@ adh from Thomas Raddall Provincial Park
12:00 am? pm? She didn’t know. With windows shuddered, and further darkened by thick curtains, either was possible. But then it made no difference in her daynightdaynight. In the hierarchy of tears.
Sometimes she left the lap top on, wiggler attached so the screen didn’t sleep – creating a glow against the wall. She might open up to the outside just enough for full moon, or sun, cast free of the storm to form puddles of natural light. She might walk the halls, feeling her way along, eyes closed or blanketed by moon/starless night. Her tiny bright red Maglite flashlight dug for in pockets or fingers splayed, searching how far it had rolled after she fell.
To them – it didn’t matter if she had pulled the shutter tight with a dust-moted slam or if they had forever closed down it with a kick and a hooted laugh. All the same – assumptions. Assumed she choose the life she did. Assumed someone as unimportant, forgettable, unnecessary, unneeded and unwanted as she was better inside a dark hovel. And, they without her
Forget the person trapped the house in the nano-instance it took to see true importance, true need, true specialty in someone else. Someone who rated, who ranked, who should be honoured, loved, admired. So-one who really fit on the hierarchy of tears. Not a poser, a faker, a phony obviously just looking for attention.
“You know the type,” they say, when new folks moved to town, pointing at the darkened house with their all-knowing fingers, “those drama queens who think they matter. She thinks her life is important, ha. The “as if we’d really care.” The egotistical bitch – it’s always about me. The cry-babies who won’t grow up or suck it up.” Then general laughter as all nodded. Everyone knew someone like her: lazy, spoiled, unattractive, “thought she coulds,” but of course couldn’ts, who thought they and what they sought mattered, but, without someone like that, of course, didn’t. In fact, complete losers and failures.
She could close the shutters, hang thicker and thicker curtains, but her bitter, brittle truths, no amount of darkness or white noise sound could make them go away. She had tried going out the door, tried to make up for what she lost. But after pry-barring open the slashed, kicked, cracked-painted door with ten thousand deadbolts, at least 5 thousand on the outside, she saw the circus was always in town.
Many performers, faces blurred, or changed, but the signs they held, the slogans they chanted didn’t. Slam the door again. “Please no more pain” as the sobs doubled her over.
For some, there is only one house – a darkened one. No matter how much people think that’s where the person wants or deserves to stay.
Do people really think the departed what to watch as the tombstone maker remarks to his assistant – “another simple one:
[WTFWS & DAOC? ]
Time to get at that special one for the woman who . . ..”
@ adh 2016