Blurred Lines

WhatsApp Image 2018-06-06 at 18.58.23

Nothing makes sense, not the orange sun, awaking from his moon-eyed slumber nor the ice – cream man, deathly pale yet full of life always passing by, on instinct just as the clock strikes four. The memory of a winter’s moon leaves me cold and breathless in its wake. Unfamiliar hands reach for mine as I dance through a sea of white. The feeling of a touch, lights a thousand fires within me and yet I feel cold and numb. The white snow is now tainted, slowly changing color, as red slowly kills white I’m suddenly pulled out of my haunting by a familiar voice. A drop of wetness burns my skin, it seems the voice is crying out but for whom, surely not for me. It calls out a name, my name but why? My eyes start bleeding, since when did blood look so clear? I’m running, stumbling through the colorless night, the seductive winter landscape behind me slowly peeping through my rugged shoulder as if waiting for me to return. My skin clings on to the sudden wetness, my legs moving as if on instinct towards the voice. 

The voice is growing fainter now and my heart is slowly losing its rhythm. Like a broken record I keep running, my heart has long stopped beating, my warmth has ceased breathing life into the cold winter air and my vision slowly begins to blur as a deadly exhaustion overcomes me. I awake to the familiar ringing of a bell, a long-forgotten memory tugs at my mind pulling me under its mighty wave. I see myself, not the broken husk of a person I am today but the “me” I was as a child happy and carefree. My nimble hands are tightly wrapped around the arms of a familiar woman as if scared that I might let go, that’s strange why can’t I see her face? The clock strikes four and as if on cue a blue ice- cream truck pulls up behind us. A pale-faced man in white comes out ice-cream in hand, lured by its taste, I tug at the woman’s hand pleading to let go. Instead of instant freedom, my hands are met with nails clawing skin. The woman shouts out something but her voice becomes a mere whisper as I free from her grip and run towards the man in white. His hands which once held a promise of frosty wonder are now empty. I watch fascinated as he slowly changes, his pale face free of wrinkles looks much younger now, suddenly I’m haunted by an indistinct feeling that I’ve seen the man before but where? I’m not the carefree child I once was, I’ve grown now. The man in front of me holds an empty whisky bottle and my hands, my nimble care-free hands which once held a mother’s warmth carries an empty cigarette case.

I’m pulled out of my reverie by the ringing of an all too familiar bell, it sounds closer now. The sound finds its way to a blue ice cream truck, the very same one from my memory. I’m met with a familiar pale face holding the same promise of a frosty treat but this time I don’t run towards him. The woman’s face rings clear in my mind now, so does the owner of the crying voice. I run with renewed strength towards the voice not turning to look back, towards her who’s warm hands I never acknowledged, who saw beyond my broken husk, who’s eyes cried a river for her drug addict of a daughter. 
I run towards her, my mother.

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One thought on “Blurred Lines

  1. me suba says:

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