She has grown up, taught that she is to lower her head and be quiet. Now that she is an “adult,” she can’t help but think of how big a mistake that was. The inside of her arms are white a smooth, but that reflects none of the battles she has had to survive through, and even then, she doesn’t even feel truly alive – as if she’s lost in life and walking through a sea of fog. The sensation is foreign and unsettling, as if she will never find the exit, and the fog makes her feel defenseless, defenseless against the seas of stares and waves of malevolent whispers.
‘This,’ she reflects, ‘is why I will drown.‘
She has been raised to be a tame kitten, and hence her blunt claws and soft cries. Claws that cannot damage and a voice that does not carry.
She is useless, she realizes.
Not only does she not know how to defend herself, she cannot even see her enemies nor her friends. Later, she will wonder if those two are really different entities or simply labels of the same people in different times of a life. Once an enemy, now a friend. Once a friend, now an enemy.
Same thing, no?
Every time she musters a bit of strength to run through the fog, the fog seems to know this, and before she can begin to run, she is choking, suffocating, because the fog will not allow her to rebel, but the fog is an outsider, and she knows that what mostly holds her back are the lessons that she has been taught in her early years: head low, be obedient.
And obedient she is.
As she feels the last of her strength leaving her, the fog welcoming her onto her deathbed, she thinks,
‘Have I been good?’
The fog, as usual, gives her no answer.
Don’t know why I wrote this, but I did. (3/25)