Just a little girl, no older than four–
An innocent little thing, the color of peanut butter with the cutest smile.
She takes after her mother, you know?
That gorgeous almond-brown hair and that natural glow that comes with melanin.
But that beauty she was born with wasn’t meant to be brought into such an ugly world–
A brittle, rough-patch-ridden, cigarette-burned, house of a thousand smokes…
And that repulsive perfume that emanates from each little roll of nicotine and seems to nestle
itself in every nook of her body–in her hair…her very skin
She starts her trek to the kitchen, Doc McStuffins in one hand, the other vigorously scrubbing away at her little eyes,
sore from all the crying the night before.
She cries, but she doesn’t quite know why…not yet at least–after all, she’s just a little girl, no older than four.
She doesn’t quite understand why mommy acts so crazy, so loud…or why she sleeps until the afternoon, or why she
doesn’t get homemade waffles, bacon, and eggs like the other boys and girls–she just takes it all in, never letting go
of a thing.
But this spunky, usually jovial-as-hell little girl with a smile that could melt a blizzard, has a brother: a gentle, yet
tough as nails, literal bastard with a hot temper and a warm heart.
His story is a little different–he’s a boy tortured by the essence of a father that never really existed and a mother
with a Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde dichotomy going on.
He knows what it all means…where it comes from–the smells, the screams, the slams, the late night wailing–
That troubling sound (at about 2 am) which is deeply reminiscent of the moaning wind in a storm that never ceases.
He knows that her history haunts her,
Just like his own does to him–and he’s powerless to stop it.
And the woman in question–a strong force with a weak will–
Is yet again confronted by temptation as it rears its majestic head once more,
Its sensual eyes meet her gaze as they gleam with anticipation for her final slip up.
She tries to resist, to look away…though not hard enough.
She begins to numb as the red-robed spectre comforts her once more,
With its sweet, enchanting odor oozing from under its velvet cloak.
She lets the haze consume her–that fuzzy warmth–and she embraces it before she can stammer her final goodnight
in that slurred speech which only a true drunkard would understand,
Then she falls into that black, barren place,
Into that deep, welcoming sleep for a soul with a tormented past: a sleep without dreams or memories that creep
back to the surface.
She drinks to forget–she drinks so as not to feel…