The house
The caretaker shuffled his feet uneasily, looking at the floor.
I sighed and tucked a loose curl behind my left ear. I looked unhappily around the hall. It was dark and dusty as if no one had opened the windows in a very long time. Sunlight hadn't streamed in through the ornate grill pattern. The winds had not whistled through the boarded window slits.
"This used to be my house," I said more to myself more than anyone in particular.
"Perhaps, memsahib. But this house belongs to them now," he said uncertainly, pointing to the wall behind.
I turn around around to the wall. It is lined with framed pictures of laughing children. Young girls and boys, playing and smiling and posing for the camera.
In another world, at another time, I would have screamed and thrown a rock at the wall. I would have smashed each and every last framed photograph. I would have shattered the glass and ripped out each and every picture and gouged out the eyes of every last smiling face with my nails.
Instead, I breathe in once. And breathe out. And then I repeat myself. I breathe in again. And then I breathe out. And then I sighed.
"Oh well, I used to live here. A long time ago," I told the caretaker.
The caretaker did not know how to respond so he continued to stare at the floor.
My thumb brushed over the framed photographs hung on the wall, collecting a fine line of dust. When I lived here, this room was cleaned everyday. My fingers lingered over the faces of the strangers who now live in my house. Other kids whose feet pitter-patter across my floors. Other people who cook in my kitchen and eat off my table. Other pets that linger by the curtains and curl up on the carpet. Other feelings, who gave you the right to take what was mine?
It was never yours.
I turn around abruptly and walk out the door. I fumble with my shoes for a second before I open the gate and walk outside. On an afterthought, I turn back to face the caretaker. I pull a note out of my coat pocket and press it into his hand.
"No need to mention this to anyone, you hear me?" I hear myself say.
The caretaker nods and bows his head, "As you say memsahib."
I turn around and walk away quickly, eager to put as much space between myself and the house. It was like as if I was never there.
I sighed and tucked a loose curl behind my left ear. I looked unhappily around the hall. It was dark and dusty as if no one had opened the windows in a very long time. Sunlight hadn't streamed in through the ornate grill pattern. The winds had not whistled through the boarded window slits.
"This used to be my house," I said more to myself more than anyone in particular.
"Perhaps, memsahib. But this house belongs to them now," he said uncertainly, pointing to the wall behind.
I turn around around to the wall. It is lined with framed pictures of laughing children. Young girls and boys, playing and smiling and posing for the camera.
In another world, at another time, I would have screamed and thrown a rock at the wall. I would have smashed each and every last framed photograph. I would have shattered the glass and ripped out each and every picture and gouged out the eyes of every last smiling face with my nails.
Instead, I breathe in once. And breathe out. And then I repeat myself. I breathe in again. And then I breathe out. And then I sighed.
"Oh well, I used to live here. A long time ago," I told the caretaker.
The caretaker did not know how to respond so he continued to stare at the floor.
My thumb brushed over the framed photographs hung on the wall, collecting a fine line of dust. When I lived here, this room was cleaned everyday. My fingers lingered over the faces of the strangers who now live in my house. Other kids whose feet pitter-patter across my floors. Other people who cook in my kitchen and eat off my table. Other pets that linger by the curtains and curl up on the carpet. Other feelings, who gave you the right to take what was mine?
It was never yours.
I turn around abruptly and walk out the door. I fumble with my shoes for a second before I open the gate and walk outside. On an afterthought, I turn back to face the caretaker. I pull a note out of my coat pocket and press it into his hand.
"No need to mention this to anyone, you hear me?" I hear myself say.
The caretaker nods and bows his head, "As you say memsahib."
I turn around and walk away quickly, eager to put as much space between myself and the house. It was like as if I was never there.
Confessions of a dangerous mind! just kidding, i loved it! :)
ReplyDelete