Emily was staring at the wall, sitting somewhat skewed in her chair (definitely not the way her father had taught her to sit — straight, square, upright — but turned so she had to lean into her shoulder and push down through her ass just to stay stable). Her mouth was twisted and she looked out of the upper corners of her eyes. Her toes wriggled, and each tried to tap out their own rhythm. The crazy was here, sitting in the chair with her, clothing her.
It wasn’t the confinement that was making her crazy; it was the blankness. Confinement was something she had endured. It was the nothing that she hated. Nothing that was erected as a temple to purity, as if purity was something that could be imposed from the outside, austerity for austerity’s sake, blank walls of neutral grays sprayed thinly to makeup the imperfections of nature. As if order ordered anything.
As if.
She turned in the chair and slumped, and made herself even more uncomfortable. The end table with its pot of tea, empty cup and pot of honey filled her vision. Set there every day as if it were a comfort and not just a buzz. What point was there in buzzing when there was nothing to buzz about? When the buzz could take you nowhere?
Her fingers twitched.
She wanted to pollute the fucking tea.
She reached over and stuck her (unwashed) finger in the cup and the heat forced her to pull it out, and in irritation she flicked it away. The wetness, now just a thin coating on her skin, cooled her fingertip immediately, and the tiny act of transgression was bracing, making her inhale slowly. What was more, there was tea now spattered on the wall, tiny drops of reddish brown arrayed in a constellation that somehow lit up the blank wall with their darkness.
Just little drops of something different and imperfect.
So she did it again. Dipping two fingers this time, and trying to flick them in different directions. She felt like she was populating the wall with little people, and liberating them. Giving them space to roam and play. Again and again, she dipped her fingers in the cup, five at a time, both hands now, and flicking them outward to see how far she could spread them. Then she grabbed the cup and just waved it at the wall, a violent streak that the wall had to wear like a beauty-pageant sash that splayed and now dripped and yes, everyone could read what it said. It was glorious.
She stuck a finger into the honey now, and tried to flick it, but its thickness just stuck to her and wouldn’t fly. So she stood and moved the little table in front of the wall, and dragged her finger across the wall, a fat finger-smear of honey that dripped and settled into a thin glisten. This was even better. Again. More fingers, spreading into the weird calligraphy of her whim, spreading across the wall as far as she could stretch and spread it. But now her clothes were getting in the way, holding her shoulders and hips… so she unbuttoned, shedding everything and tossing it away from the wall, letting the cool air of the room simply touch her. This was bracing, too.
She turned to the pot of tea and tried to get all of her fingers into it. It didn’t work, but she didn’t care; they all got in there eventually. And they all worked their way over the wall, each following their own path, connected by the heart in her palms, but each with their own weird rhythms. The skin, the nail, the calluses, everything became its own stylus and had its own style. Its own alphabet, individual characters. And all ten fingers created their own music together, and they danced and stumbled over the wall, spreading tea and honey and traces of Emily herself where nothing had been allowed to be, before.
She stood there naked, shivering a little, her fingers stained and tacky, but tingling.
It was a lot better now.
©2020 by Nick Trotter. All rights reserved.