shapes in the room are foreign, a battlefield.

Sleep crawls on elbows and knees, a snake with an apple. Taunting me.

I close my eyes tight, stubborn as a child holding her breath; black spots dance like paper being inked; they are conspirators – selling the sleep down the river.

It is impossible to banish the voices. When I told my doctor of the voices at night she offered Seroquel, thinking I heard Jesus or Jim Morrison. I could not tell her it was my mother’s voice. My friend’s. And yours.

All the people who have left.

The voices coat the walls, shadow paint, thick and coarse as if applied with damaged brushes.

The shadows fall on my face and push inwards.

Most nights I wait.

The window frame is warped at the edges. The dawn light slides through the chink, a silk shawl spilling. Seeing that light is what hope is.

I unfasten the window, feeling like I could sing in the unwilted air and let the ghosts out of the room.

The room is contoured with sunlight. I am on top of a hill being washed clean.

At night the bed is as thin as ribbon.

Now it is wide as the space through the window.

Wider.

I lie, the bedspread apprehended by light.

And sleep.