When The Doves Coo
Ash coated her soles with a film as thick as her breath, and her steps felt weighted with an inconvenient truth; the fire took everything: the beautiful amber varnish along the banisters which always reminded her of the gentleness in the oranges, reds, and yellows in autumn, and the chandelier which once shimmered, a rainbow trout of the ceiling, that now lay dismantled, disillusioned, crystal shards glittering through piles of black power like salt on a mountain. A hand on her shoulder not there but there caused her ungraceful spin: two twirling hops on her toes and a loud plop on her right heel, arms outstretched. Her heart danced in her throat, and she laid a single digit on her shoulder, gradually increasing finger by finger, searching for the phantom of loss. He was there, she knew.
Cold: eighty-five degrees and she shivered. She didn’t come here for this. She came for—well, she came because—hmm, why did she come? A sickness churned somewhere in the pit of her abdomen, wedged between the bottom of her stomach and the beginning of her intestine. A strange place for discomfort, she thought, and stranger still she could identify such a place; those anatomy classes must have paid off. She’d have her degree soon enough if this phantom would leave her alone. Maybe that’s why she came, one last ditch effort to scare this demon from her as he’d scared her from life, from living. A single tear traced her baby smooth cheeks, and she wiped viciously. No more crying.
She risked the stairs because she had to, she knew she did. He would wait patiently for her as she slipped off her shoes, piled them neatly at the bottom step—well, what was left of it—and pressed her big toe against the wood. It crumbled, followed by a shooting pain. On the floor, she yanked out a splinter.
The further she climbed—steady now, Barb, don’t grip the railing too hard unless you want to slice a finger off, too—the further he spread, this phantom, hugging the house, seeping through the pores of the few standing walls, caressing Barb with and without care, an abusive lover begging to be understood. She couldn’t understand, she wouldn’t, and that’s why he stalked her, fed off her fear of fire, of loss, of herself. She paused, listening finally to the coos of doves perched along telephone wires just above her, visible through desecrated ceiling. A breeze, strong and confident, a father among lost children, whispered words, wise words, which fell deaf on Barb’s ears because her thoughts were louder: did she fear herself? No, none of this was her fault, so many had told her this, so many that she’d begun believing them in every crevice of her body except the chambers of her heart. They beat with guilt.
At the door of her childhood room, she placed her palm flat against the sturdy wood, breathed in its life, felt the phantom’s grip tear in between her shoulder blades and tighten her neck, the cruel bastard. He opened the door for her as a polite gentleman should: it crashed against the floor. Doves scattered. The roof was gone.
Nothing recognizable remained, nothing that told stories of the slumber parties spent pillow fighting, listening to late night radio, creating shadow puppets on the wall before finally falling asleep mumbling about the hottest boys in school. Nothing remained in commemoration of her first kiss with Bobby Schneider on her bed, the brown haired, brown eyed tool who dumbed her a week later, or the days her mother spent rubbing her back as she cried over Bobby Schneider. Or Dylan Childs. Or Trevor Maine. No sign of all the Christmas presents played with on the floor, of the Barbie dolls she once burned. No evidence of the first of many cigarettes she snuck out of her window the week before Prom.
Memories, they remained, piercing and icy, but alive, so very alive, more alive than Barb and she dropped her white book bag into the ash, twirling once, then twice, flopping down on the floor with little regard and laughing, a painful laugh, a cynical laugh, but a laugh, and she hadn’t laughed in years, it felt like. Even the phantom before her, a shadow against the wall larger than her pain, couldn’t ruin her moment.
Her science fair trophy box stood still against the back wall, and in it melted medals and cups. She tossed them in the air like money but with greater value, dodging and weaving with her hands over her head, her laughter bouncing across each piece. What was left of her bedframe she kicked apart, same with her dresser and her closet doors. She wished she could kick the phantom, that’s what she yearned for, but he bobbed and weaved too, a seasoned fighter, and that’s why her laughter stopped.
In deep, pained breaths, she let out a wail, a screech, and let the tears flow where they needed, back into the crevices of the floor, mixing with the ash, a soup of emotions at her feet.
Heavy memories flooded her vision and the freedom in them, the good, the bad, they stopped the tears. She had lived. She had lived when others had not, and though she dragged around a ball and chain strapped on her ankles, she felt a moment of gratitude, of gratefulness, and that moment grew larger than the phantom, greeting with him raised fists. Amid ragged breaths, she stepped from her room, back down the stairs, and slipped on her shoes. Doves cooed, and freedom meant pain. It meant memories, truth, tears, lies, fear, thankfulness, and now she was free.
Realistic Fiction
Likes
912 Views
Share: