This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is suspended reality.
I drove home to find the house I once lived in. The windows were covered and the paint was no longer yellow. The same cloud that I wished away years ago still hung over our den. I stood under it's loom, at the foot of the porch where I welcomed myself home.
My mother kept sweeping where my youngest brother continued to make a mess. She was only a bit over forty but already completely grey. My oldest sister won't be home. She had already spent the morning swearing at my mother when asked to be at church early this morning. In a journal she had decided that she was no longer their daughter and anyway, there were plenty of dirty old men in town with lecherous inclinations, hungry for youthful flesh.
It was Sunday and my daddy would be home. I climbed onto the porch, slipping through my mother, and found a crack in between the boards. Inside, my daddy lay resting. His belly full and his heart beating slowly. The corners of his mouth hissing miniature bubbles, the pillow underneath his head, freshly soiled.
When he woke he would find my mother. He would take what he wanted from her, leaving her blue. My mother was not safe, not even on a Sunday.
I didn't want to stick around and see, now that I didn't have to. I hurried past my brother, who was still pouring out mounds of clay onto our cencrete porch. I knew that he couldn't see me.
I made my way past our old water well, an empty stomach feeding on our faults, to the other end of the house. More than anything, I wanted to find myself.
I crossed over an old creek bridge and followed the watercourse. My two older brothers sat along one edge. They were identical, a copy of each other. I squeezed myself in between them, wanting to touch their burst skin, breathing in their dusty smell. They continued to pass a handmade cigarette back and forth, completely relaxed, unleashing random inner thoughts. I walked away without disturbing them, leaving them in their cloud. They did nothing to stop daddy, never picking up mother.
I found myself sitting in a circle. A ring of flowers. My skirt was dirty and my skin was young. I wasn't alone. I sat amongst a ring of friends, all of who, only I could see.
I watched myself serve these creatures tea. I was dainty and clever. I mesmerized my friends with heroic stories of endless triumph and enduring love. I never spoke of my sister, washing her soul away every night, nor my brothers, bored and alone lost within one another.
I watched myself inside of this circle, my own secret sorority, where I was able to forget about my mother, her complacency which killed us all. Inside of this loop my smiles were true, allowing my daddy and his wretched friends to became empty and unreal.