[It wasn’t meant to be personal. It wasn’t meant to be the kind that unravels you from inside and tosses every failure and every flaw you have until you’re scraped clean and everything is out in the open, guts and organs and all, and you can’t find it in yourself to hold it in anymore. It wasn’t meant to be the kind that destroys you, time and time again.
But somehow, it is what it is meant to be.]
The clutter of the house had always made her cringe; the damp walls sent shivers down her spine and the creatures of the night living inside those very walls made her skin crawl.
It was a very bad house; so terrible she dared not touch it when she visits. She only needed one thing, and that was all she was getting from that poor excuse of a house she calls: and that’s shelter. Beyond that, she could hardly find it in herself not to resist. It was that bad.
But it was not exactly easy to find another rental space that was within her budget, either. No, it has to be this decrepit den that was more rubble than structure; and from the very beginning she knew it was not expensive enough to offer her the comfort of a home. But alas, it was functioning and it provided her a roof above her head.
And for the time being, that was all she could ever hope to ask for.
[You’d think it’s just something on the outside; like a feeble thing you can choose to ignore just to feel better and pretend that you’re more than who you are.
You can paint it all, white and red and brown and black; but underneath all that lush is a crumbling foundation made out of cheap material that can barely hold your wild, wild thoughts.
It’s not just the clothes that make you feel like there’s something wrong. It’s not just some piece of cotton or silk or wool that makes you feel like everyone’s eyes are on you and they’re full of criticism and judgment.
No. It’s that thawing feeling in your gut that shakes all your imperfections out of their hiding spot for everyone to see and finally realize that you’re rotten to the core.
But what can you do, limited as you are with the confines of your dark, dark mind?]
She awakes with her hand pressed upon her cheek, leaving an imprint that resembled more abstract than concrete. The creaking of the springs under the grimy bed diminished as she pulled herself up – prepared to leave and poised to run. She had never liked staying in the house for long, and she was not going to start now just because she ached for a little more sleep.
She descended the stairs, floorboards groaning and protesting under her weight. She marveled at how easily it replicated what she felt inside: hiding (read: living) behind the splintered wood and forced to be okay with every lump thrown her way.
She knew she should not feel half as bad. After all, it was not her fault that she was born lacking and destitute.
But it was like the world hated her and the people who brought her to life. The decrepit den was placed exactly in the middle of London’s most opulent subdivision; where Victorian houses and freshly-mowed grass mocked her at first sight, golden plates and marble porch steps in cahoots to scorn her, people who did not even have the courtesy to be discreet about their assumptions of her.
[You can’t pretend to be something you’re not. You can’t pretend to be the girl with average looks and average intellect when you’re not even half as good as average. You can’t pretend that everyone will see you the way you want to be seen because it all reflects what’s within. And you’re all dark, no light; lurking behind the shadows that you might as well be one. Even when you want to be seen, even when you want to be heard, you can’t. And you have to be okay with that because it’s not going to change.
You were a shadow, and you’ll remain a shadow and that’s how everyone’s going to see you: dark and dark and darker. Even if you try to splash a little color on and change your style, they won’t ever see you as anything else but.]
She honestly did not know why it was there. But she was almost sure it was a joke, played by the architect or the engineer dared to construct a house fit to accommodate a hoard of rodents instead of an actual human person.
The den stands out like a sore thumb in a palm of abnormally perfect fingers; very much like herself amongst the ladies of the ton, in fact.
And she hated it; to the extent that she would actually consider burning it if not for the other fact that she would be completely homeless if she did. However, often times she would also wonder about the possibility of burning those abnormally perfect fingers instead; what a waste, yes, but wouldn’t that make her feel better? Just her and the decrepit den – no Victorian houses and freshly-mowed lawns to mock her, no golden plates and marble porch steps to scorn her, no one to make any assumptions about her, discreet or otherwise. Yes, she conceded, she very much liked that idea but she couldn’t ponder over that fantasy for too long. A day at the local diner calls for her attention.
[Your thoughts, looming and formidable, will always be your deciding factor. Not the clothes you wear, not the words you say, and definitely not the things you do. It’s all in your head, you see, and it’s cluttered, encased in damp walls and filled with night crawlers.
You’re under the notion that everyone’s controlled by the way they’re dressed or how they look and that’s… depressing, but the joke is on you and it’s quite entertaining.
You entertain menacing thoughts, fuelled by your emotions of hatred and self-loathing. And while at first it seemed like suicide, everyone starts to realize that it’s murder. And what chance you have of convincing them you aren’t as dark as you look, disintegrates altogether.]
She dragged herself out the door, forcing herself to touch the rustic knob and twist. She felt the dirt stain her skin and steeled herself, muttering a mantra in her head: Don’t pull away. Don’t pull away. Don’t pull away. She slipped past the crumbling door and slammed it shut behind her, beyond caring of its current state. If she comes back and it still holds, then she would make do; but if it falls apart and dissipated into dust before she comes home, then that’s one less problem to worry about.
She skipped past the dirt road and made her way to the diner, hoping against hope that she, at least, looked presentable. Although it is already common knowledge that the dilapidated house was hers and the reputation of it, always hanging above her head like a rain cloud, she couldn’t help but wish that the patrons were thinking of other pressing matters rather than the fact that she was not just penniless and frightful, covered in soot from where she unwillingly touched the house, but also serving them.
“Are you sure this meal is clean, girly?” chortled one when she came by to deliver their orders. She flushed red and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She would have spat hurtful words and also, maybe, kicked him in the groin but she did not. She would not. She does not have the courage to and she is not in the position to.
[“Crawl out, crawl out, crawl out”, cries the voice inside your head, repeatedly and tirelessly. But of course, you can’t. You’re stuck. You’re alone. You’ve got nowhere to go and your thoughts are just emphasizing every little detail of your faults and blemishes, and you want to leave. Leave it all behind even if it means leaving yourself in the process because you’d much rather have the soul inside the body than the shell of a skin that was more corpse to you than any other in a graveyard.
You’d much rather they judge you with your thoughts and with your actions rather than how you dress and how you look like and whether or not you could fit into a size zero. But can’t you see? You’re only as dark as your mind makes you out to be, and your mind is blackness all over.
And you’ve got it all wrong.]
She had thought that maybe being out of the house will bring her some sense of peace; she had thought that maybe, when she is finally out of that dingy building, she would not feel as filthy as when she is in it; she had thought…wrong.
She was always going to feel bedraggled and threadbare; out of place even when she is somewhere she belonged, even when she tries to tell herself she does. She was always going to wake up on a grimy bed in a dingy house filled with night-crawlers and damp walls and creaking stairs and rusty doorknobs. Always, always, always.
She is never going to earn enough to buy a house that will be her home as well as her shelter; that would provide her comfort as well as a roof above her head. She is never going to have her lawn, freshly mowed, or her porch steps made out of marble. She is never going to have a golden plate bearing her address or ever be a lady of the ton. Never ever, never.
And she is scared because of it.
And she wants to run away.
The house would not let her.
[You might as well know: you’re in a cage. You’re imprisoned inside a body that you don’t want and inside a skin that makes you more uncomfortable than any clothing in the world. You’re trapped inside, outside; and both are your doing. I’d tell you how to get out, but it’s just too fun seeing you like this. And until you figure it out how to unlock those chains that binds you to your body and your skin:
You’re not going anywhere.]
NOTES ON HOW TO UNDERSTAND THIS VERY LONG NARRATIVE:
1. Read through the whole thing.
2. Read the italicized paragraphs then the un-italicized ones. I think they make more sense independently but it’s a must they’re read together.
The italicized paragraphs are written in the point of view of the antagonist. The un-italicized paragraphs are written in the point of view of the protagonist.
[P.S The point was, there isn’t just one scenario where one has to suffer the incident of feeling uncomfortable wearing this or that article of clothing. When your skin is the very thing that makes you uncomfortable then that’s the problem.]
