Whispers of Myself

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Whispers of Myself
by, Melissa R. Mendelson


The image of video flashed before my eyes. Porcelain masks hung on the wall. Cat posters purred and smiled. Men stretched out across plastic sheets, covering pale walls. A mirror shined from a reflective light. All this now was gone, lost, but not on tape. And as I stand here today in this empty room, the past whispers to me, but the past was never so gentle.


People have it rough. I’ve heard the stories, but nobody has walked in my shoes. Nobody can tell the stories that I do tell. They catch glimpses, shake their heads in disbelief, and wave their hands to shake away the web that I spin, but I do not spin. I weave across the borders of past and present, spinning tales of the rough road now behind, and even I wonder, how am I still alive? Yes, people had it rough, but so did I. And this room? This room is no stranger to the horrors that I’ve seen or experienced.


And I want to let go. I want to move away and start living life. I have not lived in a very, very long time. I used to dream of love, but now I don’t know what that is. I’ve lost more than I’ve gained, but I’m still here. I just don’t know if I’m alive, and I’m held prisoner in the room that I grew up in. I want to shed the past, shred it, but how can I do that when I’m still here?


I used to find comfort in these four walls. Now, I find suffocation. I’m pacing endlessly, catching sleep in-between. My heart is quiet, and so are my dreams. If not for connection, I would be lost, but I keep my voice going beyond its whisper. I need to leave. I want to leave, but I’m still pacing around and around, walking in those same damn shoes. Hopefully, that will change, but I tell myself that every year. And every year ends the same, in disappointment.


And the footage of my old room flashes across the screen. It’s amazing that I kept it, and I stare deep into it, hungry to warn myself of things yet to come. Maybe, if I knew then what I know now, things would be different. I would be living an alternate life. I sometimes dream of those alternates. Where would I be today? Who would I be? Would I want to meet her, and what would she think of me?


The footage ends. The past is gone but never forgotten. How can I forget when I am still here? Things will change. They will change for the better, but how is a question that I could never answer. I don’t know if things will change. I just pace around and around, catching dreams in-between.

Created: Mar 29, 2014

Tags: prose, fiction, story

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