So as a little pick me up I will give you a long story today. Though, of course, it's a little messed up so I kind of I hope it plays with your head....
STERILE
She sat in that sterile
room, leaned against the sterile bed, felt the sterile floor beneath her naked
scabbed skin and she smiled a twisted, tangled mess of a smile, because finally
they had let her see her Leah again.
When Leah Mark was
nineteen she went home, leaving Park Preparatory as soon as graduation was finished.
Her mother hated large formal events like that; they were just like weddings
and funerals. Everyone wrung each other’s hands and put their arms around each
other as though they had some sort of perpetual unity because they had they
gotten through the same event together. Mrs. Mark had caught the first train
out of the city and made her way back to the family home in the suburbs of New
York.
F or awhile she
just stood outside the house, next to the hunter green mailbox with the red
flag. There was a white picket fence in front of a light blue, wooden slated
house. The grass was clipped to perfection, the garden was neat. It looked
completely out of place; it was the only house on the block, it had always been
like that. Outside of the Mark’s property, tall, wild grass continually grew,
much to the dislike of Mr. Mark. There was a ten meter strip of sidewalk
outside the house. The cement had no dirt, no pine needles, and no cracks. It
seemed, like the rest of the property, to be quite sterile.
She let herself into unlocked house, pushing
her daughter’s bags before her into the foyer.
“Leah, darling? Is that you?” called her own
nervous voice reverberating around the numerous walls of the large house.
“Yes, Mother,” Leah said softly so as to
settle her mother, “It’s me.” Mrs. Mark could hear her voice coming for the
kitchen and hurried in, to see her daughter. The kitchen was immaculate; every surface
shone; light danced upon the countertops, making them gleam. Leah was standing
at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the grates of one of the oven racks in warm,
bubbly water.
“Leah, where’s your father?” She asked
softly, so as not to startle her; she didn’t want her to disappear again.
Leah had her back to Mrs. Mark; she stopped
her ferocious attack of the oven rack and slowly turned to face her mother. Her
face was pallid and the color of ivory, “I don’t know.” She sounded passive and
nonplussed, “Is he not here?” She
appeared to be fading, as though she was becoming one with the background.
“No, Leah, Leah!” Mrs. Mark screeched at her
in a tinny, monstrosity of a scream.
The eruption of
noise pricked at her unconscious mind. She was opening her eyes, attempting to
take in her surroundings. People in white coats were rushing around her,
talking in low, hushed, urgent tones, “It’s not working properly. She keeps
falling back into those weird memories about Leah.”
She sat up
quickly, her head began to spin, but she didn’t care about that; she cared
about Leah. “Have you seen her? Have you seen my Leah?” She begged of the
doctors, begged them to tell her where she was, where they were hiding her. “I
just saw her. She was in the kitchen. Is she still in the kitchen? Where’s my
Leah?”
“The medication is
completely backwards,” said a man in glasses, with graying hair, clearly in
charge. “She is seeing Leah more vividly, in some extreme resolution, so she believes,
more than ever, that Leah is real. We have to alter that. Just leave her off
medication for now; she’d be better without it than with. Just bring her back
to her room.” The man talking was wearing the cleanest white coat of all the
other white jacketed people, Mrs. Mark noticed. She liked him.
And so they
brought her back to her room. And she sat in that sterile room, leaned against
that sterile bed, felt that sterile floor beneath her naked, scabbed skin and
she smiled a twisted, tangled mess of a smile, because finally they had let her
see her Leah again.
Love from Pullman,
The Blonde and the Bullshit
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