Kaira was tying up the twine of her next package. She was in her kitchen, her small boxed delivery on the table, dappled by the morning sun streaming in from the window, and she leapt up just as she put the last touches to her pretty twine bow.
She picked up the package and rushed to the door, where there were hooks nailed to the side, and there hung her sandy leather satchel, and her straw boater hat, with a sky blue ribbon tied around it, in an even bouncier, bonnier bow than the twined package. Kaira put the latter in the satchel, which she then slung over her shoulder, and glibly lifted the hat from its hook and stepped out into the sunshine.
Judging the day to be a good, breezy one, she put on her hat, and skipped to her derby riverboat, in the calm, sparkling, trickling river just across from her cottage. She jumped on board with the practised, careless grace of a dancer, and once she regained her balance, she breathed in the fresh river air, and looked at the lush, verdant trees by the bank.
Time to deliver a present, she thought.
After working ceaselessly to turn on the engine, its loud, rumbling vibrations music to her ears, skin, muscles and heart, she ran back on to the deck, and held on to her straw hat. Feeling the full power of the sun and the sky, she prepared to set off, the wind and boat both her friends.
Linda bolted out of her dressing room, breathing hard and frantically, blood dripping from her pale, porcelain hand. It cut deep, in so many ways.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, shaking, shuddering, shattering.
What have I done, what have I done? I can't go on.
These thoughts raced and fought in her mind.
I can't go on.
But it was her last curtain, her last performance at the opera, and she couldn't be late. Not now. Especially not now.
So, taking a final, deep, long breath, she wrapped her soaking red hand in her black dress, and composing herself, with a straight, stiff back, she set off for the stage.
The bright, hot, overhead lights silently judged her, condemned her.
The little child just realised that her mum wasn't holding her hand. Mum wasn't next to her either. Or in front of her, or behind her. Everywhere she turned, everywhere she looked, there were strangers' legs, coming and going, pushing her about, not seeing her, or not caring she was right in front of them. She was so small, and they were so big. She couldn't see or hear her mum anywhere. People were all around her and too close, and she had never felt so alone. She was sure her mum was with her a second ago. She was sure - she hoped - she was still in the mall. The crowd full of strange people was so close, and she could hardly breathe. For the first time in her short life, she began to panic. She wanted to cry and scream, hoping her mum will find her again. Should she stay put, or move to a space with less people, and be easily spotted? She didn't know. She was rooted to the spot, ready to burst into tears, and demand that reality return to normality, and her mum appear and hug her, soothe her, make her safe again. Make life familiar again.
There is nothing worse for a child than being lost.
Marooned. Helpless. Alone. Unseen. Unknown. Unsafe.
Unfinished Stories
No comments:
Post a Comment