The
Recluse. (TMA01)
Money is tight, and Kira needs to
find a new source of income, one that doesn’t entail other people. Her upholstery and dress making business pays
OK, but how many times can you expect to cover the same chair? Well, every six
months for Mrs. Pearson, but she’s an eccentric and definitely the
exception.
The trouble is
she isn’t qualified to do a lot, her art degree with fashion design doesn’t
hold out a lot of prospects for someone who hates meeting people, who likes
being alone. Alone Kira doesn’t have to
put on the smile, she can take off both the actual physical face mask as well
as the emotional one she puts on every time someone is around.
The pain in her
skin is real, she can take painkillers for it, ease it with creams and massage;
but the one in her heart can’t be soothed as easily. Four years on and she hasn’t found peace, or
forgiveness.
Kira stares out
of the window onto a world she no longer trusts. A robin, chubby from a summer filled with an
abundance of food for all the birds in her little garden, is foraging away,
waiting for that one huge worm to be unearthed by the next door neighbour as he
turns over his vegetable plot. He plants
the spade into the earth with a decisive thrust and walks slowly away, back to
his shed to retrieve something he has forgotten no doubt. Another robin, not as rotund, but equally as
bright settles on the handle of the spade; watching his much larger competitor
devour his find; hoping for a morsel to take back to his nest.
Kira turns away,
looking at her surroundings, the drab furniture, picked up cheap at the thrift
store, waiting patiently for her to re-cover it. The plain brown carpet, her one luxury when
she moved in. Nothing can replace the
sheer pleasure of sinking your bare feet into the soft wool, walking barefoot
on the thick, springy mattress of a Wilton carpet. Kira curls her toes into it, knowing she
would always love the feeling of warmth she gets from it, which is so different
to the cold hard tiles in her kitchen.
The contrast intrigues her, pleases her; sparks ideas in her mind for
paintings and poems. Pictures and words
she will never put to paper or canvas.
This room is her
sanctuary, with its tall walls and high ceilings, chair rails and picture rails
that split the walls into three uneven sections. The base section she has painted deep
burgundy red, rich and luxurious, not unlike her carpet. The middle paler but still rich and warm, she
has chosen a ruby wine, and the top, the highest and smallest of the sections
in the room she has painted baby pink.
The effect is pleasing to her eye, darkness to light, echoing her hearts
wish, to travel up into the light from the darkness she still carries in her
soul.
Separating each
level the rails has been stripped back to the wood, warm to the touch as she
worked, they are now varnished a rich mahogany, matching the rest of the
woodwork in the room. Kira has relished
the hard work it has taken to turn this room from the damp, dark and soulless
shell she had found into her comfort zone, her security blanket. It has taken the mind numbing repetition of
the roller from tray to wall and back to tray, over and over, day in day out,
to block out the pain, the images of the fire, the screams of her baby
daughters, twins born to an unwed mother, a harlot, a tramp.
She doesn’t see
the fire as often now, but she always heard her girls; or were they her
screams, the screams of a mother realising her babies were gone? They told her that the girls had died before
the flames had engulfed their brand new cot, before the screech of the alarms
had roused her from the first deep sleep since giving birth.
In her
nightmares they are screaming, calling out as only her newborn babies could do,
tugging her from sleep, shaking her from her bed. Crackling and snapping as the wood contorts,
before the hiss of the steam escaping from the bubbling sap, trapped beneath
the toxic paint. The acrid smell,
burning her nose, eyes watering, itching, as she runs into the flames; to be
with them one more time.
Word count: 746.
The above story came from the initial idea which was part one of the TMA. Called Supermarket Shopping.
Supermarket
Shopping.
In the background the PA system
blasted out Christmas tunes. Kira loves
Christmas, the smell of mixed spice and mulled wine, the crisp air in the
morning, the crunch underfoot of the frosty path as she walks to her car. She loves the colours and sparkles of the
decorations in the shops, but she doesn’t like the crowds anymore. Pushing and shoving, everyone in a rush; the
constant chatter of children reeling of lists of gifts they want Santa to
bring, and parents promising the Earth so long as they are good.
Walking
around the store Kira tries to blend in.
She is aware of people staring, mums shushing children with over loud
questions “Mummy why has that lady got a mask on?” Embarrassed they change direction, herding
their offspring into another isle. Kira
doesn’t mind, she knows that her appearance causes stares, that sometimes
people wonder out loud what has happened to her.
Her
face begins to throb, as it does every time she has to wear this particular
mask for more than half an hour, it is just a tad too tight. But what choice does she have, it is her only
one that isn’t covered in gaudy colours which cheer her up. On a job like this one, she doesn’t want to
shout her presence. Today Kira will be
glad to finish this job, get home away from the oppressive heat of the store,
making her skin under the mask prickle, away from the curious glances, away
from the really offensive store manager heading in her direction.
Word count: 259.
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