Goodnight Auburn Hair: And Other Stories
It was never easy for her remember things.
On most days she was caught in the middle of so many conversations, it was almost like people were speaking in a completely different language; “Je amovo oirterru un baguette.” a customer said at the town square. It was so rare these days to hear the old language, as they had slowly began to use English again after all these decades of misery. If one could rewind the clock in the sky, it was easy to see how things got to that point. America had already begun to fragment, into miniature countries as numerous as sands on the coast, some merging into other micro-nations during the two civil wars. The language of the period having a permanent effect on English. Une nouselles es coupe en la guillotine gun en jupe terne. Her severed head flies into the city street. When she had originally seen such things for the first time, this tended to effect her much more, but it had become something of an every day occurrence when the militarized police came and cleaned up the mess; this wasn’t the old American government, but such mixture of privatized police and unofficial incorporated government; it was more like there was not a government, but agreed upon social contracts that kept people from shooting each other in the back of the neck with an angular blade. The girl whom bought a baguette, climbed the clock tower and would sometimes sit on the railing, letting her wooden shoes hang off the side, shaking her legs. The moonlight bathed her image like porcelain paintings, exposing her cleavage and small chest.
“You shouldn’t be up here” said a security guard. Reaching out his hand, he helped her climb down. “A young lady like you, she be working as an accountant somewhere. Life is to good to loose someone like you.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“More than you might realize.”
At home she would rest by the window on her couch, and let the alley cats that climbed the wooden alleyway walls climb into her window, whom would choose to sleep with her as she napped an extended nap. She would dream of the time when she would go to the grocery store with her pere, and how she had almost nabbed a alley cat noir, whom she had once met at the pet store, but managed to get away. The alley cat would sometimes visit her in her adulthood, usually at midnight. And walk around the pentagram painted on her floor boards. Tonight Elle dreamed of Death Valley deserts and moose skeletons, washed away by the tides of the sea. Elle, because her father never gave her a name. Elle, because it was Elle whom she always wanted to be, and not Elles. The midnight hallways echo quietly.
And the sounds of the old spirits that deck the hollies with misery, and occasionally morning biscuits and gravy, would screech about how sometimes they accidentally burn the biscuits. But when she would hear them she would always reassure them that such biscuits tasted just fan, with the omulettes that they also serve at sunrise.
Goodnight green eyes.
Goodnight light auburn hair.
At home Madomoazele would hoard all the children’s dolls that she was given when she was but a small lass, those made out of the finest of porcelain. At times she wondered what it would be like to be a doll. For me to be a doll, it seemed like there was no problems in the world, whether that was constantly being doted on by little sisters. She remembered her little sister, whom was the prettiest of all the dolls, with the finest of wooden shoes; she was not particularly beautiful, but had a cuteness that made it easy for her to find days, from her blond hair in contrast to the folds in her eyes, and the dimples in her smile. It was easy to see how she would often have opportunities to give blowjobs to guys she liked, although often they were busy doing guy things.
Madomoazele rarely got to see her sister when they were still in high school, but one night she simply never heard from her again. Until, one day she got a mail order at her door, and it was her little sister, in the form of a porcelain doll, that wore similar shaped wooden shoes, with it constantly locked into the smile she had when she would watch Japanese horror movies. -- Is that the face you sucked your boyfriends off with? The living sister asked.
-- That’s not a polite thing to ask. The doll said.
Madomoazele Elle would carefully keep her in the closet, liked some unused toy that no child would ever play would, but would take her out to read her bedtime stories. Whether it was The Brother’s Grim or Albert Camus. She found his views on capital punishment were what allowed her to sleep at night, because there was at least one Frenchman that was against the death penalty. And yet she had inherited difficulties sleeping from her parents; her sister seemed to have gotten only the good genes. While Madomoazele only inherited nouselles jean terns. For this, she would always be jealous by her sister’s smoking outfit, when she would go to the movies.
When she slept, she dreamed of falling from her apartment building, as a porcelain doll. And when she hit the ground she shattered. She woke up breathless, and found that she no longer saw her doll in the form of her little sister Adelinette. Whom had mysteriously moved into the kitchen, laying down on the floor, with her head snapped off of her body. To think that that was how such a doll would end up, simply that of a broken toy.
She dreamed of a guillotine, with her be escorted into the town square, with wooden clogs on her feet, and being instructed to kneel on her knees. The lock of the guillotine gun closing; the trigger pulled, and her severed head flying in slow motion, then it rolling around on the pavement. Until it reached the boots of the guard that she had met when she climbed the clock tower.
When she woke up, she found that everything weighed her down; she saw herself carrying around an anvil to Church, and every other thing that she needed to do during the day. And in the rest of her life was only silence. That evening, she met the black cat that would come visit her in the evening, that would always snuggle with her on the couch. And she snuggled it as tightly as she ever has in her life. Because she knew that she could get her little sister, the broken doll on the kitchen floor fixed.
She woke up the next morning on the vanity table, holding hands with her sister, and together they snuggled on there, and they would fly to the ceiling on their wires. Because they were no longer weighed down by life.
Le vie poniurto Madomoazele, the doll out of time.