→ (signpost) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-01-29 02:56:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, wren henry |
Narrative
Who: Wren
What: A yellow wallpaper-style narrative
Where: Home
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: C for Creepy?
The walls were white; that was how she knew she was home.
She ran her hands along them all in the days that followed, palm against the grain and long sweeps of touch. Don't lift your fingers, don't lift your fingers, and the walls didn't change, and she was home.
She didn't miss the resort. She didn't remember much. No little details, and her mind wasn't filled with brick-a-brac. But she remembered shadows, loss, things left and screaming. She remembered bad things, and whenever she did, she ran her palms along the lines that lived beneath the white paint. The lines always led her to the right place. A long, long sweep of footsteps along the wood of the floor. Cheek pressed to the grain, and her cheeks got a little red sometimes, but it wasn't too bad.
The sounds were white; that was how she knew she was home.
White noise. Everything was a muted dull in her ears, and it reminded her of childhood. It was the memory of spin, spin in the living room of the white clapboard house in the Keys, and she twirled, and the waves crashed outside, and that was white. The noise of water on the sand, and it was in her ears now. She heard it. But she didn't twirl, because she didn't like being away from the walls too long; a person could get really, really lost that way.
So, she didn't twirl, but she heard that white nothing in her ears. It was a song, pretty and soothing, and nothing made its way past it. Not Luke, when she saw him, which wasn't very much. But he was there sometimes, just there, at the corner of her vision. He liked to sit with the dog. He liked to watch the doors. He had things to do. Important things, and shhhhh, don't bother him when he's working. She tiptoed then, and the sounds became even whiter. She smiled at her toes, and she was glad they could do that, be nothing.
Bare feet, and Luke was white, too. He was pale, something she couldn't see really well. He was gauze, a distant transparency. Something she might be able to touch, but she wasn't sure. He hovered sometimes, and sometimes he touched, but she kept her fingers back, back, because he was white, and she was red, red, always red.
She lived in the kitchen.
The house was big; it had lots of places, but she lived in the kitchen. It was her room, and her walls, and the tiles were cold beneath her bare feet. The heater made noise, whoosh, and it wasn't always white, and she liked the cold slap, slap of feet on tile instead. She cooked, even though there was nothing to cook, really. The soup pot was always, always on. Always.
French Cassoulet
Minestrone
Bayou Shrimp
Hot Madreline
Potato Cheddar
Sherried Tomato
Fresh Pea
Gratin Savoyard
Soups, and soups, and soups, and when the ingredients ran out, she made more. More ingredients, and water bubbled on the pot that was always on the stove, and salt and pepper. Sometimes other things, lemons and chicken nuggets and the twist ties from the top drawer, but they were all soup. Water, water, and the sound was like the waves on the shore in that clapboard house.
She lived in the kitchen, and the kitchen was white.
Sometimes, nights, she thought she heard the very tiny ghosts. They were really, really tiny. Little hands and little feet, and she could hear them. They giggled. They never cried or screamed. They were never, ever unhappy. They were tiny little sounds, and they came from the foot of the bed whenever Luke made her sleep. But mostly they ran. Their tiny little feet echoing from downstairs, and they giggled, and they giggled, and Wren smiled, even if she couldn't see them, the little ghosts.
Because she was home, and home was white, and it was okay. She didn't speak, and it would stay good as long as she didn't. She wore red. Always, always red, even when it was blue or yellow or pink. Red, and it was the only thing in the white, white house that wasn't white, white. She took all that bad in, all of it, all the red, and then everyone else would be okay. She thought maybe she should sew herself shut, in order to keep it all in. but then where would she put new things? She hadn't figured that out yet. But she would find string and needle, and she would find a way.
She wouldn't drip even a little bit on the floor. But for now, cheek against the wall, grain against her skin, she walked in a circle. Step, step, step, shhhhh.