Marbled Articulation

• Natasha Ho, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

The door slams behind, a torch shines through those dusty Holland blinds, cold metal bars are ironed against the windows so no one can see in or escape out. A constant grumble rings throughout this dungeon, where cells are held with cherished moments, ‘happiness, laughter, love, and hope.’ Trapped by life itself, the ghost of the past comes by to haunt, every hour the clock strikes, floating aggressively against blocks of bricks, wiping the coloured paints to show a blank canvas of white and grey. Blue starts to fade, the fog begins to spread within the air, a blurred and unclear picture falls from the wall, landing on hard cold concrete.
Lied by the symphony of words, the beloved harmony of a well-known song. The tune is swivelled by unwanted white noise, draining life within the space, weakened to become helpless and deaf, swirling in grey and white blankness. The smell of sour sugar in ice cream containers and popcorn kernels in between the couch, stuck where no one ever looks…no one knows.
Can you hear those footsteps? Those quiet steps lead quickly towards the door, throwing a knife behind the heart of a sweet strawberry, waiting to slowly bleed dry after all the dark bruises, left to rot and disappear with the coating of grey mould.
The plants grow tasteless colours, dry and decaying.
No one cares, no one reaches out to save a broken vase… No one.
The chords in the phone are broken, bits of wires unconnected, never to ring and stays untouched. No one is home, I do not exist, nowhere to belong, forever alone, a garbage bag full of broken bits, crushed to ashes… grey burnt ashes, blown beneath the dust. They are mixed with mostly white whereas I have swirled with a darker accent, playing a broken tune no one hears. He holds you tight and manoeuvres your brain, to make you think you’d have a chance, but chances are buried within the sun, burnt to crisp and dehydrated, crushed yet again by his heavy foot. Poison ivy climbs above the windows, a touch of death is always near, maybe it’s safer on the other side.
Everyone has marbled colours inside, my colours have faded into the dark and deep, salty water fixes bitterness at the bottom. A whale’s cry echoes throughout the ocean, echoing weeps are ignored, the other fish swim away breathing easily, whilst I blow steam into the empty air. Birds are free to fly higher than the clouds, but I am always under the cloud, angry weather washes me away to shore. Dry and salty sands heal open wounds, the wounds inside a whale cannot be covered by a sprinkle of magic, the water chooses to drown and hide me.
The reasons for the piece of paper is hidden out loud:
‘Anxiety, anger, depression, and stress!’