The Birth of Time in Color, Debbie Megginson |
Painting Short Story
A sharp cry of fury pierces
the quiet atmosphere of the public housing complex. Neighbors from almost a
block away can hear incoherent statements of rage and disgust. However, they
seldom hear the sounds of violence. One would have to linger just outside the
door to get an inkling of the bloody noses, busted lips, ripped shirts, pulled
hair, bruised skin, or reddening flesh punctuated with shouts of “I don’t hate
you; I hate your action” or” you’re going to end up just like your father
rotting in cell.” Even “say you’re sorry, say you’re sorry or else” or “If you
got it so bad why don’t you call DCF and have them take you away.”
Though the
statements varied and the violence was different it always ended the same. The
young boy locked in his little room watching the world spinning on without him.
No books, no games, no hint of fun allowed, or the ire of the matriarch would
be incited and more violence would ensue. Only homework, bible, and sleep were
allowed. Some days dark moments of despair would creep in. The little boy would
eye the electric socket with curiosity and desperation. Thinking that all it
would take is a butter knife. Jab that in there and this would be over.
Sometimes he would grab the
blanket, crumpling it together till it formed a hill then trace the strange
pathways around the cover like his index finger was a car, or imagine his route
of escape from this silent prison. Other times he would lie on his back still
as death only breathing. In and out, in and out over and over again till his
body felt as though it was moving with the tides of an unseen ocean. On rare
occasion if only for a minute or two he could almost feel his body recede and
his consciousness float up and away. What a strange thing for an eleven year
old to experience.
At night in order to fall asleep he would imagine
himself with his favorite fictional heroes, saving the world, and being part of
their family, accepted and loved. After an hour or so of strange heroic and
familial fantasy the boy would slip into the safest place he knew. Daring to
dream, reality would fold in upon itself. Spheres of varying color, overlapping
and blending would float through his unconscious world. Space dust and
sparkling stars urging him on into the strange void. Even the blinking
explosions of dying star sucking greedily at his ethereal essence seamed a
sweet relief from the daily nightmares of life.
In
the midst of this mosaic wonder there was a perfect peace. He could softly
surrender the darkest moments of the day. Bubbles of light would gently cradle
him in their warm and wet reassurances. He could almost believe this was
heaven. There were no loud or sudden movements of fury, there were no bruises
or busted lips, only the sweetest freedom.
Waking,
that world of wonder would retreat into the clotted corners of his already
anxious mind. Until, their comfort and wonder became only impressions, which
were eventually swallowed by the day. A day that would be spent pissing in a
plastic cup or just draining himself on the vomit green carpet to avoid being
yelled at or beaten for leaving his room.
From
the window, he watched his peers play unhindered by the dark shadows that
seemed to linger in every corner of his home. Sometimes he envied them, other
times he found himself furious with them, laughing gleefully at the
thunderstorms which interrupted their play time. Still when sleep released him
to his playful peace there was just enough joy to sustain him, just enough
happiness to get him through the day till the dreams would come again. Then
again, inching ever closer to maturity, then to freedom of his flesh from the
maternal bondage, then freedom of his mind much much later in life.
Now
with the ease of an old friend he visits those wonders each night; sometimes
waking in tears of gratitude and pain other nights waking with a sense of
reinvigoration and determination. Each day a blank canvas to paint a better
world upon, and each night a brighter adventure then the one before.
Joshua Amos Graff