WIG

Posted by Sherry Roit on Friday, April 6, 2018


Red--
        ish.

Unnatural. Tangled. Worn. Abused. 
Peeking in and out between leaves dry, supple, old and new. Weeds and grasses.
Brown and green.

It begs the question...


Circa 2017

She stares out west, and a fire glow sunset is reflected in her cold green eyes. The sigh that escapes her, whistling past her chapped lips (swollen on one side as they are) is a rattle. Whisper soft rattle.

It should've been different. Her entire life should've been different, could've been different. Though she had no control over some events, she had always accepted responsibility for her own stupid actions-- at least, after a certain point in her life. She did resent the hell out of her formative years. The years in which adults failed her, taught her shitty ideals by example (or no ideals at all). That should be a crime, she thinks. Leaving a child blank. Unknowing. Unguided.

That was it. She wasn't abused. Her familial units hadn't drilled nonsense into her head, not by force or lecture, they hadn't warped and twisted her into something most of society shunned. Decent society. It had taken her up until this very moment, standing on the balcony, to have this epiphany. This lightning strike of acceptance.

She hadn't had a terrible childhood, not in the classic sense, and so had never felt that she could speak of her troubles. Her thoughts. So many had had it worse, still had it worse, so very many. 

People would scoff at her. They'd ask her what right she had to be so distressed, so bitter, why complain? She, with her mansion, provided by a husband richer than most, a man who appeared to dote on her. What the fuck did she have to complain about, with her comfortable childhood, parents not quite as rich, but certainly not poor.  What the fuck did this beautiful woman with everything, have to complain about?

How about being ignored? No, her husband wasn't cruel. Distant, yes. Like her parents. It's what she knew. Distance. But cold cash didn't replace a warm smile. Touch. Encouraging words.

No, he was not cruel. He was sweet-- when he was around. He was usually unavailable. It felt like his gifts were meant to compensate. Or that they were gifts that signified his guilt. Probably both.  

She lived in a guilt house. Wore guilt clothing and jewelry. The empty house that absence built. Bereft of laughter. Stories. Feeling.

Connection.

She missed the way they met...or was that a fiction she'd made up, read in one of her thousands of books? He loved her. She loved him.  That is, if either knew what it really meant.

She missed connection. She wondered if she knew feeling, what it really was. So she tried to find it elsewhere. Some spark of...anything. The poor artists were best. At first, anyway. Desire and passion, for everything. 

Eventually, they resented her money. Or...wanted it.

She sighs again.

Money doesn't buy happiness, they say. She agreed. People without it, think this is bullshit. That only those with money can say this. But they weren't looking beyond necessities. They weren't looking deeper. Not that she blamed them. She understood. She'd probably hate someone like her, too, were it the other way around. Envy them. Think they were full of shit.

She didn't care about money. She gave it away often enough. Those artists would take it, or be offended by it and throw it in her face. Tell her how easy it was for someone like her, in her guilt cage. They often seemed to resent that she wouldn't run off with her, give up everything. Why not, they'd say. Isn't that why you're slumming? 

As if they could fix what ailed her...when she hadn't always known what ailed her.

Still, she didn't wish this discovery about happiness, on anyone. Sometimes people needed their fantasies, their anger.

In a languid movement, she reaches up and pulls the wig from her head, letting the perfectly maintained (some five hundred dollars worth, last time) natural tresses, free.

This cheap, reddish wig, which she now holds over the railing of her bedroom balcony, the wig she lets slip from her hand, and it falls, somewhere in a valley below.

She does this approximately twenty-two minutes and twelve seconds before eating a bullet from the gun purchased explicitly for this occasion, and for approximately nine seconds, she feels. 


2018

It begs the question to the observer, where did this wig come from, and how did it end up here? She snaps a picture on her phone, and chuckles as she walks away, a bad joke forming in her head.




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WIG

Posted by Sherry Roit on Friday, April 6, 2018


Red--
        ish.

Unnatural. Tangled. Worn. Abused. 
Peeking in and out between leaves dry, supple, old and new. Weeds and grasses.
Brown and green.

It begs the question...


Circa 2017

She stares out west, and a fire glow sunset is reflected in her cold green eyes. The sigh that escapes her, whistling past her chapped lips (swollen on one side as they are) is a rattle. Whisper soft rattle.

It should've been different. Her entire life should've been different, could've been different. Though she had no control over some events, she had always accepted responsibility for her own stupid actions-- at least, after a certain point in her life. She did resent the hell out of her formative years. The years in which adults failed her, taught her shitty ideals by example (or no ideals at all). That should be a crime, she thinks. Leaving a child blank. Unknowing. Unguided.

That was it. She wasn't abused. Her familial units hadn't drilled nonsense into her head, not by force or lecture, they hadn't warped and twisted her into something most of society shunned. Decent society. It had taken her up until this very moment, standing on the balcony, to have this epiphany. This lightning strike of acceptance.

She hadn't had a terrible childhood, not in the classic sense, and so had never felt that she could speak of her troubles. Her thoughts. So many had had it worse, still had it worse, so very many. 

People would scoff at her. They'd ask her what right she had to be so distressed, so bitter, why complain? She, with her mansion, provided by a husband richer than most, a man who appeared to dote on her. What the fuck did she have to complain about, with her comfortable childhood, parents not quite as rich, but certainly not poor.  What the fuck did this beautiful woman with everything, have to complain about?

How about being ignored? No, her husband wasn't cruel. Distant, yes. Like her parents. It's what she knew. Distance. But cold cash didn't replace a warm smile. Touch. Encouraging words.

No, he was not cruel. He was sweet-- when he was around. He was usually unavailable. It felt like his gifts were meant to compensate. Or that they were gifts that signified his guilt. Probably both.  

She lived in a guilt house. Wore guilt clothing and jewelry. The empty house that absence built. Bereft of laughter. Stories. Feeling.

Connection.

She missed the way they met...or was that a fiction she'd made up, read in one of her thousands of books? He loved her. She loved him.  That is, if either knew what it really meant.

She missed connection. She wondered if she knew feeling, what it really was. So she tried to find it elsewhere. Some spark of...anything. The poor artists were best. At first, anyway. Desire and passion, for everything. 

Eventually, they resented her money. Or...wanted it.

She sighs again.

Money doesn't buy happiness, they say. She agreed. People without it, think this is bullshit. That only those with money can say this. But they weren't looking beyond necessities. They weren't looking deeper. Not that she blamed them. She understood. She'd probably hate someone like her, too, were it the other way around. Envy them. Think they were full of shit.

She didn't care about money. She gave it away often enough. Those artists would take it, or be offended by it and throw it in her face. Tell her how easy it was for someone like her, in her guilt cage. They often seemed to resent that she wouldn't run off with her, give up everything. Why not, they'd say. Isn't that why you're slumming? 

As if they could fix what ailed her...when she hadn't always known what ailed her.

Still, she didn't wish this discovery about happiness, on anyone. Sometimes people needed their fantasies, their anger.

In a languid movement, she reaches up and pulls the wig from her head, letting the perfectly maintained (some five hundred dollars worth, last time) natural tresses, free.

This cheap, reddish wig, which she now holds over the railing of her bedroom balcony, the wig she lets slip from her hand, and it falls, somewhere in a valley below.

She does this approximately twenty-two minutes and twelve seconds before eating a bullet from the gun purchased explicitly for this occasion, and for approximately nine seconds, she feels. 


2018

It begs the question to the observer, where did this wig come from, and how did it end up here? She snaps a picture on her phone, and chuckles as she walks away, a bad joke forming in her head.




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