She sits at the top of the stairs.
Below her lies the faint glow of light reflecting softly across our front door window panes; along with the gentle light comes ripples of her mother’s laughter as her parents sit together in the living room watching TV. She is separate.
It’s only 11 o’clock, but it feels much, much later; it always does when she can’t fall asleep.
She sits, trying hard not to make a sound, not to let even a whisper of a cry escape her pursed lips as she holds back tears that seem to resemble more of a tsunami than a droplet as they overcome her. She has never thought of herself as a lamentable person. She has always been one to smile through hard times, one who proclaimed yellow as her favorite color because it was the color of joy, one who could always be found in a fit of giggles over something spoken minutes ago.
However, each night, the darkness seems to encumber her. She lay on the direct center of her mattress with two stacks of pillows on either side, her own personal palace to keep her safe from the outside world. Her proud and loyal knights lay beside her, a dozen of them all with the sole intent of protecting her. One is a soft beluga rescued from an aquarium, and the other is a misshapen tiger she liberated from its lonely place on the back of a shelf in a zoo gift shop. One is her most treasured head knight, who has lied by her side and protected her from all evils since she was only three, a small, raggedy pink teddy bear long worn down over the years of service with multiple holes patched up with a neon orange thread: her battle wounds.
Despite her apparent preference for her long beloved companion, she holds onto each one for equal increments of time, squeezing them just as tightly and counting the seconds in her head to ensure all of them will feel equally loved. She berates herself silently when she loses count in fear that she’ll hurt their feelings.
She has always longed to be the one shining brightly.
The star too bright to stare directly at and fully perceive but so painstakingly gorgeous that there is no choice but to draw your eyes toward it and admire it.
That was never her.
Over the years, she drew further and further into her shell, a time when she was told she would thrive and flourish as she sprouted from the ground and came into season quickly soured as she wilted under the pressure of society and pressures placed upon herself. She hated vulnerability.
It’s much easier to grow thorns and barriers on barriers of blockades than to let in a threat. To let someone so close that they reach the center of her being and see who she is. To allow someone to see her painfully bright core and to accept its light for what it is. Someone who isn’t afraid to stare.
She is always separate and, in many ways, always has been.
The once physical walls of pillows stacked beside her have become metaphorical ones of an encompassing safety blanket sheltering her from the world. Her knights have resigned solemnly over the years, leaving their posts abandoned. She turns to friendship in hopes of comfort but finds that all are already present in a knighthood.
She is the princess high up in the tower with no people in the palace and no knights to protect her.
In lack of devotion and the presence of a once bustling society, the tamed plants grow. The beautiful, flourishing flower petals devolve into something ugly and sharp.
She doesn’t know how it quite turned out this way.
When she became so lonely all of a sudden, it was such an overwhelming and all-encompassing feeling that it couldn’t be ignored.
Who does she call when she has a problem?
Who searches for her first in a crowded room?
Who is there to put up with her annoyances and her silly idiosyncrasies?
Who does she have?
She has her family. She has a few close friendships. But there is no chivalry coming to defend her at the first risk of harm. No one she feels she can burden with her trivial issues. No one she wants to burden at all with her presence.
Perhaps admitting it only makes it more unfortunate and self-pitying, but she doesn’t care.
She sits atop her tower. Staring into a mirror she was handed at a young age.
A mirror pointing out flaws and inconsistencies between her and the trends. It reflects someone just on the edge of normalcy. Someone who tries too hard and not enough to go unnoticed. She doesn’t understand who she is because every time she glances in the mirror, the reflection morphs.
It’s the vision of her future, her possibilities, her fears, her hopelessness, her perseverance, and perhaps underneath all the layers lies herself.
The unaltered, true her.
The one that holds her stuffed animals for equal increments of time. The one that carries a deck of cards on her in case someone asks to play. The one who loves long drives. The one who doesn’t care what others think. The one that still belts at the top of her lungs because she was given a voice to sing with. The one who loves and admires the world. The one who she hopes can be seen.
Perhaps separation is not necessary under the correct circumstances. Perhaps the thorns would only be there as the roses were still in the process of blooming. Perhaps she can sit at the top of the stairs, staring at the lonesome light reflecting in the glass pane, and allow sadness to be what it is and nothing more profound.
Perhaps she can be herself.
