My body never laid in a middle of a luxury room, in a leather sofa with a giant diamond chandelier hanging above my head. Neither have I walked along with the busy crowd in the city, under billboards, amongst citizens built by self-interests as they were only guided by lines and blinking lights likewise trained dogs. Instead, I picture myself in a corroding attic, lying cold on the floor, crippled by thoughts, as I was surrounded by walls. The slanted roof embraced my presence and the damp slab had moistened my back. I watched the vines gorge on posts, tightly gripping as if choking. It was perhaps the only thing to tie the room together when rusted nails are about to hold two structures together. Heavily raining, these parasite-like green monsters seemed to enjoy the water, with them distributing an awful amount of water towards the floor. My eyes supervised these droplets loudly trickling, as I bathe in stupor and doubt.
I hugged my knees to defend myself from the bleakness of the floor, occupied enough with inappropriate thoughts that should never be told. It varies from wondering how existential dread can go, if it is able to reach the afterlife or if simply shooting myself will wake the real me. I kept maintaining the play of air inside my body despite the vividness my mind displays. It was perhaps, a sudden thought, that I couldn't move to another position. Scared that I might die from the grimness of the room and I'm letting the dreary weather in.
Time passed for hours, I continued to the same position where everyone had left me. Like a simple machine without its oil, my bones were creaky enough to gain ability of moving my body. This is the part where I thought of where was it aching. All I knew was that happiness were taken away from my body, putting me in shades of the dullest colors: grey and black. I am afraid to tell you that my once porcelain skin, have already sunken into deep gray, laid softly on a body that was once plump but had already dried and thinned out.
Words juggled against the corners of my head, as the glum sunlight from the window avoided my figure. Thoughts were mostly composed of the most horrifying pieces, enough to frighten a child and terrify an existence. Hence, a thought so utterly disturbing, not a single ghost was able to withstand. It was a dark thought, indeed, capturing my doleful eyes, colored with flecks of the brim of a coffee cup. I sighed with great depth, from the bottom of my disappointments.
I sat to a comfortable position and latched my arms to cover my inexistent fats, embracing only myself. Watching my reflection through the broken mirror where Beth used to swing my head; I glared at an image of a young woman with long lively fire-toned hair with a look of sadness in her own eyes. A woman with sparse body, dressed in floral chiffon curtains that covers the sinking maggots delightfully swimming through her skin. Unfortunately, gorging her only and thin layer of left skin. My long skeletal fingers managed to pluck out a parasite, sticking out from my own knee caps, and I pondered. Am I dead? Weighing the possibilities of a decaying woman with awareness or the possibility of me high on narcotics. Neither have I seen both things, but both seemed good enough reason.
A loud wang awakened the sleeping sinister, through the spaces of wood. Two familiar colors washed the walls as it was accompanied by the smell of strong caffeine and the breath of empty stomachs. I hurried to stand comprehending, running towards the attic's window and suddenly remembering the heavy rain our town was experiencing. Capable but difficult, I stood despite weakness and my deteriorating muscles. My body mangled as I stood by the window, staring at the bodies of nauseated cops with no umbrellas, feasting their eyes upon a ragged beige folder.
"Gosicki residence," mouthed by the thick Caucasian officer, having an extremely tired wide-set of eyes. His undereye drooped so low that it was big enough to qualify as his new cheeks. He hides it through a thin layer of a clumpy drug store concealer: covering evidence of nights on solving criminal cases instead of his own marriage. His uniform seemed soaked wet, tight, and untidy. Nose too bulbous, severely slanted and asymmetrical; an injury he gained from years of service and marriage battery.
Burke's eyes lit up with fascination as he spoke of my residence, holding what seemed to be an arrest warrant. He knocked with a smirk on his face. As if he was a cat who have caught a mouse for dinner, offering a Miranda warning.
Burke extended his arms to show the issued warrant almost not far enough from her eyes as they cuff her bulging wrists that were about to destroy it's own mechanism. She was big enough to wrestle those two officers off the ground, but Beth only spoke a few words, pleading and it was all she can give. As if she looked innocent in her pink lipstick and utterly minimalistic brows drawn two inches above the real one. Her high cheekbones did not scrunch from crying too much as they were relatively botched and lopsided. It was the face I feared for years. A woman with nonsensible anger against a child she carried inside her for 7 months.
Elizabeth plasters a scary smile as she strolls by, wearing a counterfeit lingerie. Her figure somehow destash the threads from the fabric and always fits animal prints. Her beauty was never absent, but her beauty was eerie, petrifying, and it is what I would describe, the epitome of fear and betrayal. Her smile horrifies every single kid in tow. As if faces of the children she frightens reflects on her teeth. I remember Beth Gosicki, baiting me when I was seven-years-old. Gifting me for the first time, a home-made rainbow lollipop with a core out of a razor blade. I did not know anything about shaving neither anything about its sharp taste. My gums bled to paleness as I gnaw on her gift. She saw me chew a razor blade cutting through my thin-layered cheeks, wounding my tongue .Her meaning of love is defined in numerous grotesque ways. Even preserving my accidentally-cut toe finger. Patting my head softly, she said I was a good girl and I should always be thankful for having her as my mother. As a form of gratitude, I could have greeted her a "Happy Birthday!" through putting a bullet in my head or in my chest. In fact, I could have done that a long time ago before my death.
Elizabeth Gosicki, arrested for second degree murder with malice aforethought. The child butcher crying over an arrest warrant, but never had a tear to shed for a kid of hers. Screaming how much she had loved me, I thought of the times she had skinned my neck while I was asleep and how she had slammed my skull against every mirror of the Gosicki household. How she left pieces of my own flesh between the crevices of the wooden walls, walking out with marks of blood on her apron. She lifted her chin to look up at the attic's window and shouted, I loved you.