new scribbles
In the 1930’s a German engraved the word Rosi into the back of her neck with a sharp scalpel. Her hair was a mess of curls, with a silver bow, tied on the left side. The auburn locks fell past the nape of her cream dress, hiding the scar. The ornate peach, lime and pink flower ribbons swirled over the chest of the dress, and circled around her small waist.
I ran my fingers over her joins; her long neck, narrow shoulders, bent elbows, thin wrists, and remembered the time I had asked if I could get a tattoo.
‘A barcode on your wrist, Soph, what for?’ Mum had replied, irritated by my interruption.
‘In my novel all the characters have them. Like an identification system, so they can be controlled. I just thought it was a kind of cool idea.’
‘Hold out you hand,’ she said, taking off her glasses and getting up from her desk.
I did as I was told.
‘See these?’ She ran her finger over the tips of my fingers.
‘The lines?’ I asked.
‘Police have been using fingerprints for years. We’ve all been coded already.’ She let go of my hand and went back to her desk.
‘But my characters don’t have fingers.’
It was a lie, but she’d never have known it. She had never asked to read my manuscript. Nothing I had ever written.
For the hours that followed I could feel her fingers tracing mine. The sensation made me miss her. Miss what she had once been to me. Or at least, what I had remembered her to be.
I cradled Rosi in my arms as I squeezed between the tables and chairs that adorned the store, dressed with dolls and ornate furnishings. The dolls and shoppers were masked in a kaleidoscope of colour, by the tapestry of gilded mirrors and elaborate masks that hung from the walls, making everything seem as unreal as everything else.
I had spent hours as a child looking at myself in the mirrors; front on, mixing my rounded mouth with a glass eye of a French doll created in 1916 and the other, my own eye, masked in gallant gold glitter. My sister, Rati, would taunt me, avoiding her own strange facial composition, while my mother would ask if I had found myself yet. I picked up a black marker - and wrote my name on my own neck.
I ran my fingers over her joins; her long neck, narrow shoulders, bent elbows, thin wrists, and remembered the time I had asked if I could get a tattoo.
‘A barcode on your wrist, Soph, what for?’ Mum had replied, irritated by my interruption.
‘In my novel all the characters have them. Like an identification system, so they can be controlled. I just thought it was a kind of cool idea.’
‘Hold out you hand,’ she said, taking off her glasses and getting up from her desk.
I did as I was told.
‘See these?’ She ran her finger over the tips of my fingers.
‘The lines?’ I asked.
‘Police have been using fingerprints for years. We’ve all been coded already.’ She let go of my hand and went back to her desk.
‘But my characters don’t have fingers.’
It was a lie, but she’d never have known it. She had never asked to read my manuscript. Nothing I had ever written.
For the hours that followed I could feel her fingers tracing mine. The sensation made me miss her. Miss what she had once been to me. Or at least, what I had remembered her to be.
I cradled Rosi in my arms as I squeezed between the tables and chairs that adorned the store, dressed with dolls and ornate furnishings. The dolls and shoppers were masked in a kaleidoscope of colour, by the tapestry of gilded mirrors and elaborate masks that hung from the walls, making everything seem as unreal as everything else.
I had spent hours as a child looking at myself in the mirrors; front on, mixing my rounded mouth with a glass eye of a French doll created in 1916 and the other, my own eye, masked in gallant gold glitter. My sister, Rati, would taunt me, avoiding her own strange facial composition, while my mother would ask if I had found myself yet. I picked up a black marker - and wrote my name on my own neck.
posted by red at 10:50 am
1 Comments:
As usual just ... beautiful!
Post a Comment
<< Home