A Travers Ses Yeux (Written in English)

Pretty burns cross her hands, reminding her to mind the flames, for they will surely burn you. A grey and orange splattered cat licks them gently; an intuition to ease the pain. With her better hand, she returns love to animal. Another of the same species, sits quietly at the edge of the bed, watching. The two exchange a playful glance, and together they run gayly from the room.

She is alone now; she thinks to fill the space of time. From outside, comes the echoes of a distant clock. The chimes recall the hour; it is late. Snow falls diagonally past her window pane, and the smell of myrth fills her nostrils.

The room, dimly lit with orange tint radiating from the Chinese lantern upon the ceiling, causes her to bask in the forgiving light. A mirror, stares at her from across the room, begging a look. The distance is covered, and she meets the mirror's request. She begins near her chin, noticing the soft rounded edges. Her lips, full, fade from deep red to a burnt sienna mixed with a bit of white. The nose, nearly symmetrical in shape, is pitted with insignificant divots along the ridge; some are touched with black.

The eyes, almonds, encase two emerald green rings, both floating in a sea of white. The rings wrap around two black voids that stare back at her; they speak a tale. They sing a lullaby. Her soul shines through the two dilated black holes, and for a moment she falls in love with herself.

She glances down at her burns, and suddenly understands the pain. She welcomes the sensation, because it reminds her that she is alive.  

She turns, and retraces the steps to her bed. An outstretched hand plucks the lighter and the cigarette pack from the window seal. The lighter is white, reminding her of the guilty man's superstition. She is not afraid; the warning evades her. She runs her thumb across the lighter's jagged wheel, and a beautiful flame appears. For a moment, she is mesmerized.

Suddenly, a door slams from downstairs; he's home. She puts the cigarette between her lips in regret, and sucks at the orange flame through the stick. A cherry replaces the flame, as she quickly gets up to lock her door. She is not in the mood for confrontation. A thick cloud of grey smoke exists her lungs with a sigh.

She crosses the room, and sits on the bed with an unforgiving thump. A wooden music box, with carvings of an Irish nature across the top, rests on a mahogany desk beside her. She flicks the cigarette's ash into the tray in front of her, and turns to open the box. A loud banging sound echoes from downstairs. She picks up the box, and twists the knob at the bottom in frustration. After nearly thirty rotations, she sits back against the bed frame while a soft melody taints the sounds coming from below her.

She takes another puff from her dieing cigarette, and settles in for yet another night of hell.