Author Topic: Glass Doll House  (Read 771 times)

Description: By Hannah Martin

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Glass Doll House
« on: July 22, 2014, 01:54:31 PM »
Glass Doll House

Hair as dark as night has always been a sign of edgy things like the melancholy of high school. People choose black when they feel pain, want to be dark, look cool, you know, the whole emo look. For some people it's a sign of beauty. Pretty people always have long dark locks, suppose the myth started with a fairy tale woman named Snow White. There are girls with black hair who look like super models. I'm not either. I was born with black hair. My hair is a stigma, a mark of sin passed on to me from my father.

I never met him, but I know what he did. Everyone does. He's a mass serial killer, targeted anyone who wore light blue colours. I never wear anything blue. Blue is bad, the even start with the same letter. Sometimes I get scared though, because my heart is blue. I wonder if dad kills people with blue hearts. If he does I know he'd kill me. Not because he's the kind of evil man who kills girls with blue hearts, but because he doesn't know I exist. No one knows I exist.

I live in a house with ten other kids, a man in a suit, and a red-cheeked woman with gold curls. Its always noisy, and yet it seems quiet. When you're that invisible in a room so full of people you just learn to block it all out. I won't want to block it out. I want to be noisy, but I'm cursed. I can only sit and stay silent, alone with my thoughts. My thoughts are very dark, like an ink stain on a white shirt, hard as you might try, there will always be a stain. I like to think I was pure once, like a white shirt, but my father poured his sin all over me like ink, and there was so much that it dripped from me and into the air, forming my hair.

My black hair, the mark of my shame. I don't cut my hair. I'm not allowed to cut my hair. My hair is sin, and you can't cut away sin. You can make sin look nice by brushing it and putting it in pretty bows, but you can't change what it is; Just like you can't change eyes so sad their made of tears. Most people tell me I have eyes of Liquid Ocean, but I see them as tears. Nothing is as blue as tears. My eyes are so blue, so bright, that in the mirror, against my evil hair, they are so like tears. I get them from my mother. I know this because any woman who has loved a criminal has cried, and one stuck to a serial killer has surely cried too much. My eyes are my mother's pain, so I hide them as best I can under layers of mascara and black eye shadow and hair.

My body doesn't matter much. It's a shell much like any other that holds my soul in place, keeping me prisoner to all this sin and evil and pain. They say to have hope, but there isn't hope for people like me. Daughter of sin and sorrow. Adopted of chaos. What hope is there for someone like that? I still go about living though, because there's nothing else I can do. My life is not in my hands, my life isn't mine, and it never was. I'm a doll made of glass in a house made of glass in a world made of fire and destruction; nothing more, nothing less.

As I walk down the hallway with my tear eyes pointed to the ground, I wonder if anyone else in high school feels like me. Even broken people here have friends. I'm out of place, always have been. The smell of paper and perfume sticks around like the very walls that belong here, made of all these scents and sounds. I am not one of these scents, nor do I make a sound. I'm not here, I'm glass, people see right through me. Someone else is pulling the strings, not me; these strings tug me through life, through these halls to which I don't belong. They tug me into classrooms where the teacher cares about everyone's education but mine. In group work the strings are the only group I have, not even the teacher wants to be my buddy.

Then the strings tug me onto a bus that smells like sweat, stale popcorn, and rotting garbage. I do not belong here either. The other teens sitting around me, laughing and shouting, they belong here, but I am quiet, and I don't have to take PE like they do because of my bone disease. The doctor had a name for it, but I didn't bother to remember it. What's the good of a name when the disease is something only you know of? The bus rattles down my street as I stare out the open window. The street is so bright, with perfect little houses with their perfect little white fences all in a row. I always wonder who lives in those perfect little houses, with their perfect little families, all pure and untainted by dark sins.

The strings pull me away from my thoughts and into a house also so perfect, with little fairies hiding in the fresh flowers that bloom in such vivid colors. I wish I could be a flower, and bloom with such pure petals, and be so bright and colorful. Everyone loves flowers, but no one loves the daughter of sin and sorrow, so I wish I could be a flower, and free myself from this skin that is my jail. Leading to that pretty blue house with the white door and the white trim surrounded by all the flowers is a stain glass walkway, but I never use it. The walkway is for the children, and the man in a suite, and the red-cheeked woman with gold curls. It is not my walkway. I do not belong there. I do not belong in this house either, so clean and tidy with happy messages hung on the wall. But the strings pull me in, down to the basement, to a dark room.

Here is where I belong. This place is musty and damp, and full of mice and bad things. I'm a bad thing to, and this is the one place I can stay. There's a steel bed that's plain and cold with all white sheets and quilts. Maybe the sheets will make me pure. However it hasn't worked so far, so it seems as likely as magic that anything good could happen to me.

Then I turn to the white wall as the damp water slowly drips down over the pure walls, they have already been stained by the sin that comes from this dark hair. They are both clean and stained, an evil combination that I am destined to be surrounded by. I close my eyes, trying to block out the sight of those walls, but ignoring the slow, steady splatter of those crystalline drops is difficult. Sound is much harder to block than sight, especially since I am so interested in sound.

Sound is special. There is a unique quality to it that intrigues me and makes me wish that I could make sound. Sadly this is an ability I do not have. My voice is too soft to make any noise of interest, and I rarely use it, even when the teacher calls on me.

Teachers rarely talk to me, or even call on me. I am a stigma no matter where I go, and just once I'd like to be noticed. But I cannot be noticed, it is my curse, I must remain camouflaged among the rest of my class mates. It is better this way; better they not see the pure sin that surrounds me in billowing locks.

I've mentioned my hair before. A lot. There is just something about this darkness that I cannot forget. Why do I have such a horrible mark? Why must I pay for my father's sin? I do not understand. I suppose, however, that life is that way and it is not my place to judge my fate, no matter how unfair it may seem to me.

A quiet suddenly falls around the room and the echoes of my mind spread like rings; it takes me several minutes to realize I'm sleeping. I do not dream, I am plagued by the nightmares of my past. The room is dark and empty, full of nothing but the shadows that haunt children's closets and beneath their beds. There's a woman screaming; it's my mother. Trying not to cry is hard. I was bad, so I deserved the closet and my fear, but I do not like the sounds. These are the sounds I do not like; the sounds I wish to forget. I turn the other way and cover my ears, trying to block out the noise. 'Mommy, I want mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy!' and then I'm awake…

The thin light filters in through the yellow-stained glass, glinting gloomily off the spider's web to tease at my eyelids. The aforementioned spider glides down his silken web to greet the light, while I wonder how such a seemingly short nightmare became the nights long hours. I reach out to stroke across the once pure white sheets, picking sadly and the now blackened fibers. Most people can't see the stain, but I can. This sin that hangs from my head taints everything, spreading the shadow of evil to every corner.

Would I that those sheets could absorb all the stain so that I may burn them, but one look to the locks in my hand, and I know the stain has not left me. Isn't there anything that can wash away the blood of my father from me, relieving me of this heavy weight that overshadows my life? If there is, I have not yet seen it. I stand, testing my balance with my bare toes on the cold stone floor as my hair tries to pull me down. I do not let it, I will not let it. This is what practice has taught me.

Thump, thump, thump go my feet as I make my way across the floor to the rickety old closet to grab the clothes I'll wear that day. My hand pauses over a blue shirt that the red-cheeked woman must have bought me. I quickly tear it from its hanger and throw it as far as I can, away from me. I will not wear blue, not yesterday, not today, and never tomorrow. I pull out a black one instead. It goes over my head and hugs my body in a way I wish it wouldn't. The jeans I wear are tight and constricting, and I'll never wear them without boots.

I brush my hair, carefully and painstakingly, because whether it is a stigma or not the redcheeked

woman won't let me out of this place I do not belong with the stigma in knots. I do not understand her disapproval. Does she not realize this hair is sin? Perhaps not. Up the stairs now to grab the heavy bag full of old dusty books and the piece of toast I munch every morning. I wonder if I could just stop eating all together…do you think that would stop the pain? I often think that, but it isn't true. If you are marked by sin you can never be rid of it. Never.

Here's the bus with the screaming children as it take me to another place I do not belong. It's the start of a new quarter, though for me it doesn't feel any different. Do the children waving their hands and singing strange songs feel anything different? I wonder if the stigma blocks those happy feelings from me. Maybe I'm not meant for happiness, I suppose it makes sense.

The air is chilly and the leaves have turned pretty colors, reflecting warm autumn to everyone but me. I wonder what its like to play in those crunchy leaves as they fall down to bow at you. The leaves do not bow to me, they attempt to run with the wind that howls in my face angrily. No, Autumn does not like me either. The door to my school opens and warm heat envelopes the smiling, pink-faced children as they run in or yawn. The heat bites angrily at me, as if saying 'go away, you don't belong here, go away.'

If only I could let the heat burn me to ash, destroy the stigma that I am, maybe then I would know peace. But the heat does not burn me, simply bites in anger, then leaves, like all the rest, running away from the evil it has touched. I sit in the same desk I always sit in, near the back of the class, so no one else has to look at me. The teacher lets me sit in this spot, he always does; it has become my spot. For me, nothing ever changes. The bell rings, crisp and clear in the cold morning air, warning others to enter the room.

All the happy children sit in their little desks, smiling and greeting each other in the world where they belong, all but one. I stare at the new child with his expressionless face as he stands up front, his eyes empty of anything. For the first time something has changed. There is a new student. He stands and stares not at the jovial, excited faces, but at me, with my sullen, boring blue eyes that are made of ice. It's as if we reach an understanding, as if we are the same sort of stigma upon the world.

I wonder for a brief moment if the heat in my face and my fluttering heart mean I'm in love, but I push it down and away, because I cannot be in love. I do not deserve to be in love. I do not want to be in love. Love is a curse that will bind you to a person who hurts others, like it did my mother to my father. This boy, however, bows and introduces himself as Drew to the class, then sits in the back next to me. No one sits next to me, I am the stigma; even the children are repelled by me.

This boy is not repelled; he is drawn to me, as I am to him, for some strange reason. My hand reaches out to touch his for reasons even I know not. He doesn't flinch away, doesn't move at all. His hand is warm, but the warmth is not biting, it is soothing. My heart flutters again and I look up to meet his flickering eyes. This person is not a stigma, nor is this person repelled by me. "Are you…" I whisper brokenly as the teacher drones on, my voice cracking from disuse. "Are you…the thing that can wash away the stigma…?"

He laughs slightly and curls his hand around mine, spreading his kindness through my being, and to my core. "Only if you want me to be…though I warn you, I myself am somewhat of a stigma…" I shake my head, black hair going all over. "No, no, you are not a stigma…you are something else entirely. Something special. I wonder what you are…" He shrugs. "I am a person, nothing more, nothing less."

This boy is poetic without even knowing it. I sigh to know more about him, and his way with words, and why he doesn't fear the evil twirling around his fingers. He plays with my hair the rest of the class, like it is kitten fur, or some other wonderful object to be admired. I don't pull away or tell him to stop, because whether I show it or not, I do like his odd amusement.

Is it possible, I wonder, that even though I think love is so bad, I cannot avoid it? Perhaps love is an evil I must suffer through whether I like it or not. I suppose this odd boy will not harm me and that maybe, just maybe, this is all a shock to him to. I feel this person inside me encouraging me to have faith in this boy; a person I didn't even know existed. I think maybe this empty shell I have created is the fake, maybe deep down I am normal, I'm a person to. This simply thought brings out something in me, the real me, a person I didn't know even existed anymore.

The little innocent girl that loved her mother and knew nothing of her father's condition comes back and sobs within me, trying to be heard once again, but I hear the kids laugh, and I retreat again, pulling back into my shell and away from the boy. He will come to hate me, just like everyone else has. Pain pulses in my heart and I bite back tears, wondering why this pain hurts so much now when it didn't before. The girls near me laugh and look pretty, flashing their white teeth and sharing their cheery gossip.

Would I that I could be like those chattering girls with their silly little lives and their pointless femininity, but I am not. Reality has broken me in, and my innocence never came. This boy, Drew, surely he will find me to be the stigma I am after a while and leave me all alone. I do not wish that, but I fear that whether I wish it or not, it will happen. What I wish seems to have no meaning in this world. There is a girl passing out her art, it is beautiful and pure, dabbling in imagination, unlike mine, which dabbles in fear.

Who would want art that is all about darkness and pain? No one wants to hear the sad songs of a girl so plagued by tears in her mask of a face that hides in her empty shell called a 'body'. Yes, I wish to be left alone with my dark thoughts, alone in this world where everyone is happy but me. Then the boy pokes me again and I turn to see what mischief he wants to 'cause me. He smiles kindly and I stand there amazed. Why does this boy care about me at all? I am no one special, there is no way I could ever be anyone special.! !

He whispers amusing words to me and I laugh. I do not understand the small sound that leaves my lips, teasing at the back of my throat and down to my belly. Then I realize I'm having fun and I withdraw. My days go by as such. He attempts to pull me out, almost succeeding but not, and I stubbornly stay in my shell. We become friends. It isn't the way normal people were friends, but he talked to me, and I listened. It was nice that someone finally didn't expect me to talk. Someone who saw the pain whether I voiced it or not.

He doesn't know, but I stare at his eyes. They are so beautiful, even from behind the black stigma hanging in my face. They are only full of pain around me, but they are still warm, making me feel less cold inside then I used to. His hair is wild, but not in an unpleasant way. He reminds me of fresh air and running through the woods barefoot as a child. These are things I know little about, but I'd like to know about them. Maybe this boy with his wild and soft-looking hair will help me.

Often I would find his hand intertwined with mine, and I let it be. He is the only person I wish to be with, even if I am inside my shell, because he is not afraid of the emptiness inside, he sees the sad child who needs a friend. It is happiness, in some form; I think…not that I would know what happiness really is. I am learning, however, that happiness is something I am allowed, even though I am my father's sin. Drew is warming, truly warming to every part of me. I think he is an angel, sent to purify me.

I know I shouldn't hope, but the feeling is filling me up so much that I can't help it at all. Drew is next to me waiting for school to start (we arrive early every day), laughing about something and I smile, looking up a little. My angel stops and smiles at me, I blush and look down. Why do I feel like this…? Is this what all those girls talk about, the feeling called love? I should test this feeling, and for a moment I almost do. I look up, my mouth open to say something, but the intense look on his face stops me and my voice fails me.

He whispers my name and leans forward. I pause, unsure really what to do, and while I stumble through my thoughts his lips touch mine gently and I am unable to move. My heart pounds in my chest and my eyes flutter closed as I feel my body betray me and lean into the feeling, pressing my lips back. It feels so right that I almost cry for joy and my heart bleeds profusely for the joy that overwhelms it.

The wounds in my heart that I have glazed over for so long opens, and I do cry. Drew pulls away in concern, looking at me with those eyes such a perfect auburn and I fall. The tears won't stop as they flood down my face in desperation to escape, to finally rid this body of all the pain inside. I am pulled into those gentle arms, so warm and caring, and the salty water seeps into his sweatshirt, but I cannot stop, don't want to stop. He is ever patient and it causes the pulse inside to flicker like a flame as it dances for this boy who has somehow become my whole world.

He whispers my name softly; the word spilling from his mouth sounding to be something noble and pure, unlike the usual plainness that is my name. "Do not be afraid…" he mumbles into the ebony disgrace, arms pulling me ever closer, encircling me in a halo of warmth. "My mind is a dark place to…" it is a soft reassurance, but one that shocks my world and my eyes shoot up to meet his. Teary ice meets gentle earth and suddenly the shell cracks. It breaks away, lifting the dark fog from my eyes and suddenly the light of the world filters in.

Breath comes in a harried pace as I, the child who was waiting to be released, take in the wonder of life around me. Was it always such a bright place? I do not remember the laughter that now pours in, and the happy teasing. How could I have missed this wondrous sight? Why, until now, had the world been so dark? I feel a chuckle brush against my ear and the revelation bursts inside my brain in wonder. I was missing a fundamental piece of my life, one that could bring meaning into my world.

Drew was that missing piece. I grip his hand and he blinks in surprise, but I do not care, I am leading him away to a place that is important. Sunlight dances across the scene as it rises to signal the start of the school day, and greet those still sleeping with its warmth after the cold night. I stand with this angel beside me on the hill, basking in the simple seen as the burning gold disc climbs across the now bluing sky. "I am not a stigma…" I whisper and he turns to look at me as I bask in the gentle touch of the sun, the first kind touch since Drew.

"Whatever sin my father created is not my burden to bear…" I whisper, knowing for the first time it is true. "It is my fathers sin, and he is the one who will pay for it. I have never been the one to suffer for his sin; I've only made myself suffer in my head, haven't I?" A gentle squeeze is my answer and I smile, closing my eyes to play a game with the sun, encouraging it to try and pry the lids open again. "Perhaps I will cut this black hair…and start life anew." There is a pause, and I can feel it. My eyes open to greet a stunned boy whose face furrows in confusion. "But…" again my name spills from his lips, and I can hear the puzzlement in his voice. "Your hair is brown." Ah, so it is.


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