Catrat
New Member
I wrote this at about 3 in the morning on clonazepam (an anti-psycotic) so it's a little strange and a little sad..
She sits on the chair next to me, the girl with the owlish gaze and the desperate dreams. She tells me stories about things I always thought were impossible, nothing is impossible she says, not if you believe in it strongly enough.
She shouts me short blacks at suburban cafes and we sit there together in the sunlight chain-smoking and drinking coffee and she tells me about the fairies she found in the garden last night. I laugh inside, blinking at her recognition of things that are not possible. She speaks with a serious pleasure. She tells me that someday she will fly.
The people at my school all think she’s mental. Corridor conversations talk of my schizophrenic sister with the bald head. She’s left to go to the Psych Ward, they all say and I don’t have the strength to deny it.
One day she takes me to the Skytower and we stand on one of the top levels staring down at the murky Auckland mist below us, she tells me tales about the butterflies talking to her, and she dangles her legs off the seat. She’s wearing her favourite hat that day, the blue one with knitted plaits that dangle to her neck. She cries because she cannot find the right place to jump, she faints and when she wakes up she tells me that maybe she’s too sick to fly with tears streaming down her face.
The doctor tells me that these illusions are only a natural response to her illness, he tells me that it will only be a matter of time. Take her to places she’s never been before. She wastes away in front of my eyes, crushed like a delicate flower. We go to the beach and swim in the waves, her pale head reflects the moonlight. She puts her grey and purple striped beanie on and tells me that the fairies have told her to come away with them. I nod and smile and inside I slowly break.
Our parents won’t let me take her many more places, we go for walks when she has the strength. She talks to the butterflies and the little white dandelions, she tells them that soon it will be time. She pulls off her hat and exposes her bald head to the stars. She tells me she is going up there with the winged things. For once I believe her.
On the day that she leaves us I sit in her room holding her hand as she lies there, too weak to say a word. Her eyes roll around her head and she whispers softly of enchanted lands. Her breathing becomes audible, short sharp gasps and a kind of terror grips me. She looks at me and tells me that it’s time to fly and then she breathes once more and it ceases. I grip her hand, I feel her pulse. There is nothing there, a void body.
The doctor comes to our house within minutes, brandishing flowers in my face. It’s so sad he says how many young people this disease claims, it’s sad that we could not do more to save your sister. The chemotherapy had very little effect. It’s sad…
I walk outside as he talks to my parents and I swear I can see a little winged girl flying away from the body in which she was once imprisoned.
She sits on the chair next to me, the girl with the owlish gaze and the desperate dreams. She tells me stories about things I always thought were impossible, nothing is impossible she says, not if you believe in it strongly enough.
She shouts me short blacks at suburban cafes and we sit there together in the sunlight chain-smoking and drinking coffee and she tells me about the fairies she found in the garden last night. I laugh inside, blinking at her recognition of things that are not possible. She speaks with a serious pleasure. She tells me that someday she will fly.
The people at my school all think she’s mental. Corridor conversations talk of my schizophrenic sister with the bald head. She’s left to go to the Psych Ward, they all say and I don’t have the strength to deny it.
One day she takes me to the Skytower and we stand on one of the top levels staring down at the murky Auckland mist below us, she tells me tales about the butterflies talking to her, and she dangles her legs off the seat. She’s wearing her favourite hat that day, the blue one with knitted plaits that dangle to her neck. She cries because she cannot find the right place to jump, she faints and when she wakes up she tells me that maybe she’s too sick to fly with tears streaming down her face.
The doctor tells me that these illusions are only a natural response to her illness, he tells me that it will only be a matter of time. Take her to places she’s never been before. She wastes away in front of my eyes, crushed like a delicate flower. We go to the beach and swim in the waves, her pale head reflects the moonlight. She puts her grey and purple striped beanie on and tells me that the fairies have told her to come away with them. I nod and smile and inside I slowly break.
Our parents won’t let me take her many more places, we go for walks when she has the strength. She talks to the butterflies and the little white dandelions, she tells them that soon it will be time. She pulls off her hat and exposes her bald head to the stars. She tells me she is going up there with the winged things. For once I believe her.
On the day that she leaves us I sit in her room holding her hand as she lies there, too weak to say a word. Her eyes roll around her head and she whispers softly of enchanted lands. Her breathing becomes audible, short sharp gasps and a kind of terror grips me. She looks at me and tells me that it’s time to fly and then she breathes once more and it ceases. I grip her hand, I feel her pulse. There is nothing there, a void body.
The doctor comes to our house within minutes, brandishing flowers in my face. It’s so sad he says how many young people this disease claims, it’s sad that we could not do more to save your sister. The chemotherapy had very little effect. It’s sad…
I walk outside as he talks to my parents and I swear I can see a little winged girl flying away from the body in which she was once imprisoned.
