great perhaps searching

Hong Kong

too young, too dumb to know things like love

Message from Writer

‘because i could not stop for death
he kindly stopped for me
the carriage held but just ourselves
and immortality’
- emily dickinson

The Colours of the Night

May 23, 2020

FREE WRITING

2
A giant, towering creature peered into the windows of our sleepy town, staring as one by one, the lights went out and the world fell silent. The night was alive with all the dark and murky colours of its jet black soul.   
I knew better than to fear its twisted heart, bright enough to recognise that there were cracks in even the most vicious of demons. I was determined to find those soft spots and crawl into their crevices, determined to tame the untameable beast. 
I glanced up at the sky, its black canvas splattered with glistening stars, each a portal into the world beyond. A world I hoped was full of light. But for now, my feet were planted firmly on the ground, stuck in this cloudy reality, in which good and evil were so intertwined that it was impossible to tell the two apart. 
I watched as my feet slowly picked themselves up moving along the winding path, crunching unsuspecting leaves with adamant violence. My eyes were fixed upon the white houses that adorned the path, searching for the kindest looking one. Tonight, I needed to find refuge, a place for my wandering soul to rest.
I knocked on door after door, hoping for someone to answer, but I was always greeted with the cold embrace of silence. I was nearing the end of the road and there was only one house left, tucked behind a greyish green bush. Cautiously, I trood through the mud, careful not to smudge my pristine white sneakers for fear of being rejected because of my appearance. I approached the door and lifted my shivering fingers up to the brass knocker, letting it fall out of my grasp and clang on the wooden door. 
I closed my eyes and began to count. One. Two. Three. I listened for the sound of shuffling feet or muffled voices, my ears open wide and my heart full of hope. Four. Five. Six. Still nothing. I felt my stomach drop to my feet and my shoulders slump, looks like I would be spending yet another twelve hours alone with the beat of the night. Maybe I would finally find one of it’s cracks tonight…
Suddenly, the door swung open. Hurrah! A middle aged woman with a bright pink bathrobe stood on the other side and welcomed me in. Her face was etched with scars of the past, each wrinkle telling a different story of her dull put happy life. I wandered around her living room as she made some tea in the kitchen. The wall was covered in floral wallpaper, old and starting to peel at the edges. I wrinkled my nose. This wasn’t exactly the most pleasant place. My eyes drifted up to a rectangular portrait hanging on the wall. Something about it seemed familiar. In complete disbelief, I approached the painting. 
It was me. 
I pinched myself, feeling my crescent shaped nails dig into the plasticine membrane of my skin. This was, indeed, reality. The memories flooded back to me and I lapped each one up like it was milk starting to sour. 
I remember the painter was old and hunched, his hand shaking as he dipped the brush into the pallet. But his strokes were bold and defiant, and if you didn’t know better, you would think his paintings were that of a young artist. He scowled at me as I brushed my auburn hair out of my face, disappointed that I couldn’t sit still. I was young then, only four or five and stillness was not exactly an option. My mother had demanded a portrait of me before she left for France, wanting to have something to hold onto. No one had explained to me why or how she was leaving, I only knew that one day she was there and the next she was not. I had missed her dearly after she left, and my chest was almost always heaving in pain as tears spilled down my thin face. 
Over the years, memories of her began to fade, until I could no longer remember her soothing tone of the mole on the bottom of her chin. This painting had jogged them, reminding me that there was a time when I was not alone in this world. 
I sighed, a single tear slipping out of the corner of my eye. I prepared for depression to slink in and capture me, anticipating my own inevitable demise. But then, the truth bit me in the nape of my neck and I turned, flabbergasted to face the woman who had so kindly, and so unexpectedly welcomed me into her home. 
“It’s you isn’t it? You’re my mom” 
And just like that, I had tamed the untameable beast. 

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