A bellow commences, shrieks of horror surround me, the quiet ambiance has swiftly gone astray. Soon, time will mean nothing. In these next 12 hours all that will occupy the mind is survival, sanity, and the obscure knowledge that it must come to an end at some point.
I am the canvas that has been colored on, one too many times. I am the one who stands idly by while being battered in outbreaks of a violent tantrum. I am the one who can remember, but never reminisce with another living being.
I, am the bedroom walls of a four year old.
This is my story;
When the open window shows nothing but dark, this is my solitude. I dream of better days in these hours of night. I sometimes wonder where the woman went who I once encompassed, she was wonderful. Covering me in beautiful paintings and washing me regularly. She never would make me endure the ghastly episodes of what I deal with today.
Daybreak is upon me now, the shadows of a rising sun shows up prudently and I fear what today will bring. The boy opens one eye and looks around…He must be plotting about how he will torture me today. The tacks inserted into me are beginning to sting, and I doubt if this ‘blanket fort’ that he calls it, will ever be taken down. The weight is so burdening, I so badly want to let it go. But I cannot, I have seen how the boy acts when something does not go his way. It is much too risky for me, as he often takes his frustration out on my surface.
As he leaves me I sigh relief, but before he is totally out of range I drop the pivotal push pin that holds up the majority of the fort, it falls, and with it falls my hopes of having a peaceful day. Soon the woman will enter and begin puncturing my being with pins, nails and anything else to shut the kid up from having a tantrum. If you ask me she spoils that brat, but no one ever asks me…My opinion is invalid.
It starts, he sees it fall out of the corner of his eye. He punches me and starts to scream for what he calls, Mama. She enters and just as I suspected, the torture begins.
As the woman tries to calm the boy by tormenting me with pain, she doesn’t see him (or chooses not to see him) removing a mucus like substance from his nostrils and smearing the stringy affliction all over me. What have I done in my life to warrant this mockery?
Finally she is done, and I believe that I will be given the gift of a few hours of peace, as they usually reside in the living room for the morning hours of the day. That is when I hear the woman, tell the boy that him and his sister will be inhabiting this room for the morning as she has company coming over. Selfish, horrid, female.
The two small children get settled in. The little girl is even worse than the boy, she finds it fit to ‘decorate’ me with the childish scribblings of a wax based device that the mother later scrubs off with an abrasive mixture of toxic cleaner that tarnishes my once primed paint. I almost prefer the decals of cartoon trains that were stuck on to me years ago, after the Monet’s and Van Gogh’s had been sadistically removed from my landscape.
These children have no regard for my feelings, currently they throw toys at my base, to merely see which ones will bounce back. All the while the mother laughs blissfully with her comrades while drinking coffee I imagine. I can remember a time when the woman drank coffee with me, only to now know she was leading me to a life of misery. I loathe her in present days.
It is time for the boy to go to school, and the girl will go down for her nap soon. The routine is something I have memorized, solely to have something to look forward to. Two and a half hours of rest is now in store for me.
They have returned and are playing with the train track in my midst. The boys screams of frustration are almost more than I can take. He cannot connect the pieces of the track in the way he has envisioned. The woman refuses to help the kid, and it is exasperating. She tells him she does not want to play track right now..Why woman, why!? Just help him, so he will shut up! You are not the one stuck here having to watch this atrocity.
Bedtime is now upon us, only a half hour more of this juvenile misery and the night will be mine. I wait patiently through some Dr.Suess literature, then gaze into the hallway bathroom where the boy brushes his teeth. Soon, so very soon I will get my dreams back. The Woman and the Man give the boy an over-zealous goodnight, this boy does not deserve the loads of attention they shower on him.
The lights go out, and again I revel in the memories of fresh paint, beautiful panel hangings and the calm contour of a life lived so many moons ago. The hope to regain this existence lives on, and in some distant continuation I believe that I will once more know the love of the finer things. One day.