You get home from school and you know something is wrong when you come in the door. The house is still the stupid dollhouse - the front room has always looked like what the White Rabbit's parlor in Alice in Wonderland must look like, with cutesy pastel upholstery and china everywhere. But something's missing. A sewing box, an antique sewing desk. Things haven't been this off with baubles since your dad left.
You drop your bag on the front step, and you go up to your room, and it's not your room anymore. It looks like something out of a magazine, perfectly proportioned, beautifully done, but you don't know how she did it in the eight hours from when you left until now.
You hear someone come up the stairs behind you - your mother, who has become increasingly distant, who has spoken to you less and less over the weeks since you lost your voice, and who brushes by you now like she doesn't see you to go into her new sewing room. You stamp your foot, as if to remind her you're there, and she looks at you, and -
It's strange, to have her look at you like you're a stranger. There is no recognition, there. "Are you here for Grigori?" she asks, which is gross and intensely cruel. "You should leave."
You just gape at her. You pick up the slate hanging from your wrist and write out, Ha, ha, what did you do to my room?
"You should leave," she says again, and blinks, squints at you, and you think, no, this isn't happening, before you run down the stairs, the thudding beating into your head. This isn't a nightmare, but it feels like one.
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timeasmymeasure
i. FORGETTING
Date: 2013-10-03 02:14 am (UTC)You drop your bag on the front step, and you go up to your room, and it's not your room anymore. It looks like something out of a magazine, perfectly proportioned, beautifully done, but you don't know how she did it in the eight hours from when you left until now.
You hear someone come up the stairs behind you - your mother, who has become increasingly distant, who has spoken to you less and less over the weeks since you lost your voice, and who brushes by you now like she doesn't see you to go into her new sewing room. You stamp your foot, as if to remind her you're there, and she looks at you, and -
It's strange, to have her look at you like you're a stranger. There is no recognition, there. "Are you here for Grigori?" she asks, which is gross and intensely cruel. "You should leave."
You just gape at her. You pick up the slate hanging from your wrist and write out, Ha, ha, what did you do to my room?
"You should leave," she says again, and blinks, squints at you, and you think, no, this isn't happening, before you run down the stairs, the thudding beating into your head. This isn't a nightmare, but it feels like one.