Tea Children

I am surprised that I am still here, considering that I still had my lessons to learn. She provided me with so many that at times I wondered if I would ever see the sun again in my little dark room.

Paula loves me; this much I know. She is my sister, after all, and we are family. She watches over me when no one else will, simply because she knows me. She wants to protect me, she says over and over again, while standing over my frail body, watching me weep my emotions from the wounds on my back. It used to hurt when she touched me but not so much anymore. Perhaps I have forgotten what it means to be hurt.

My skin has become lighter, more supple, in the darkness than when I used to play in the sunlight. Funny thing is, I can’t really remember what it used to be like. The sun, I mean. Was it still in the sky? Does it still make people feel warm and giddy? I wish I knew more.

She brings me cookies on a platter, the kind I used to eat when I was smaller. She thinks that I am out of my mind so the cookies serve as some sort of reminder of where I came from. I still remember the lessons; that much alone should be a compliment. When I mention this to her, she only shrugs her shoulders then walks away, leaving me to wonder my own self and why I have not left our home yet.

Our parents died when I was only a baby and Paula was but five. The servants took over as our parents, giving us the love and attention we were so used to that for a while, I felt as though our parents were still with us, still loving us with their kind words and kisses that would cool our skin during a hot night.

My eyes can see through walls now, although Paula thinks I am a liar. Perhaps if I took out her own and put my own in her bloody sockets, then maybe she would understand. I can see when she burns herself on the oven and how much she likes it. I can see when the servants, although still loving, steal from our own mouths to feed their own. I can see fragments of people who lived in our house before us, trapped in their own vicious cycle of life, death, and forgiveness. I have lately mistaken Paula for one of them.  

When I take a breath, I can see dust flying from my mouth as though I am an antique. I want to tell Paula but I know her response: more cookies and tea with one spoonful of sugar in the thick black mug that Father used to use.  I, however, know better than that. Her looks at me now linger over my entire pale frame, trying to keep up with her mind and thoughts of a grand feast. She loves me; she wants to preserve me within her own self. Flesh consumed by that same flesh keeps the bloodline whole is what I have heard her whisper through the walls to the servants who are promised a portion when the time is right. I hold my hands to my ears, keeping the dust inside. At least I have that to claim as mine.

She wants to keep me here.

I remember the sun.

            8 April 2008