Etude: a Fairy Tale

The blood rushes to my head when I think of the ground. It’s a long way down. On one side of me a window shows the sun setting over the giant boulders at the edge of the lake. I used to swim there and spread my hair across the boulders to dry in the sun. My mother’s cameo ring always got tangled in my hair when I tried to reset the braid. On the other side of me, a doorway shows Benito’s face, twenty feet tall, in black and white spray paint on the alley wall. So he’s always watching the door. 

He used to bring me flowers according to the season. Strange flowers from all over the world. Birds of Paradise to remind me of the heat of the jungle. Brown-orange mums (my favorite—so crisp) to remind me of football games and apple cider. (Why didn’t he bring apple cider?) He could be persuaded, sometimes, into trust and security. Into something like happiness. He could be persuaded to rebraid my hair with the blood-red poppies (to forget me of everything). 

I stand on the bed, waiting. Will the magic ever expire? 

I liked him so much more when he was flesh and blood and six feet tall. Now he’s paint and pigment. Never changing. Only watching my door. Never bringing me flowers. Clutching in his fist, the key to the door.