Wednesday Stories: Roundabout

Wim Wenders 5

She walked around her own home running her fingers over the couch, allowing the red velvet upholstery to kiss her fingers. Her footprints were deliberately slow, and she pressed her feet down hard onto the cold marble floor as she inched her way through the living space that was hers.

She had been here the night before, and the nights before that. Never left really, and yet tonight, she saw it all as if it was her first time.

She listened hard to the whirring sound of the ceiling fan humming to its rhythm, hearing its song. She breathed in deep and ran her fingers down the white walls touching the framed photographs examining each one and the familiar faces blurred into an unfamiliarity. She looked hard at each face. A cat’s meow in the corridor outside startled her and a large framed photograph jumped, from the wall to the floor, glass parting as it landed on the floor, in pieces.

She knelt down fingering the old photograph, its textures flirted with her breaking skin as She touched the faces with her glass cut fingers, feeling them desperately, waiting desperately for the repetitive feel of the matte photograph to turn into warm skin. She ran her fingers over and over again, over the faces, in a roundabout fashion. Tears rolled down her cheeks slowly as the flat photograph gnawed at her skin and the static image scraped her rusty rusty heart.

She waited for them to breathe. 

To feel their warm breath on her fingers, how she longed.

She lay down, her bleeding fingers still touching faces, as they begin to colour the lips of the old woman in the photo. A smile broke out on the photograph’s red lips and when she had garnered her strength she leapt up  from the cold floor throwing herself into the deep vast unknown where black and white photographs breathed warm breaths.

And then, finally, she left her home for the last time waving goodbye to the whirring fan and the old photographs.

Waving goodbye to the feeble sleeping bleeding woman on the cold cold floor.

And walked into the arms of the smiling photograph.


BeKindRewrite – InMon

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