“Do They Know?” (My take on being “in the closet.”)
By Tash Hill
There is a box that sits in a plain white room. The translucent, three by three surface is just as drab it surrounds; no dents, no colors and no fascinations mark the flawless cube. Inside the box, a girl is crouched, body set straight forwardly ahead, shoulders stiff and held high in a rather defensive manner. Slim and lithe the girl is beauty hidden behind the undesirable; light smothered by the all-consuming dark. Her brunette hair is messy, yet perfectly coiffed. It sits flat against alabaster skin, frames a face – a mask – that holds emotions that are hidden.
Bright blue eyes –sparkling yet dull – harbor lies and deceit; shadows and smog. Roiling like the oppressive grey of slowly creeping clouds, the truth is camouflaged; stored away like acorns by a desperately hoarding squirrel that scampers from tree to tree; fighting time. Lie after lie – hidden fact after hidden fact – is contained within the once clear irises. Another heavy brick, another weight added to the already heavy load.
So it builds and it builds.
The air is cold, the atmosphere chilled, yet small drops of sweat bead upon her smooth, pale forehead. Although she feels the salty wetness crawl sluggishly across her cool skin, not a move does she make to wipe away the torpidly moving liquid.
Passes by do not see the room, or the box inside the room, or the girl inside the box. She knows no one can see, yet she still quakes with the occasional bout of fear. What if the next person to venture by could see the girl inside the box and the box inside the room?
Another secret hidden, another secret told. She begins to rock back and forth, muttering to herself, her speech insensible to others; if any cared to listen. All her actions, all her words, seem to be shadowed and unimportant in the face of the constant stress.
She looks in a mirror and does not see herself, does not witness the person beneath. The girl she spies is perfect, no flaws allowed. She smiles graciously and performs tasks of goodwill. She feels sympathy, she works diligently. She labours and she laughs, practices religion and pretends a faith.
All the while she sits in her box, pretending and pretending.
Sincerity and honesty, she knows, is white and transparent. One can see through the truth as one can peer into a glass box; much like her own. Little does she know, that her box is simply an illusion, no truth does it contain. Small cracks zigzag across the apparently impenetrable, unflawed confines of the box. Fissures and dents, stains and chips mar the cube. No truth exists here, no authenticity exists anywhere.
A pointed finger, a brow raised in an accusatory manner. Further does the girl withdraw. She speaks, an almost truth, a slip of the tongue and she scrambles frantically for cover; hiding behind yet another lie. A slur, a name not directed at her, yet an invisible tear drops to splash noiselessly against the plain white floor. An imagined slight, a possible smirk; and so she wonders . . . do they know?
Submitted Via Share Your Articles
Published By Cyril P Abraham