Back to "the song of starfish" 7. story-part
The voice in the background spoke, maybe in coarse whispers, maybe less. Isabelle,
turn the windows inside out, with the cry of your heart. Dance on the
glass fragments. Pretend again, this is just a memory. Right?
As
primal as his eyes in the mirror, tired like Mongolian dust as he rises
in the morning and trims his beard neat, just because my stepmom asks
for it. Dad was set for self-destruct, I was, we were. Certain strange
things about us seem less predetermined than chosen in blind rage and
hopes of entertained years to come. There's too much fire in this
blood, sky high with vivid images of dripping, stained curtains. Voices
in the background. Fire in veins as thin as crystals parted by old,
rusting katanas. A strange new world we've come to, Isabelle.
But
you only laugh. You laugh, even as a fragment kept deeper within, past
his brown Mongolian eyes, slits of night. Your laughter, caught in the
wrinkles of old skin, aging still, aging always in a memory you refuse
to give up. Bury me in the damp, cold earth. Bury me next to my
father, I shall have no life without him. No twenty years to make up for. Nothing.
Only while Isabelle sleeps, on twice 30 years of mattresses, dust
bunnies and lost lives, death in every pore, like Ophelia. Only then as
the monster prowls her bed, as I sit and hold her hand, trail her
carpet, the walls and the sun faded photos of a little girl, up front
against blackberries. Only then. You seem less broken then.
There
are no more memories to pretend and play in the dawn, in faded dreams,
running for the loophole. We've got nothing more to gain now .
...
Forward to "Now she's in my doorway, accusing me with her soft breasts and long legs, strong hips." 9. story-part