My mother said the chill I felt in bed at night was just the coming of winter and that the droplets of condensation rolling
across the windows were faults in the glass. I protested, whimpering that they appeared in a matter of seconds along with
the hairs on my neck standing razor straight
and the hum of my heart as it wonders whether tonight will be my last. She tells me to
put an extra jumper on, no wonder I am always getting sick. But she is not the one who
has watched the tv flicker and the lights fade and the candle descend from its glowing orb and collapse into a pool of wax and a whirlwind of smoke.
As I walked to visit nana I would sob at the realisation that I no longer tugged my coat closer or my scarf tight to fight against the icy hand of the wind. When had I
begin to take comfort in this type of coldness and appreciate its presence because it was alive it was in the blushes of my cheeks and the sting of my hands inside my
gloves.
It was a pleasant grasp, so different to the rotting one that had consumed me slowly of months of shudders in the dark.
Now I see myself in marble statues and recognise my face in various macabre oil paintings. The contorted faces remind me
of myself when my foot is tugged out of the bed and my blankets are thrown back
and all I can do it imagine what it be like to scream at the shadowed figure hovering above. Nana told me that
empathising with renaissance art is a sign of madness but I beg to differ for if I was mad I would not have purple and blue bruises trailing across my shoulders and arms in the shape of
hands