Metamorphosis.

The little girl changes hands; the constant, unfamiliar action is making her arm ache. Lank blonde hair falls across her eyes and she brushes it away with the back of her hand. She wants to stop, but doesn’t want to upset Daddy. The little girl wants Daddy to love her.

Mummy doesn’t love her.The little girl remembers the time she got out of bed one night and found Mummy and a man laying on the couch with no clothes on. Mummy really yelled at her, made her cry. Shortly after that Mummy went away, leaving the little girl with her brothers and Daddy.

No, Mummy doesn’t love her. She wouldn’t have gone away if she did.

Her brothers are younger than her. The little girl has to look after them because Daddy has to work two jobs to make money, and he doesn’t have the time and is too tired when he comes home from work. Every day the little girl gets out of bed, and wakes up Daddy so he can get off early. Then she wakes up her brothers, makes breakfast, gets them ready for school, makes lunches for all three of them. After school the little girl makes them do their homework, cooks tea then she puts them to bed. She has taken over the role of the mother they don’t have.

Tonight, the little girl has become the wife her father doesn’t have.

A newborn baby will literally die if it doesn’t have continual physical contact with the people around it. It’s called failure to thrive. The baby needs to know it is needed. So does the little girl. She needs to feel that Daddy wants her; loves her. A faded primal instinct tells the little girl this is wrong, but the need to have Daddy touch her - be close to her - is overwhelming. It has been a long time since she has received any kind of attention from him.

Her other arm is aching now. She uses both hands to try and relieve the discomfort. Her father shudders and groans. He ejaculates over his daughter’s hands and arms. His eyes are closed with the rapture of the moment.
He doesn’t see the little girl start to cry.

Early next morning the little girl is in the kitchen. It’s still dark, the only light coming from the open door of the refrigerator. Her cheeks glisten, glazed by her tears. Daddy will be awake soon, getting ready to go to work. She has to make his sandwiches. She lays the ingredients out on the bench top, but one item she carries across the kitchen and drops into the rubbish bin.

It is a jar of mayonnaise.

It will be many years before she can eat it again.

"Metamorphosis" © Writing The Image 2007 / Peter Stone 2003

Echoes.

Not a lot happening now. We’re fast approaching the last day, and already many of the people have left.

Gone.

Someone coughs somewhere, the noise resounding up and down the corridors, emphasising their emptiness. There’s a flurry of activity as someone hurriedly gathers up their things and rushes out the door, not wanting to be left behind, not wanting to lose contact with the people who have come to mean so much to them. Hurrying to retain their sense of belonging, their perception of worthiness.

There are the usual stragglers. Those who hang back, saying the last goodbyes, making last minute arrangements to meet up somewhere else. Even one or two who seek the honour of being the last one out when the doors are closed and locked for the final time.

It had spirit, this place. The spirit of all who walked the length of its corridors. Infused in the walls are all the dreams, the hopes, the loves (lost and found), the battles (and what battles!), the laughter, and the tears of every person who entered. Will these walls hold that spirit? Will we be able to come back at some future time and feel the vibrancy of human emotions, like we can in some old houses that are described as having ‘character’? Or will the humanity slowly melt away, much the same as ice does when you’re defrosting the freezer? One day, perhaps, we’ll know.

But in the meantime, we will move to a new place and hope to instill there the same spirit that we are leaving behind. Speaking for myself, I believe that when the doors shut for the last time, a piece of me will be trapped inside forever, impregnated in these walls.

I did it all here. Laughed, cried, got drunk, made some enemies, made some incredibly wonderful friends who will be there for life, gained respect, learned respect. I found an amazing lady who loves me, and whom I love so very, very much. My eyes water with the emotions I have for her.

It’s time to say goodbye. When I walk out the doors, I will be taking so much with me, leaving so much behind.There’s a great future ahead, and that’s the direction I'm looking in. But, every now and then, I’ll turn and look back. I’ll think of all that has happened here. And in my mind I will slowly walk through the empty corridors where the only footsteps are echoes, hanging in the air like dust motes.

"Echoes" © Writing The Image 2007/Peter Stone 2005