Ava Martin woke up one morning and popped all the blood vessels in her right cheek.
The air made her want to hide. Its very existence, having it hang around her like she was floating in some giant waterless swimming pool, was intolerable. She felt it press down on her body, into her arms and legs, coaxing the pounding in her head to its maximum. And there was nothing else she could do. Ten thousand pounds of air, pushing into her all the time and there was nowhere to be free of it.
It was the wo rst kind of winter, complete with spiteful, freezing temperatures that slapped at you without bringing even a dusting of snow, so that the streets looked like rough, unfrosted sheet cakes, the kind you could buy for three dollars at the supermarket. The kind that didn’t even have the decency to hide their sickly-yellow underskins beneath layers of artificial multi-color sugar paste. Ava inhaled, but this time the cold air dove into her lungs where she could feel its chill squeeze her insides. She held her breath but the cold air still snatched at her skin, the chilly fingers fat and sausage-shaped trapping her in a lockjaw embrace from which she could not extract herself. She was paralyzed, unable to move for fear of inciting further pressure from the suddenly heavy atmosphere. Get it away, she thought. Away, away, away. Just like a child haunted by shadowy outlines of monsters that make skittery sounds in the dark. But the cold felt nice against her cheek. By now it was covered with spidery red cobwebs that jumped out from the backdrop of her pale skin, and they’d swelled up so that they would feel like deep scars if you ran your hand over them. Ava thought to herself that if she turned her face the right way, people would think she was the devil. All she needed was a tail.
“It’s nothing ,” she told Ed at breakfast. “I bashed my head against the wall in the night.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” he said, thick eyebrows furrowing into a solid black line.
“You sleep like a bear,” Ava replied. Her head was angled so that the light from the window was reflected in her pupil, blotting out the black and giving her the appearance of a strangled cat.
“Thanks,” he said, and kissed her left cheek, the unblemished one, before leaving for work. She stood staring at the floor, where the outline of his polished loafer had been, for just a moment. Then she walked over to the mirror and popped the vessels in the other cheek, too.
a work in progress. what do we think?
It’s a good quote, right? Andy Warhol, I think.
Winter break is nearing an end, and I’m going to have to go back to school soon. That means hours of dull work and memorization and three-hours-of-sleep nights and exercise in the mornings at 5 am and a general feeling of exhaustion all-around. But I’ve been thinking–what if I subscribed to this quote and made it something of a motto? Would I end up actually being interested in [insert dull/boring/irritating/too hard subject here]? That’s what I’m hoping.
Take my required American History course. I personally hate American History–short compared to every other history in the world, usually puffed-up and full of itself, designed to shame European history, etc etc–but maybe if I approached it a little differently, it could actually become more enticing?
Or maybe my English course. I love English as a subject and a class, but unfortunately my teacher decided to go on a Mark Twain stint. Not a fan, as you can see. Huckleberry Finn was especially hard to get into, even the second time reading it. BUT if I looked at it from a more Warhol-esque manner, maybe I could be able to look at it more, without judging it?
I’ll keep you posted.
I’m Ilona. Nice to meet you. This is my blog (obviously).
It’s snowing here, on Christmas. Yay 🙂
I love snow, but I think I like rain better. Everybody always looks at me kind of weird when I say that, but it’s true. There’s something so calming about a really heavy rainstorm, especially when you walk home with one of those really bowl-shaped umbrellas over your head (preferably a clear one), and you go inside and dry off and have some tea.
But there is something about snow. It’s calming in a different way. The flakes sort of float and dance before they hit the ground. The best is when they float into your hair or eyelashes. The only real problem with snow is that it’s too cold! I can’t deal with being that cold for so long (but I’d rather be cold than hot, wouldn’t you?)
First blog post? Check. I promise they’ll be more exciting next time, I just thought opening with a creative piece might be a little heavy-handed.