Cell

A short story

Stays in the room when they’re in.

Easier that way.

Used to be the smell of her cooking or the noise of cleaning that annoyed…….

These days, seems like it’s everything.

Every. Damn. Thing.

Goes to get a drink or use the bathroom and it’s like she’s interrupting the peace. Just existing seems to irritate, antagonise ……so she’s learned to stay in the shadows. Out of the way.

Out of harm’s way.

Pretends she’s not there. Invisible.

But she is. 

Still feels, still hurts, behind the wall.

Used to be a sanctuary, that bedroom, but over time, it has become a cell.

Once she felt she had a say in it. She chose to retreat there. Lie low. Wait for the storms to pass.

Somewhere down the line, the dynamic changed.

Maybe it was when she was told to get in there, not to come out. Like an order.

Maybe it was when, instead of her quietly closing the door, the door was brutally slammed on her.

When did a refuge become a prison, she asks herself?

Perhaps it’s a ‘boiling frogs’ situation. You don’t realise until it’s too late. The pot that felt so inviting, stretch your legs, warm, tingly, numbing, until……

But what could she have done back then anyhow? How could she have known? How far back would she have to go, to change it? Fix it?

Which part of her story was the ‘pot’ she willingly climbed into?

She no longer calls it ‘home’.

‘Home’ is the books she read as a child, with mice and rabbits that wore aprons and nightgowns. They gathered around roaring fires, sipping camomile tea or waiting excitedly for blackberry pie. Home is patchwork quilts and cuddles by flickering candlelight. Home is belonging, home is shared laughter.

Home……. is safe.

She remembers the old times, first days in the house. When it felt like home. The affection she held for it. That small yet beautiful space, perched on the hills, proud as a puffy, handsome wren.

The love she bestowed upon it. The bulbs she lowered into fertile ground in autumn with so much faith in spring. The joys at seeing those new shoots appear, green shark fins cutting through the soil.

The throws she crocheted, the cushion covers she knitted. The red gingham skirts she sewed to hide the ugly imposition of practical white goods.

The mishapen wooden star she placed above the kitchen sink so she would see hope where others saw dirty dishes. And she did, for a while. Bought the fancy washing up liquid that smelled of pomegranate. Breathed it in, exhaled glitter. At least that’s how it felt.

Sundays were spent reading ‘House and Gardens’, ‘Country Living’ back then. Minimalist or bold? Feature wall? Belfast sink? Such were her concerns.

When ‘eggshells’ were not something you walked on, but selections of paint to ponder. A type she liked. Not so dull as matt, not so fake as gloss. The right amount of shine. Natural. Caught the light, sang.

She recalls the shades she toyed over, with an irreverence of time only the childless have. Daubing endless tester pots on walls examining the nuances of nibbling greens and robust reds. Those paint charts with drowsy names that seduced her like historic candy. ‘Dorset Cream’. ‘Pale Hound’. ‘Plaster’.

Ah, that one sticks!

‘Elephant’s Breath’ - how anything could be made to sound desirable! Real elephant’s breath - how grim and putrid that must actually be! Why did people fall for it?

She could only surmise it was because the heart hears what it wants to. Beautifies the disgusting.

She no longer plants bulbs in the autumn.

They rot these days.

She no longer knits or crochets. Things get destroyed so easily. Why would she bother?

The lovingly applied paint peels off, cakes and snarls in damp heaps, like the walls themselves are seething and bubbling over in rage. Black mould is the new shade. How it makes itself known in devilish swirls, the taunting, mocking opposite to ‘roses round the door’. Maybe there should be an enticing name for that?

The cell she now occupies, seems so at odds with the home she once dreamt of.

It’s functional. Adequate. A place to sleep.

Well, cat nap, one eye open.

Some days are worse than others.

But it’s not the haven she wanted, envisioned.

Home shouldn’t be about wondering if you’re going to be abused, about palpitations and smashed mirrors. 

This was never in Brambly Hedge or Beatrix Potter.

Home was the salvation. Love. Bedrock.

What colour are real cells? Actual prison cells? She wonders as she watches the black fur harbour in the corners of the wall, each bead of dark climbing and multiplying. A marching army.

Are real cells painted in ‘Elephant’s Breath’ or ‘Plaster’? Does it matter?

No! No!

Because it’s all bullshit anyway. Gift wrap.

What surely counts, is foundation. Priming. Taking time to get it right underneath. Deep down. What matters is that the walls hold up. Can cope. Bear weight. Strain. That they’re not rotten, crumbling, about to fucking collapse.

And how do you do that? How do you know? Really, really know? Who the fuck is a ‘life structural surveyor’ anyhow?

Could you have one of those pop round maybe? Tell you the risks? The odds? Before you start sprucing shit up and making plans? If they did……would you listen? Would she have listened?

Cell

Cell

Cell

New connotations are coming.

‘e’ changes to ‘a’

Call

Call

Call

The words and feelings are flocking like birds, gathering overhead. A white storm that swoops in to cry with her as doves, before cooing her to a milk pudding comfort.

The heartening red glow of a blood cell replaces the confinement of a prison cell.

She feels alive.

She channels the robust energy of a tiny battery cell.

And remembers, she has power.

All that is in her, must be cocked and loaded, concentrated, latent, ready to use, to do something with. Something……

Change the image, change the story.

The wooden star is still there above the sink.

And sometimes, when they’re out, she does the dishes, looks at it, and even dares wish upon it.

Thanks for reading. I now have more than 300 pieces on substack! If you enjoyed this piece, you can find more stories under the heading ‘stories’ on my home page.