A Broken Wing

17. Blizzard

“A spiral beyond your control.”

Slowly the white flakes fell, turning like the intricate workings of antiquity. The air was fresh and bathed in mint, gently unwrapping her bones and becoming the skin that clothed them. Her eyes were painted blues and greys for the stained glass windows of the winter church. Muffled crunches softly rose from a snow covered ground like the cries from the sleepers with pillows over their faces, she continued to walk.

“You have begun to rise on happiness and will soon be too high to let go. When that time comes, the only thing left to do is enjoy your ascent.”

The trees were naked, twisting up from the white ground onto the white sky like shaken lines of black ink. Her world was a curved sheet of paper, blank, save the crawling of the black woods. She walked the pages of a monochromatic island in the death of summer, here she had no name. There was no sun because she had kidnapped it and held it down, inside herself. For ears that heard no one scream were purely just for fun. It was due to rain the tired birds with broken wings, a flurry of feathers with the things that could not change.

“I want to keep you in my heart.”

Spinning round the record played, its needle skipping grooves of vinyl, the plastic hills and shiny valleys musical waves for the vehicle of its drug. To be locked in the box of unsaid secrets spoken by the cassette writers. She was being kept in the echoing of her words, such that the bridge in the high mountains of neon blue domed between two abysses, one above and one below. It was between her and with the words. The duet of endlessness played on, their dark cavernous harmonies whispering along the lines of the snowflakes.

Pandora smiled as Honey’s head rolled with the pleasure of forced dreams. She was helping. She was alleviating pain, bringing her peace and giving the gift of knowledge. Pandora was the noise.

“Isn’t it sweet Honey?”

The spoon slid between her lips, administering the medicinal nectar, a sugared gelatine gold melting onto her tongue. Pushing itself down her throat.

“Doesn’t it feel good to give in? To let it happen, to let it wash over you.”

Sometimes emptiness cannot be filled, a bottomless glass whose curved cage isolates the freefalling water. Other times emptiness reverses like a sinking ship, the water gushes in despite efforts to bail out, it is times like those to lie down and feel the water hold you. Sometimes it is best to relinquish care and cease to be a wound up fruit full of hurt.

She was eating herself from the inside out, licking the secrets, consuming herself and it felt good. Pleasure rode with endorphins through her mind as it slid out of control and into the harnesses of lust and dependence.

Pandora unzipped a clear cloud and opened it up. The insides of the cloud were powdered, a bright neon orange, like sherbet. Her tongue embraced the sherbet neon and the powder clung to her muscle steadily dissolving like the ice flakes in Honey’s hair. Pandora wanted to join this trip, she wanted Honey for the long haul. A manufactured hand stroked the side of Honey’s face and Pandora leaned to the woman who wandered through the snow. A tongue studded with orange stars danced with Honey.

Air thick with flakes that fell in unison, fainting feathers from doves that slept through the dreams, they washed around and clung to the dancers. To blend in and be forgot. A secret washed free from the clamped embrace of locked lips able to let the consequences roll, they wandered wondered through the blizzard.

In the branches of a naked tree, nestled in its starving arms like the babe of a dying mother was the radio and it sang for the swans. Static and crackles that accompany the pixelated blur of electric snow on a television screen played for an audience not there, there was no screen, no one was watching. Then came the voice.

“In little over two hours the show will fade. This is your curtain call. There will be no encore.”

The world looks better with pills for eyes.