FE #14                                                                                                                Oct 31, 2004

We’ve been in the house a few months, you know.  When we first came here my brother wound up and down all the staircases—knocking on the walls for secret passages.

But I went straight to my room—the one on the top floor with all the windows. And that door—the window—but it opens all the way, with hinges, you could step out and fall three stories. Someone put a door in my bedroom, all covered in glass—one you could step out of, in the night, if you were sleepwalking and forgot, for a minute, where you were.

My mother locked it right away and had shades brought in because the sun shone too bright in the morning and woke me up early. I needed my rest, that’s what they said.

Don’t move around—don’t move—don’t run—don’t run around. Lie down a little longer, and then you can come downstairs and see the kitchen and gardens in back.

I had seen them already, the gardens, from my window—from my door. My brother, he was playing in the gardens and I watched him—I opened the door—the metal was heavy when I moved it aside—slid it along it’s course until the clink came—I knew it was unlocked.

He didn’t respond when I yelled at him. Maybe he was too far away. My mother came in then, she forced me into bed, you know—I told the doctor about it. How they force me—they don’t let me do it myself—when I want to. That lamp—it makes the strangest pattern on the wall. Almost as if there was a hand there—it’s searching around for the cord to pull so the light—to turn off the light. I don’t want it off! No! I don’t want you to lock the door. She bought a new lock, you see, and hid the key. But I followed her with soft footsteps and she never, not once, looked over her shoulder and now I have the key, from her bottom drawer—in the back.

She had turned off the light and I’d come out of bed right away—gone to my door in the outside wall. It was windy—both hands had to grip the window frame when I leaned out and still the wind pulled me. The shadow has moved along and wants to jump out. I wonder if he’d mind me coming too?  It is only a hand—I could hold it and step off.

My mother is in the hall. She’s heard me and the shadow conversing. There is no time and so much time before she is in the door—as I am in the door—in the doorframe, framed by the door and shadows and light. See how the frame rocks against the wall. It doesn’t want to be here but it has hinges—and I don’t. No hinges, but the glass still hurt me when it broke in one steady motion of sound. I don’t remember the ground. I saw the moon the right way around. It had a smile for me, from the way I was falling. When I fell—she fell—in the doorway—my mother, to the floor.

                                                                                                            —20 min.