The Little Girl Dying
A dark, cobblestoned street. Well-kept brick houses with an air of desertion. The façades are beautiful, but still they project something sinister. A very small girl walks rapidly down the street, stumbling every few feet on uneven paving. She glances frequently over her shoulder and around at the empty windows, keenly aware of being watched—by whom, only she knows. She barely spares a glance to check the numbering of the houses; she cannot be near her destination. A light wind lifts the leaves on the few gray trees, but, like everything else in these environs, it dies quickly. The stillness that follows this breeze is ghastly. The little girl’s entire frame seems to bend backward, as if she wants only to run, and only her feet move on, carrying her with a sort of ticking frenzy. Finally, she arrives at the destination she has sought. It is an empty lot at the very end of the road. There is nothing beyond this address.
It appears at first to be nothing more than a twisted garden. The actual house is set back from the street, accessible by a narrow lane on which the girl’s feet can only fit one in front of the other. Although the overgrowth seems not to have stirred in weeks, the yard is alive with a dread hum of scurrying things. Perhaps they are creatures, but perhaps they are only the minions of Death himself, lurking in the smoky haze. The little girl stops short at the sight of this place, wild and forbidding. Only a small, splintered gate separates her from the interior of the yard. Slowly, unwillingly, she reaches out a hand towards it. She does not want to open it, but something is pushing her, guiding her frail, half-starved arm.
The gate does not so much swing as fall open. It is barely strung on by a hinge, and it dangles, lopsided, carelessly inviting the little girl in. Her tiny, motheaten foot rises stiffly in front of her, and in a moment she has stepped onto the path. She is no longer being pushed. Now she has entered the pull. Every step she takes from here to the door will be orchestrated by a Puppet master. As soon as she has cleared its arc, the gate closes behind her. There is no latch, for it will just as soon open again. The gate is indifferent.
It is a long walk from the fence to the house. It is a long, dark walk. It is a long, tangled walk. It is equal parts torment and peace, for Death is equal parts torment and peace. It is the final wretchedness and also the time when all wretchedness fades away. The little girl struggles to fill her lungs, for there is no air in the garden. There is nothing but unseen monsters and uncreeping brambles and stale, empty blackness. It is through this undefined terror that the little girl moves, through which she walks forward, even though she knows that that house will swallow her whole.
That house casts its shadow over the entire grounds, yet it is not until the little girl is very near that she sees the building itself. It is a large, old-fashioned edifice, elegant and unfaded. Like the other houses, it must be occupied by ghosts, for it is well-kept and untenanted. It rises three rather imposing stories, with several gabled windows and a porch wrapping around the front. The door stands open; perhaps there is no door. The little girl is welcome. All are welcome in this house, for all must eventually stop here. She is here to beg food and rest as much as she is to meet her end. The doorway looms high above her as she reaches the steps to the porch, but here she must stop. It is never easy to ascend those steps, even for those who are ready. She looks into the doorway, trying to see into the blackness. There is nothing to see, no indication of what might be inside.
It is with apprehensive resignation that the little girl puts her foot on the bottom step. It is remarkably solid. The little girl is surprised that she still has mass, weight. Moreover, her whole body sags with reluctance. She heaves the other foot onto the next step. A light gust of cold air greets her from the doorway. It is breathing on her. Third step. She can almost hear the inside of the house panting, wanting her, expecting her.
She reaches the porch. Only a few steps stand between her and the fatal darkness within, more dense and oppressive than the darkness without. Only a few steps during which to relinquish her hold on life. For the first time since beginning her journey, the little girl pauses. She has no idea what is inside. What lies in Death’s darkness? Is there light at the end? Or is it just unfeeling nothingness? This uncertainty stops the little girl. She takes a deep breath, but there is nothing to breathe. She gasps a few times, inhaling emptiness and darkness. Inside, the low panting breaths of the darkness tell her that it senses her imminence. She gasps again and takes a step forward. Then another. She is walking slowly to meet Death. There are no more breaths. There is no more feeling. There is nothing else to sense on this earth. There is…
[AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m not actually being lazy here; I just have no idea what to write about today. I do, however, have quite a few compositions lying around with no real outlet or market–“snippets” I call them. Here is one such snippet that I wrote while listening to a friend play the piano. It is a writing born in free thought space: he played the piano, and I let the pen go, not contemplating or premeditating the words, letting the tone and pace of the music guide me. I wish I had cited the piece he played, for the story was very much influenced by the movement of the music (It was probably by Chopin or Ravel…). For me, this is as nondirected as it gets. I hope you enjoy.]
[CREDIT: The former quotation above is the first half of a poem by Shel Silverstein.]