Shilo Wallace (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shilowallace) wrote2012-03-04 12:37 am
shilowallace) wrote2012-03-04 12:37 am
[ic]
from the diary of Shilo Wallace
So STOP READING NOW...that means you, DAD. It's not like I can't tell when the LOCK has been broken!!!
I've been cleaning this house for forever. How long has it been? They're still talking about it, sometimes, on the news, so I know "forever" is probably a pretty gross exaggeration. It feels like forever, though, and the only thing I know is better is my room. There's more space, now, without all the machines, and I don't get as sweaty as I used to with those stupid curtains up. I know they were supposed to be some sort of plastic bubble, but I think they were actually just a sauna. That is actually why I am so skinny. I've spent the last seventeen years of my diseased life sweating.
The yard is different, too, I guess. We (I mean he) cleaned up the broken glass, but left the monitors. Sometimes, I think I'd sort of like to stick around long enough to see the weeds grow up around them and drag them back down into the earth. To the depths of Hell, where they can beep and screech all they want. I don't know if that's better or worse, but it's probably better because I can do pretend-ballet in my room and there's nothing I can stub my toes on and nothing blocking my way and no one to tell me to stop all of that and lie down before I trigger an attack.
Right. Because dancing causes poison withdrawal and nothing helps like a moist, enclosed bed!
...What does sort of trigger...well, something, though...
Since there's no interesting shape to them, the curtains went in the basement. A lot of things go in the basement, actually. I am not one of them. I go to the stupid, fake fireplace and open the door to the seeecreet laaair and throw what I don't want to ever see again into the pit of Dad's despair. Never to be heard from again. ...Unless you accidentally hit your friend on the head with it, who's coming up from the stairs, since there's a pretty easy shortcut from the cemetery through there, just as you're throwing something down and then he takes it and chases you up the stairs in your house that you're not afraid of and tries to whap your butt with it.
But not in a horrible way. In a he's-just-teasing-because-I-think-he-likes-making-me-giggle-gentle way. He does that sometimes.
...I don't know why he can't just take the tunnel through my mom's crypt. That's less...basementy.
I read a story once (that Dad later did successfully take away from me) about these two girls who lived in a house that had partially burnt down, but they were so afraid to go outside that they let the overgrowth take over everything and turn their house into a castle. And everyone in town thought they were witches, so they would bring the girls baskets, every day, so that, I guess, they wouldn't cast curses on anyone.
And there's another story, but I don't know from where, about a bride-to-be whose evil father kills her husband-to-be the night before their wedding and no one is ever seen or heard from again. Sometimes, I guess that feels like the kind of ghost I should have turned into. The kind with a dad who doesn't want her marrying anyone because I guess it means she'll leave him alone in his big, cold, empty house. So it's his fault everything she loves dies or goes away...so she goes away, too.
It's not really a stretch to think that I could be a story like that. I don't want to be. ...But it would be easy. I could probably disappear forever, too, if I followed the basment steps down...
I will never be done cleaning.
I've been cleaning this house for forever. How long has it been? They're still talking about it, sometimes, on the news, so I know "forever" is probably a pretty gross exaggeration. It feels like forever, though, and the only thing I know is better is my room. There's more space, now, without all the machines, and I don't get as sweaty as I used to with those stupid curtains up. I know they were supposed to be some sort of plastic bubble, but I think they were actually just a sauna. That is actually why I am so skinny. I've spent the last seventeen years of my diseased life sweating.
The yard is different, too, I guess. We (I mean he) cleaned up the broken glass, but left the monitors. Sometimes, I think I'd sort of like to stick around long enough to see the weeds grow up around them and drag them back down into the earth. To the depths of Hell, where they can beep and screech all they want. I don't know if that's better or worse, but it's probably better because I can do pretend-ballet in my room and there's nothing I can stub my toes on and nothing blocking my way and no one to tell me to stop all of that and lie down before I trigger an attack.
Right. Because dancing causes poison withdrawal and nothing helps like a moist, enclosed bed!
...What does sort of trigger...well, something, though...
Since there's no interesting shape to them, the curtains went in the basement. A lot of things go in the basement, actually. I am not one of them. I go to the stupid, fake fireplace and open the door to the seeecreet laaair and throw what I don't want to ever see again into the pit of Dad's despair. Never to be heard from again. ...Unless you accidentally hit your friend on the head with it, who's coming up from the stairs, since there's a pretty easy shortcut from the cemetery through there, just as you're throwing something down and then he takes it and chases you up the stairs in your house that you're not afraid of and tries to whap your butt with it.
But not in a horrible way. In a he's-just-teasing-because-I-think-he-likes-making-me-giggle-gentle way. He does that sometimes.
...I don't know why he can't just take the tunnel through my mom's crypt. That's less...basementy.
I read a story once (that Dad later did successfully take away from me) about these two girls who lived in a house that had partially burnt down, but they were so afraid to go outside that they let the overgrowth take over everything and turn their house into a castle. And everyone in town thought they were witches, so they would bring the girls baskets, every day, so that, I guess, they wouldn't cast curses on anyone.
And there's another story, but I don't know from where, about a bride-to-be whose evil father kills her husband-to-be the night before their wedding and no one is ever seen or heard from again. Sometimes, I guess that feels like the kind of ghost I should have turned into. The kind with a dad who doesn't want her marrying anyone because I guess it means she'll leave him alone in his big, cold, empty house. So it's his fault everything she loves dies or goes away...so she goes away, too.
It's not really a stretch to think that I could be a story like that. I don't want to be. ...But it would be easy. I could probably disappear forever, too, if I followed the basment steps down...
I will never be done cleaning.