Every morning Jackson opens the door to my room, and he walks in, speaking to me as if I can respond; he smiles, inhales, and then exhales with a great sense of relief and pleasure. He walks to the window, on the newly installed carpet, the new fibers between his toes clearly amuses his soul.
He looks at me, still smiling, as I lay on the bed, motionless, cold, looking frightened. He pulls the covers up over me and runs his fingers through my hair, watching as the sun glistens through each dead-end strand.
I hate it when he does that.
Then, as if trying not to disturb me, he carefully walks around the bed, stands in the doorway, and gives one last Grinch-like smile before heading back down the hall.
I watch as he enters his office; he spends a lot of time in there. The room was frigid and dark; he never opens the thick, dusty, black curtains in this room. The first thing he does when he walks in is look out of behind them, looks around the neighborhood, and closes them, making sure no amount of light can sneak in. The only luminescence allowed to shine through comes from the blue light filter rapidly pulsating from his computer monitor. He reinforces the curtains and proceeds to log on to the computer to check and send a few emails before 7am.
I float back down the hall and stand in my doorway and stare at myself. Death is unbecoming for me.
I continue to the front door as I try, yet again, to leave. I can’t, something won’t let me, so I wander back to my room and look out the window. I see why he opens the curtains in here. The lighting is lively, but the view is even more beautiful. The cloudless blue sky, chirping birds and cicadas as the soundtrack, and sequoia trees stand tall and mighty. I’ve been here for a week and have never looked out of this window.
I have only just come to terms with my demise, and though I haven’t felt anything since he wrapped his hands around my throat, I am feeling a strange sense of hope watching the corn stalks drift in the wind.
I hear him leave his office just as I noticed something strange outside; Jackson breaks his routine and says
“Hey, Breen-Bean,” only my mom calls me that, “… your mommy says hi!” He then heads down the hall towards the kitchen to prepare his breakfast and start his day. I haven’t talked to my mother in weeks after we had our huge fight. Maybe she can sense something is wrong and so she reached out.
I glance over at my body, hopeful and annoyed, as the doorbell rings. That’s never happened before. Maybe today is going to be a good day after all.
Corinne the Writer 