Part 3
The Cleansing
Activation of the shower by HER voice command proceeds to 115 degrees. As WE step into the steam filled void of running water a masculine English accented robotic voice from the ceiling speakers reminds us to, “Please be mindful of water usage”, and that “five-minutes of exposure over 120 Fahrenheit can result in 3rd degree burns.” The voice then instructs US to go to such and such dot com for more helpful information.
The routine cleansing of OUR skin commences but before WE start I give a hard-quick shake of OUR head which helps dissolve the traces of the “friends’ that visits US from time to time in that mirror. WE open the shower glass doors and enter. WE stand naked and vulnerable in the six-spouted shower and SHE voices another command to dim the lights. Music from the Scottish rock band Cocteau Twins being to angelically sing “Cherry-Colored Funk”.
The shower water is uncomfortable, but comfort is not the goal for this ritual. SHE takes the loafer sponge and holds it under two of the showers spouts that drool vitamin C infused water containing sparkles of gold. SHE squeezes the water from the sponge over OUR head which glistens and crawls down HER cheekbones. Three minutes into washing and the voice becomes present and ask, “When did YOU start to believe that the light and dark shades of OUR skin is a matter of clean vs. dirty?” The sponging becomes an intense scouring and thoughts that the fucking loafer sponge is not appropriately giving US the cleanse WE need appears. It’s not scraping away the dirty dark parts. As the hot water is appreciated with some distain OUR reality continues to slowly disappear. For the first time in a long time SHE enjoys caressing the curves of HER body. Relaxation sets in as soapy hands glide over OUR different skin tones and body parts. SHE thinks, “By gosh I do have the softest skin”, as others had often told US. “Maybe this body isn’t that bad after all.” Tears begin to stroll out of OUR eyes as WE sing along with Peter Frampton out loud with pleasant melody, “There was no-one to relate to Cept the sea”,
SHE languishes in this zone of comfort and asks out loud, “Is this what inner peace is like? I don’t want to ever leave, please let ME stay, I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be good.” A recognized repeated plea cried many times in HER past before being abandoned and dismissed as someone unimportant. But alas, I know this positive sensation of emotion won’t last and I begin to sing, “Nothin’ last forever, and WE both know hearts can change and it’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November Rain,” partnered with Axel Rose now screeching from the speakers from above.
These few minutes of feeling comfortable in OUR skin is a false sense of joy and stability. I will not allow HER to be eluded and think it’s the happy pills hard at work. SHE will eventually come to terms and recognize that the chunk of sweet SATIVA made on Stoner Avenue partnered with the hefty swigs of the grayish milky substance before entering the shower is providing this false sensation of Eden. This Garden of paradise has been far from OUR reach since the age of 7.
The cleanse ends and WE exit the shower and commence with OUR day. New Order’s, ‘Ruined in a Day’, is now leaking from the speakers.
Part 4
OUR Acheron Zone
–In Greek mythology, Acheron is the RIVER of Woe where those who are neutral in life sit on its banks.
WE stroll into the kitchen. OUR breakfast is vegan, gluten free, dairy free, organic, and contains NO GMO’s or OMG’s SHE thinks- all healthy until the next fad of pretentious politically correct foods come around-. Breakfast consist of twelve-grain toast with wild gooseberry preserves, two pho- poached eggs laced with black truffle vegan cheddar cheese, and a steaming hot cup of Joe. WE wonder why the cup of coffee isn’t called Joanna.
The kitchen has a glass ceiling that provides the view of a sunny soaked sky with white fluffy clouds and as darkness approaches with the night it will provide a view of stars that brightly glimmer the constellation of Libra, which proudly represents the Justice Scales. WE offered 80% percent over market price for this specific spot.
The multi-room speakers ring. SHE strolls over and hist the accept button embedded within the wall near a huge bay window which overlooks an Olympic size filled pool surrounded by green bushes and the colorful flowers of Birds of Paradise. The sound WE receive is the familiar voice of a teenage girl that WE’VE become accustomed to. The voice has manifested its tone from child to young adult over the years. As much joy that this innocent joyful voice brings to OUR ears there is always an element of a deep -rooted ringing sound that travels silently through OUR veins when WE speak to each other.
WE chime at the same time, “Hey Hey OMG’s how are ya?” with a teasingly high-pitched voice that only a teenage girl would appreciate. (OMG’s is now the uber-politically correct way of greeting and recognizing that all GODS are accepted). “You sound just like your mom!” WE say. The teenager replies that people tell her this all the time especially as she gets older, which she is all too anxious to do. The call ends 30-minutes later after cheerful talks related to dating, college prep, homework and a new Netflix series worth watching is available. All of a sudden, the voice appears once again and whispers to US sinisterly, “You know you will never sound like any of them-YOU are not of them, WE are of no one and YOU will never produce others to replicate these deficiencies”. The deafening thump of OUR fists and chest collide and SHE blusters, “Leave me alone!” in hopes of muting the voice. But the voice has learned to become dominate over the years. SHE now begins to pace back and forth with a heavy nervousness and sad feeling in OUR stomach that WE’VE become accustomed to during this life. A Peacock outside can be heard crackling its cat-like chirps. WE push a button near the kitchen door. It activates the sounds of vicious dogs barking and the peacock is scared into silence. WE smirk. The voice continues, “Never a real connection will YOU feel”, and with those words WE drift into one of the tunnels of pain and aloneness once again. But no one will ever know that this is where WE regularly drift because OUR pain is masked well. The aloneness amplifies as Louis Armstrong sings in the background, it begins…
The air is hot and dry along with the desert sand. SHE is bending the knee on a platform set high above an audience before a Pharaoh who sits on a thrown of black glass dusted with chards of red granite. The Pharaoh loudly decrees into a 1920’s spring double-button carbon microphone that SHE is forbidden to produce any offspring. It demands that SHE, like so many others in this desert follow the RFF’s (Rules for the Future). It notes out loud that like so many others in this desert, SHE is also from a lower caste system and is referred to as, ‘Basket Child’, which has replaced the politically correct term for Adoptee. The audience cheers, and the Pharaoh continues to speak as it looks upon the populace majority and reminds every one of the non-tolerance rules for emotional despair in this part of the world. The Pharaoh steps off the thrown and walks to US. They gently cup their ring jeweled right hand under HER bowed chin and lifts it ever so gently and speaks with a smile that only a smug empath would dare. “You my friend are at higher risk to struggle with the potential to produce others with perpetuous various mental health issues such as, Attachment Disorders, Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity, Oppositional Defiance and Adopted Child Syndrome. WE nod with compliance knowing in OUR heart that this list can go on. The Pharaoh continues, “Therefore, the potential disruption of superior production will not be interrupted by means of HOLY FORNICATION Bat Man!” WE look to the sky and witness a checkered white and black duck sailing down from the sky. It lands on the Pharaoh’s tan chiseled right shoulder and quacks with a lisp of its s’s, “Continuing these potentially daffy despicable disruptive behaviors and emotions are of distain and frowned upon in this desert.” WE try to rebut, but like the desert sand there is a dryness that saturates OUR throat and an inability to produce sound. WE try to shout that SHE is as good as others, to champion that she too has a place in this universe. “And I think to myself what a wonderful world” as Louis Armstrong melodically concludes from OUR speakers. Breakfast is completed.
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