On Beauty & the Wasteland - v.1/issue 2 - Map Making

On Beauty & the Wasteland

V.1 / issue 2

Map Making

I am locked inside the room again. 

“Go to your room!,’ my mother said eyeing me before brandishing a wooden spoon and running towards me screaming. ‘Off with her head!’ I imagine the queen of hearts declaring. I must have displeased mother in some way. 

She gots a few good swats at the backs of my knees as I scrambled up the stairs though I didn’t feel the stings, so intent was I on reaching the room. Slamming the door, I leaned my paltry weight against it praying she wouldn’t force her way in. I heard the click of the doorknob that told me without testing that the door is locked. 

I am locked inside the room again.

Our toys are all downstairs in the playroom. It sounded delightful when mother first told me of the plan. A playroom full of toys! But, it also means when I’m locked up here as I am now, I have nothing to do. And I have no idea why I’m up here. My fists tighten. My jaw is set. I pummel the door which I am still leaning against. Screaming, tears falling down my cheeks. Listening. No response. Silence. I hate her. 

“I hate you,” I wail as I punch the door. “I” punch “hate” punch “you” punch. 

I turn towards the modest room with rage scanning: two twin bed, two tall chests of drawers, two framed pictures on the wall above each bed. One closet. One window. 

I dissect the beds with fury, skinning off the comforters, sheets, plucking the pillows, tearing the mattresses and box springs from their metal skeletons. Opening each drawer and without stopping to examine my findings, I grasp onto whatever is within, throwing each fistful of viscera as hard as I can. I dump the drawers and tip the dressers themselves, empty carcasses, onto the heap for a bonfire. No match.

Next, I turn my attention to the closet. None of what is in there is mine or my baby sisters. It is all mother’s. Her wedding dress is inside a zipper bag. Unzipping the zipper feels satisfying for a moment. She married dad when I was two. I was there. Before I began school, Mother told me that he was going to adopt me so he could be my real dad and asked if I liked that. The court was going to ask me, she said. I told her no, because he hits me. She said, “now we can’t say that,” all smooth and sweet-like. I don’t know why we can’t say that. When we went to court, a part of me wanted to say it, but I didn’t and I don’t now remember being asked. Like, I had been waiting for my chance and before it came, the papers were signed and we were driving home. And he was my real dad.

It was an ugly courtroom all boxy and yellow-orangey wood everywhere, no windows at all. This room I’m in now is ever so slightly pink like white that sometimes blushes if I stare at it for a long time. And I do stare at it for a really long time. So sometimes I can see the pink wall just like I asked for when mother asked me what color I’d like my room to be. 

The heap contains everything now. Everything. Except the 2 pictures on the wall. Each showing a child, head bowed, praying behind glass in the box of a wooden frame. 

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep. 

If I should die before I wake, 

I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.

And all the metal hangers…. I have to pee. 

I am lying on my back on the floor in front of the door. Each time I slam my feet into the door, I scream as loud as I can. I scream, “I have to pee.” Soon the screams lose their verbal structure and devolve into howls and moans. I am losing momentum. Longer pauses between bouts of anger. My fire is going out. Listening. No response. Silence. I hate her. 

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you” kick. “I” kick “hate you” kick. 

“I hate you,” I whisper to myself. 

Lying there looking up at the door, I notice in the center of the brass doorknob, a tiny hole. I kneel up to peer into it, to see what I can see. Perhaps I can see through it to the other side? But it is dark. I can’t see anything. The metal hangers… they might fit. I try to get the tip through, but it doesn’t work, it’s the wrong angle. I need to bend it straight. 

I try using my mouth. The metal tastes similar to blood, but cold, not warm like the blood when I bite the inside of my lips and cheeks and the tip of my tongue and suck. Sometimes my mouth sores fit right in between my bottom teeth ever so satisfyingly. The metal of the hanger makes my teeth hurt. With my small hands I work tenaciously to straighten the hanger. 

I straighten the hanger, and it slides into the doorknob hole perfectly. I poke around in the dark. Map Making. I don’t know how long. I don’t know how doorknobs work and feel frustrated that the door won’t open, and I have to pee. 

So, I open the window and take off my pants. I lift myself onto the sill so that my bare bum is out the window, I feel the air on my behind. My legs press hard against the metal window frame. My back is pressing against the window itself with my head inside and my hands hold on tight to the sill so I don’t fall. I pee, experiencing a momentary relief. 

Sitting here, I allow myself to air dry. And I remember the spiders who live on the side of the house. I’m afraid of them. What if they bite my bare bottom while its hanging out here? I feel a thrill of terror, pulling myself back inside the room and turning to lean my head out of the window to look for them. 

This time of late summer there are so many spiders and webs covering the white siding of the house. Sometimes I sit under the pine tree with the blue green needles close to the house. It’s low boughs offer good hiding. From there, I can peer up at the spiders from below without being seen. Looking out, now, I can see this favored pine tree from where I am, it boughs waving softly in the gentle breeze. I wave back.

I return my attention to the spiders below me. “Hello,” I whisper tentatively, watching them. Listening. No response. But I can feel them. I hear birds calling in the distance and feel the breeze on my face. I see the spiders’ webs respond to the breeze by dancing gently. Charlotte talks to Wilber in his cage. Maybe these spiders will talk to me in mine? These spiders don’t move in their webs. They rest still in their centers, legs folded into themselves.

After some time of observing them and seeing their beautiful webs dance and glisten as if they were made of rainbows, I am no longer as afraid of them. I hope they will be my friends, which I tell them. “Will you be my friends?” I tell them how beautiful their creations are. Listening, I hear them murmur softly from a place deep within. They say, “we’ve got you. Climb down our webs like trellises, little one. Come outside and play.”