share if it could.
A rotting mattress dominates the second bedroom, though it's much too big to belong to the iron bed. Bits and pieces of its cotton-like filler are strewn across the floor, and I wrinkle my nose against the musty smell. With a squeak of terror, a mouse runs across my shoe. It buries itself deep in the mattress as an angry screech rattles through the room. A fierce looking bird is perched in the gutted window, tilting its head to the side and eyeing me warily. He makes no move to leave, but snaps his beak and ruffles his feathers in a show of agitation. This is his home and I am invading it, costing him his dinner in the process.
Not wanting to be a substitute for the mouse, I back out of the room slowly, never taking my eyes off the hefty bird. The moment I am out of the room there is a great ruckus of squawks and squeals. I guess I didn't cost him his dinner after all.
Walking into the bathroom, the broken mirror above the sink immediately catches, and then repulses, my eye. Although curious, I am hesitant to look into the glass. The young man had told me I was beautiful, but what if I wasn't? Would that really matter? Should it matter? Would seeing my appearance change what little concept I have of myself? I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and side step in front of the shattered glass.
Oh . . .
My apparent vanity is relieved that I'm not unattractive, but I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm beautiful. Staring at me through the glass is a round face with arched eyebrows, a small upturned nose, and a plain mouth with a pronounced cupid's bow. Brown, almond shaped eyes with short but dark lashes meet my gaze, revealing a mostly unremarkable face. Taking in consideration that I can't recall any other female face at the moment, I decide I am on the pretty side of average. I eye the stranger in the mirror, finding it difficult to truly connect with the image in front of me. Waving my hand, I watch as my reflection does the same. It's disconcerting to feel so divided from my own appearance.
Disappointed in my discoveries, or lack thereof, I abandon my exploration of the house. Let the birds and mice keep it; this isn't a place for humans anymore. Shielding my eyes as I walk outside, I grab my things and walk toward the dirt path across the clearing. As I reach the tree line, I turn back, taking one last look around. From this point on, nothing will be familiar.
Feeling a slight tingle of nervousness in the pit of my stomach, I am suddenly thankful for the calming effect of the drug. Without it, I would be hysterical right now. Picturing the young man as he paced the clearing, I am struck with a longing I can't explain or even name. I don't know him in any sense, but I miss him. It could be some deep seeded memory of love, or it could just be the fact that no one would want to take this journey alone.
A journey . That sounds so majestic. It might be too strong a word for wandering down a dirt path until I find somewhere to be, but I like it.
One foot in front of the other, a tent slung over my back and a suitcase in hand, I start to walk. The dirt path soon widens into a gravel road that grows into a larger highway. The pavement feels solid beneath my feet and I like having a more substantial path in front of me. Head north. For this moment in time, that is my sole responsibility in life. There is nothing else. Not the mysterious young man, and certainly not the brunette in the mirror. This is who I am. I am this stretch of road heading for a future I can't imagine. Katherine is heading north.
3 – Journey
It's amazing how something as simple as a road can inspire so many questions. The concept of a road is familiar, but something about this one is just a little . . . off. Maybe it's the perforated yellow lines running down the middle, or the sheer size of it that puts me on edge, but something about it isn't right. I bend down and touch the rough surface, begging it to trigger something in me. I
A rotting mattress dominates the second bedroom, though it's much too big to belong to the iron bed. Bits and pieces of its cotton-like filler are strewn across the floor, and I wrinkle my nose against the musty smell. With a squeak of terror, a mouse runs across my shoe. It buries itself deep in the mattress as an angry screech rattles through the room. A fierce looking bird is perched in the gutted window, tilting its head to the side and eyeing me warily. He makes no move to leave, but snaps his beak and ruffles his feathers in a show of agitation. This is his home and I am invading it, costing him his dinner in the process.
Not wanting to be a substitute for the mouse, I back out of the room slowly, never taking my eyes off the hefty bird. The moment I am out of the room there is a great ruckus of squawks and squeals. I guess I didn't cost him his dinner after all.
Walking into the bathroom, the broken mirror above the sink immediately catches, and then repulses, my eye. Although curious, I am hesitant to look into the glass. The young man had told me I was beautiful, but what if I wasn't? Would that really matter? Should it matter? Would seeing my appearance change what little concept I have of myself? I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and side step in front of the shattered glass.
Oh . . .
My apparent vanity is relieved that I'm not unattractive, but I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm beautiful. Staring at me through the glass is a round face with arched eyebrows, a small upturned nose, and a plain mouth with a pronounced cupid's bow. Brown, almond shaped eyes with short but dark lashes meet my gaze, revealing a mostly unremarkable face. Taking in consideration that I can't recall any other female face at the moment, I decide I am on the pretty side of average. I eye the stranger in the mirror, finding it difficult to truly connect with the image in front of me. Waving my hand, I watch as my reflection does the same. It's disconcerting to feel so divided from my own appearance.
Disappointed in my discoveries, or lack thereof, I abandon my exploration of the house. Let the birds and mice keep it; this isn't a place for humans anymore. Shielding my eyes as I walk outside, I grab my things and walk toward the dirt path across the clearing. As I reach the tree line, I turn back, taking one last look around. From this point on, nothing will be familiar.
Feeling a slight tingle of nervousness in the pit of my stomach, I am suddenly thankful for the calming effect of the drug. Without it, I would be hysterical right now. Picturing the young man as he paced the clearing, I am struck with a longing I can't explain or even name. I don't know him in any sense, but I miss him. It could be some deep seeded memory of love, or it could just be the fact that no one would want to take this journey alone.
A journey . That sounds so majestic. It might be too strong a word for wandering down a dirt path until I find somewhere to be, but I like it.
One foot in front of the other, a tent slung over my back and a suitcase in hand, I start to walk. The dirt path soon widens into a gravel road that grows into a larger highway. The pavement feels solid beneath my feet and I like having a more substantial path in front of me. Head north. For this moment in time, that is my sole responsibility in life. There is nothing else. Not the mysterious young man, and certainly not the brunette in the mirror. This is who I am. I am this stretch of road heading for a future I can't imagine. Katherine is heading north.
3 – Journey
It's amazing how something as simple as a road can inspire so many questions. The concept of a road is familiar, but something about this one is just a little . . . off. Maybe it's the perforated yellow lines running down the middle, or the sheer size of it that puts me on edge, but something about it isn't right. I bend down and touch the rough surface, begging it to trigger something in me. I
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