MUTE

VisDare challenge word was 'Pensive'

MUTE

‘For oft when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood’.

Vacant or pensive, vacant or pensive. Her head was full of words how could that be vacant? But she thought of nothing in particular, how could that be pensive?

She was full of language and phrases by other people who could put them together. She read them. Devoured them. Took them in as water, assimilated into her flesh.

She longed for the ability to tell her own story. But stuck in mute silence she would never be the next Wordsworth, this she knew.

She flicked her eyes sideways. Left for yes. Right for no, the nurse turned the page, 

‘Pegasus, by Patrick Kavanagh’ she liked this one.

It was about flights of the soul, and being outside yourself.

How cruel to have the heart of poet, trapped inside a broken body with these great immovable hands.

VisDare word is Obscured

SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES.

He blew smoke right at my face through his teeth. Jaundiced, blood shot eyes stayed fixed on mine. ‘That’s the price of it sweetheart, eventually your soul weighs out and before you know it you’ve got thick yellow leather where your skin used to be.’

He handed me the small, clear plastic bag, his gaze never faltering.

My hands were slick with sweat, so much so that I thought the bag was going to slide right though my fingers. Sometimes now I wish it had, sometimes I catch a glimpse of what’s left of me in a mirror, and I really truly wish it had.

‘Well, you gonna open it doll?’ As I opened the  baggy, he blew more smoke from between those thick liver  lips of his, obscuring my view of the substance held within.  I wish it had stayed that way forever, out of focus, just like me.   

Vis Dare challenge. Word this week was Bruised

MUNCHAUSEN

She stared blankly ahead as doctors shone torches into her eyes and poked and prodded at her bruised skin. She hated this part, too many questions.

She had no explanation for it, but she felt too big for the life that she had chosen.

Handling her emotions, all of them (there were so many) had never been her strong suit, so she began wearing them on her flesh, like badges of honour, or shame, she wasn’t sure which.

She knew what they thought ‘battered wife’, but they were wrong. ‘Just battered’ she laughed to herself while she tried to hide the marks on her knuckles.

What would they do if they knew? If they ever suspected that her elusive abuser didn’t exist. At least, not in any form that they ever imagined.

She sat on her hands, winced from the pain, and smiled.