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The Window To My Left

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I stare into the dark, surrounded by four grey cemented walls, as the light peaks in through the one small window to my left. My mother was a hardworking woman. She’s always gone and when not, she reminds me of the black stains in the small window. Her emptiness filled the room. How lonesome. Her pale skin mixed with the black hands of my father created a fire in me. I sit in this chair, in this dark hand sculpted room, built with four walls and one small window. The darkness reminds me of the ghost that used to haunt me at night. I would scream and scream, but they never went away much like the voices in my father’s head screamed constantly. I would pray, yet the darkness swallowed me up. Suffocation. My father, he was very well familiar with that. As a babe, with one of his large brown hands he caressed my fiery hair, while with the other he disciplined me, just as he disciplines my mother. Voices filled his head, just as much as the voices echo off these dark walls. The blackness in the corners of the room reminded me of his eyes, her cheek bones, her wrist all at once. But still, I sat in my chair in this darkness I would cry out. Silence. Empty. Voiceless, except for those voices screaming at me. I sat in this flaming chair, holding on so tight. I could feel my pulse, thumping in my fingers. The pale window I could not touch, I would not dare. It burned. The voices screamed louder and louder and soon I heard my own voice screaming out of this red chair. As I sit, I stare at the four grey cemented walls, with the light peaking in from the small window with a black stain in the center to my left. I sit. Mouth closed. Holding tight to everything I own. Voiceless.





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