16:34 04-04-2010 21 ÃÐÀÌÌ
She was flying, not going, flying above the streets of the dirty squalid city which didn’t want to let in or out anyone, above the green buses (she was so unlucky that she didn’t see any blue or white buses), above the parks, above the houses. In one of the windows two little children were standing near the oven, pushing each other, waiting for the cake; in another one – a man, a fat repulsive man (one of those men who are very proud of the money they earn however low their salary may be) hit his wife. She didn’t like it actually, but that day she didn’t pay attention to it, she was too high and too deep in her dreams.
From time to time she stopped to sit on a street lamp. She liked being alone. She was like a book on the highest shelf: everyone sees it, but no one can reach. She liked playing with mongrels putting on a gossamer small pieces of her materialized joy or gently rustling leaves on the trees. She put the clouds together, then rumpled them like plasticine and then, full of imagination and childlike delight, made from them the pictures of her past.
Everything was perfect now, but she wanted to see her childhood, loving and carefree, leaving her maybe forever. She wanted to put only light photos into her consciousness without her father’s death, without violence of her stepfather, without hanging of her mother. She had outlived all that already, but some fragments were still in her subconsciousness and sometimes came to her in nightmares.
At times she was dozing. It was comfortable for her on a street lamp though sometimes it was too loud, especially during the rush hour. She hoped to see something new, but for four years she had had the only dream.
“Go out”, cried wildly her stepfather, speaking with someone by the phone. Everything was grey except his dark-brown eyes.
“Shoo!”, said her mother, thinking that she was preventing her from cooking. In some minutes she heard:
“Leave me alone!!! I don’t want to spend the rest of my days on a funny farm. Go away!!! I’m not another anecdote of schizophrenia for you!”
“Come here, baby! I want to stroke your hair and admire your deep blue eyes! Give me your look, just one look! Grant me one kiss”, said her stepfather.
“No, step aside or…”
“”Or what?”
“Or I’ll…I’ll”, she was beginning to pant, her palms were sweating. “I’ll cry”, she pronounced irresolutely.
The room was filling with a dreadful long loud laughter and she ran away.
“Stop!!! The Devil take her, silly girl!!!”
In her room she, a 15-year-girl, saw her mother hanged on the bar where usually instead of her mother swing were hanging.
“Come down, please… Don’t leave me!!!”
She woke up. It was night already. It was exactly what she had wanted, when she had wanted to get up. Her favourite time of the day, when there were stars. Even the sounds of a road accident somewhere on the corner couldn’t make her tear herself away from talking to the stars.
She woke up because of a phone call. She didn’t like mobile phones, but her only friend, the only member of her family wanted her to have it. It was HIS number. He was also alone in the whole world. They were two loners on the edge of the Earth. They loved each other so much, but even didn’t think about marriage. They thought it would spoil their relationships. They just lived in harmony and that was quite enough. When they were far from each other, they talked to stars. They had named two stars and it seemed that everytime their stars answered them (they couldn’t but do it, because their thread, even not thread, but their rope was too unbreakable). They also liked to collect stars in their hands and make new constellations of them. No one noticed it, but it was the activity which helped two people, absolutely lonely, but absolutely splendid, to draw breath.
The voice which she heard on the phone…wasn’t HIS one. “He’s dead!”. She fell , fell from her favourite lamp. She didn’t wish to know why, how, when. She was lying on the road, waiting for a car. She got it…
She was sitting again on the street lamp.
“If only I could see the dogs playing with my joy and not only hear rustling of the grass and feel their breath.
If only I could see the children in the window, but not only smell almost prepared cake.
If only I could see the clouds, but not only try to wave my hands in the air.
If only I could see my nightmare again, and not see darkness when I close my eyes.
If only I could cry, cut not catch drops of rain by the tips of my fingers and put them on my cheeks.
If only I could see stars, just one star, his star and talk to him again, and not hear car horns, not touch the wind, not smell the smoke! No!
If only I had died!!!”
… She was going, not flying, imagining houses, cars, holding the arm of her daughter. She felt the ground, but she didn’t want to. She was not thinking any more. Her dreams had been left long before near the star, which she would never see again…
State ïóñòîòà 
From time to time she stopped to sit on a street lamp. She liked being alone. She was like a book on the highest shelf: everyone sees it, but no one can reach. She liked playing with mongrels putting on a gossamer small pieces of her materialized joy or gently rustling leaves on the trees. She put the clouds together, then rumpled them like plasticine and then, full of imagination and childlike delight, made from them the pictures of her past.
Everything was perfect now, but she wanted to see her childhood, loving and carefree, leaving her maybe forever. She wanted to put only light photos into her consciousness without her father’s death, without violence of her stepfather, without hanging of her mother. She had outlived all that already, but some fragments were still in her subconsciousness and sometimes came to her in nightmares.
At times she was dozing. It was comfortable for her on a street lamp though sometimes it was too loud, especially during the rush hour. She hoped to see something new, but for four years she had had the only dream.
“Go out”, cried wildly her stepfather, speaking with someone by the phone. Everything was grey except his dark-brown eyes.
“Shoo!”, said her mother, thinking that she was preventing her from cooking. In some minutes she heard:
“Leave me alone!!! I don’t want to spend the rest of my days on a funny farm. Go away!!! I’m not another anecdote of schizophrenia for you!”
“Come here, baby! I want to stroke your hair and admire your deep blue eyes! Give me your look, just one look! Grant me one kiss”, said her stepfather.
“No, step aside or…”
“”Or what?”
“Or I’ll…I’ll”, she was beginning to pant, her palms were sweating. “I’ll cry”, she pronounced irresolutely.
The room was filling with a dreadful long loud laughter and she ran away.
“Stop!!! The Devil take her, silly girl!!!”
In her room she, a 15-year-girl, saw her mother hanged on the bar where usually instead of her mother swing were hanging.
“Come down, please… Don’t leave me!!!”
She woke up. It was night already. It was exactly what she had wanted, when she had wanted to get up. Her favourite time of the day, when there were stars. Even the sounds of a road accident somewhere on the corner couldn’t make her tear herself away from talking to the stars.
She woke up because of a phone call. She didn’t like mobile phones, but her only friend, the only member of her family wanted her to have it. It was HIS number. He was also alone in the whole world. They were two loners on the edge of the Earth. They loved each other so much, but even didn’t think about marriage. They thought it would spoil their relationships. They just lived in harmony and that was quite enough. When they were far from each other, they talked to stars. They had named two stars and it seemed that everytime their stars answered them (they couldn’t but do it, because their thread, even not thread, but their rope was too unbreakable). They also liked to collect stars in their hands and make new constellations of them. No one noticed it, but it was the activity which helped two people, absolutely lonely, but absolutely splendid, to draw breath.
The voice which she heard on the phone…wasn’t HIS one. “He’s dead!”. She fell , fell from her favourite lamp. She didn’t wish to know why, how, when. She was lying on the road, waiting for a car. She got it…
She was sitting again on the street lamp.
“If only I could see the dogs playing with my joy and not only hear rustling of the grass and feel their breath.
If only I could see the children in the window, but not only smell almost prepared cake.
If only I could see the clouds, but not only try to wave my hands in the air.
If only I could see my nightmare again, and not see darkness when I close my eyes.
If only I could cry, cut not catch drops of rain by the tips of my fingers and put them on my cheeks.
If only I could see stars, just one star, his star and talk to him again, and not hear car horns, not touch the wind, not smell the smoke! No!
If only I had died!!!”
… She was going, not flying, imagining houses, cars, holding the arm of her daughter. She felt the ground, but she didn’t want to. She was not thinking any more. Her dreams had been left long before near the star, which she would never see again…
State ïóñòîòà
