Does it really matter what day of the week it is. Especially when you live in a padded room. OK so it isn’t really padded. But there isn’t much - I daren’t pick at the foam mattress or they may not let me have another one. They can poke and prod, repeat the same questions forty times. But I’m not saying anything, nothing at all. I scream in my dreams - that’s enough.
Mama told me if I was a good girl I’d get food, clothes and something to eat. If I didn’t want to cause trouble I’d best keep my mouth shut. No one likes a tattle tale. That was one of the reasons she told me that she wasn’t going to tell me where she was going. She said it was better that way. She said she should have given me up when I was born.
Sometimes they let me wash out bed pans of the older folk here. I don’t mind visiting them. I comb their hair, smile nice. And let them gabber. They can think I’m their granddaughter. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be on the outside. I saw what it did to my mother. And those nice folks who I stayed with a while back. They just worked too hard. They seemed to like it though.
I have no ambitions. I can read when they let me have a book. I can listen to the TV in the common room. Don’t want no boy or man to know me. Don’t want to have to give up babies. I know I wasn’t the first one my mother gave up. Might not be the last if she is still alive. I only know I’ll never see her again. Don’t need no mirrors, don’t want to look myself in the eye.
Holiday weeks really screw up our schedule here. Guess I’ll have to wait until the New Year to know what the damn day is. Then the food will tell me what day it is, for example Monday we get jello for dessert for our evening meal. I got me this book to write in. I write real small in my own language. With my own symbols. And I don’t bother writing the date down. Every once in awhile ‘they’ borrow it to try and figure out if I’m making any sense or progress. I hope they don’t figure it out until I’m eighty.
Only other thing I can figure I’d be good for is if I lived in a convent. But I don’t have any faith so I guess it’s better that I’m here. Who should I sign myself as today? The name my mama gave me or the one that echoes like a soft horse whinny? Philly...
Claudette, Should I post 'The piece' or a link to the piece? I'm not always sure who the 'reply' comment is going to if there is more than one story submitted.
The 411 information page is non-existent.
I do pop back now and again to see if there is a 'readership' since I don't follow post comments as one then gets everything (not just what might be related to their own piece) that just gets to messy in one's inbox.
Absent
ReplyDeleteDoes it really matter what day of the week it is. Especially when you live in a padded room.
OK so it isn’t really padded. But there isn’t much - I daren’t pick at the foam mattress or they may not let me have another one. They can poke and prod, repeat the same questions forty times. But I’m not saying anything, nothing at all. I scream in my dreams - that’s enough.
Mama told me if I was a good girl I’d get food, clothes and something to eat. If I didn’t want to cause trouble I’d best keep my mouth shut. No one likes a tattle tale. That was one of the reasons she told me that she wasn’t going to tell me where she was going. She said it was better that way. She said she should have given me up when I was born.
Sometimes they let me wash out bed pans of the older folk here. I don’t mind visiting them. I comb their hair, smile nice. And let them gabber. They can think I’m their granddaughter. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be on the outside. I saw what it did to my mother. And those nice folks who I stayed with a while back. They just worked too hard. They seemed to like it though.
I have no ambitions. I can read when they let me have a book. I can listen to the TV in the common room. Don’t want no boy or man to know me. Don’t want to have to give up babies. I know I wasn’t the first one my mother gave up. Might not be the last if she is still alive. I only know I’ll never see her again. Don’t need no mirrors, don’t want to look myself in the eye.
Holiday weeks really screw up our schedule here. Guess I’ll have to wait until the New Year to know what the damn day is. Then the food will tell me what day it is, for example Monday we get jello for dessert for our evening meal. I got me this book to write in. I write real small in my own language. With my own symbols. And I don’t bother writing the date down. Every once in awhile ‘they’ borrow it to try and figure out if I’m making any sense or progress. I hope they don’t figure it out until I’m eighty.
Only other thing I can figure I’d be good for is if I lived in a convent. But I don’t have any faith so I guess it’s better that I’m here. Who should I sign myself as today? The name my mama gave me or the one that echoes like a soft horse whinny? Philly...
© JP/davh
(For me it is actually Thursday...didn’t see this yesterday.)
Could be a continuation of Wanting written for Flashy Fiction: All I want for Christmas; Tues Dec 25th, 2012.
Oh, goodo! This is going to be a good one. Glad you've come by and begun writing here.
ReplyDeleteClaudette,
DeleteShould I post 'The piece' or a link to the piece?
I'm not always sure who the 'reply' comment is going to if there is more than one story submitted.
The 411 information page is non-existent.
I do pop back now and again to see if there is a 'readership' since I don't follow post comments as one then gets everything (not just what might be related to their own piece) that just gets to messy in one's inbox.