Your Moment of Glad Grace: Short Story

A handkerchief knitted by my mother lay on the table. She stitched it on the day of my birth. My initials and hers are the same.

As a child, my mind consisted of the thoughts of others; my soul danced to the melodies of others; I was a crop which was tended to carefully, by others. Its horrifying to see that life only repeats what it already has done. This ignorance I held was by no means negative as it gave me a sense of grace and less weariness from having to deal with the miseries in life. This tentative thought that humans undergo is painful and only degrades one further.  Sometimes, only sometimes, it is fine to adopt the animosity of blind action to bring about some shades of grey. However, I would prefer to live in a world of black and white where doves take shelter under the raven’s wing- where the intoxication of grief would forever leave my soul.

It is often strange to see the young and old gaze at each other; a knowing and empathetic look is given as both live in the same world- a dead one. Both are deemed inhuman as the ignorance we once had as a child creeps upon us again in a continuous loop of time. We both do not have a voice, but our minds are free to wander the depths of heat and snow.

The soup today tasted good. It had lots of flavour. The taste allows me to forget my grief and rather enjoy the company of my grandchild.

I saw her stare at me. Her name is Anne. I so desired what the child had and wished to embrace each moment that she would, so easily, waste away. How unfair; how unjust. Youth is but a mockery for the old. How lovely and innocent she is but the shattering of these illusions will leave her in pieces. Now, even the scoldings given to me as a child is what I desire for there is a sense of purification in punishment.

“Do you want to play with me, Mrs. Alby”. Her voice radiates innocence, and I try to hold onto it but it gradually drifts away. The question is so pure, but her eyes tell me something else. They are filled with a devious kind of innocence- one that mocks me. For some reason, it begins to anger me because she knows that I am incapable of playing with her. It is so obvious and yet she she still asks it to only push this dagger deeper into my chest.

The initials on the handkerchief have faded away- barely recognizable. Why do I still keep it?

She begins to smile at me, and I lose control. I shout at her, “Why do you ask that you pathetically ignorant child! You do this to mock my misery- right!”

Anne stands up and tears well up in her eyes. Still, I can see the devil hiding behind those seemingly innocent eyes. She will cry intentionally to call over her mother, get me in trouble, and punish me for such a childish reason- yes childish.

She finally leaves and now I can finally rest. But now I feel a longing for her to come back. Why is this so? The childhood I lost is leaving me once again. I stare into the mirror, and it reflects a repulsive creature who wishes for the lines and wrinkles to just fade away- but they won’t. These creases will remain; this life has made me insane.

The next day arrives, and I begin to think back to those bedtime stories that I was told as a child. To be woven tales that mystified the mind and tested the boundaries of what we could imagine is what the old wish for. Anne still remains, with her legs neatly folded as she plays with her toys on the carpet. I laugh hysterically for there will come a day when this child shall open her eyes and be thrust into the grey wolves at night.

Anne appears to have forgotten yesterday and again gives me that devilish grin that makes me want to squeeze the life out of this little girl.

She briefly asks, “Why aren’t you happy Mrs. Alby. You always seem so sad”. The child again points at my flaws. Happiness- a complete lie that fools chase just to taste a mere morsel of it. It is what I look to attain in my desire to be a child once again. I would make just dreams of my unjust life while blurring the lines of reality. Once upon a time, I would have lived just like Anne- clueless playing with toys.

Now I rise and feel drowned by my own tears. I reach to grab a few tissues, and the child gives me a quick glance, teasing me once again. Anger churned from within me, hungry for destruction, and I grab the child by the throat and drag her to the upstairs washroom. Her voice sounded muffled with my nails dug into her tiny neck-blood dripping on the floor. I turned on the water in the tub and pushed her face under until she stopped moving. This red flower that just bloomed has already wilted.

I went downstairs and finished up the rest of my soup. It lost its flavour; it lost its life. The child’s body still lay upstairs, so I head there to look at her once again. What a waste of a perfect childhood. If I could possess her body and live that life, I would be the happiest woman alive.

My childhood is gone, but I can still live the childhood of others. Their loss of life makes me feel young again. Although it will never come back, I can still dream. For even false hope is better than having no means of hope at all. I will whine like a child; I will dream with no bounds; I will play with no fear; I will live in a moment of glad grace.

The handkerchief is missing. Anne stole it from me.

 

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Featured Image

Black Handkerchief