Monday
pages and escape to the places that have become my
own. There are so many faces there. Some of them
are smiling, happy faces. Some of them are terrible to
behold, full of anger and hatred. I love them all.
I used to go out more. Spring was my favorite. Everyone creeps from their homes like butterflies emerging
from cocoons, vibrant and fresh… ready to take on the
new adventure. Flowers unfurl their petals to greet the
bright sunlit sky, and all the insects of the world buzz
and hum and flutter.
She used to love the spring, as well. I would hold her
hand and walk with her in the park, the sun warming
our bare arms and creating little beads of sweat on our
necks. We would pass old men feeding birds, or happy
young couples with a dog or a child. I remember those
days, at least. They haven’t gotten that much, yet.
I’m old now, though, and I don’t know what they did
with her. I crack my curtains in the morning, but my
wrinkled old hands can only take the sunlight for so
long before I must pull the dusty cloth closed again.
I don’t recall when my skin started feeling like paper
mache, as if the lightest tug would shred it to pieces. Sometimes, when I’m reading, I start to notice the
wrinkled lines at the base of my fingernails. My fingers themselves look like thin, gnarled branches with
brown paper bags wrapped about them. If I turn my
hands over, I see the blue veins through the partially
translucent skin of my wrists. On cold nights, I fancy
those veins carry ice rather than blood. Maybe they
really do.
I know I am old, but I never meant to be. I can’t recall
how it happened.
That Monday was terrible, though. I think they make
me remember because it was terrible. They are vile,
and evil, and each Monday they inflict their torment
upon me.
I was sitting here, in this very chair, rocking back and
forth while I read one of my stories. They came then,
for the first time. At least, I think it was the first time.
I can’t be certain. The room was dark, as it usually is
when the curtains are shut, but I could see them after
they pulled the cloth back. Only then do I realize that
I’m not in the chair, anymore. I’m not sure where they
take me. They have me tied down, unable to move,
INSIGHT
and all I can see is their hideous features and the bright
white of the unnatural lights behind them.
The first thing you would notice, if you could see them,
is the hair. It writhes, all long and wiry, oh yes. It is
hair like planted snakes, all with their tails tied up in
a little ball and buried in the soil. Yes… snake plants,
only not so thick. It isn’t like Medusa and they haven’t
made me stone. Oh no, no, no. They’ve only made me
like paper mache, but their wiry-thin hair writhes about
all the time.
That is the first thing you would notice, but it isn’t
the worst. No, what’s under the hair is what makes
me dread my Mondays – that, and not knowing what
they did with her. It was a her, wasn’t it? I suppose
it could’ve been a him, but somehow that doesn’t feel
quite right. Was it a he that held my hand in the park?
Did I brush the knots out of his hair? No, that can’t be
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