Pieces of Her
The curtains dance above her head, erratically, controlled by the wind like a marionette. She lays in bed, mind racing, restless, and tired. She watches the material billow out, edges flapping and twisting. A pause in the wind leaves them hanging limp and she waits for them to start up again; she holds her breath in anxious anticipation. A pale glow, eerie and cool, fills the room enough to make shadowy outlines of its contents. The room is simple, bare, but functional: a bed, a dresser, a wedding photograph, a night table, slippers, and other essentials. She strains to look at the picture of her and her love. She looks over to him, watches him breath, chest rising and falling peacefully. He holds her hand, intertwined fingers gently lying together.
A night time ritual: they head to bed together, have small unimportant conversations, hold hands and he sleeps. She rarely falls asleep. Every night she waits for him to release her hand. Every night she waits for him to untangle his fingers, shake his hand, and writher his fingers in his own palm. Tonight, she’s still waiting, patiently, watching the curtains as they are tossed around.
Thin, pale green curtains. Not fancy or extravagant, nothing bold or bright, just calm, elegant and muted curtains. She stares at them. She stares until she can see the threads woven together. The cool night’s air pushes and pulls at them, urging them to surrender, tear, and break free. She watches the threads. They fight back, try and resist, but fail. They succumb to the wind. Pieces here and there have contorted, stretched, moved, and snapped. She examines these marks, the new flaws in her chosen curtains. They are beautifully chaotic. The threads keep moving; continue tearing and changing, the unpredictable design spreading. Curiously she watches. She waits to see how far it will spread. It creeps along, like a slow tied. Moving little by little, steadily, almost unnoticeably gaining ground, until it’s too late. The entire curtain is altered, full of new uneven and asymmetrical designs with minor tears. The wind has not stopped the battle. It wants more. It drags the material, sucks it to the screen and then flings it out again and again, mercilessly.
She reaches up with her free hand and lets the texture of the curtain push against her bare skin. She tries to memorize the feeling. It prickles, tingles, hurts, but it feels strangely nice at the same time. She leaves her hand up for a minute before bringing it close to her face for an examination. It burns slightly, in a hot and itchy way. The pattern has clung on to her skin. It crawls down her hand and along her arm. It etches itself on to her and spreads. She writhers, shakes her hand, trying to make the burning stop. Afraid to watch the damage any longer, she squeezes her eyes shut and wills the outlines to stop. She can still feel it gliding effortlessly and painfully over her body - along one arm, over her shoulder, slinking onto her neck, spreading over her face. Unstoppable. Every inch of her skin feels electrified. There is a hot, burning, pulse radiation through her skin, scratching and carving away at the flesh.
Then nothing – everything stops, all is still, calm, quiet...peaceful. There is no wind, no curtains flapping, no more tingling pain; only snoring, the gentle normal snoring of the person holding her hand. She opens her eyes to gaze at him. Everything is normal again. She is safe.
A small breeze finds its way through the window, a gentle, whispering wind. The curtains ripple slightly. The bottom edges of material flick out and small flecks come lose. They float away peacefully into the dark corners of the room. She watches the bits scatter into the air. More pieces of the curtain drift away. She is aware of the disintegrating curtains above her head but she can’t pull her eyes away from the pieces that are coasting in the puffs of air. She stalks them with her eyes, trying desperately to discover where they are going. Terrified, she lifts her hand, slowly, into view. There she can see plainly, the curtain’s pattern. The wind kisses her raised hand. Its gentle caress drags at the design engraved into her soft tissue. The air pulls at edges, lifts up corners, persuading pieces to be released from her body, unwilling to let go.
Defensively, she pulls the blankets over and around her, a feeble shield over her now delicate body. Aggressively, the wind picks up, transforming into gusts of wind breaking through all openings. In one blast of air the remaining curtains dissipate and she is striped of her armour. The covers, blow to the foot of the bed, are out of reach and useless. Pathetically she trembles, paralyzed by fear, awaiting her fate. Outside a windstorm has focused itself on her. Fragments of her detach and she watches helplessly. Away they flutter to mingle with the green cotton. She is a human, exposed, and vulnerable. Her attacker, nature’s tempest, is unwavering. Continuously the wind tears away at her and effortlessly she is scattered. Fragments of her are tossed around aimlessly, left to float in the wind and disappear into the darkness.
Where she had been lying is now vacant. Only her hand remains, safely guarded by her lover’s grasp.
