“Your accusations have finally drowned me! Your words spin and twist like spears, your finalities whip my flesh thin and tear out my organs! You point and gawk– my supposed friends! – and hiss your allegations[1].” – La Blanche

 

La Blanche is at her fortress where the walls are formed from one-way, orchid glass. She sits at a square wood table adjacent to the window and questioningly glimpses out at those twenty bodies that have surrounded her. She defocuses their sneers, furrowed brows, barred teeth, and she distracts herself from their proximity by ripping her lose nails from their beds. She recalls a youth that welcomed pain therapy, but she tells herself now that she’s too grown up for teenage angst.

In her space, white cardboard boxes are bordered meticulously with duct tape of various hues and scattered as land mines. Her Blanche[2] boxes are various sizes, labeled meticulously by day. She tiptoes, but the floors still creak underneath her heavy, worldly[3] feet. Beyond the creaks, firewood crackles with life and warms her borrowed burdens. Above the fireplace, there is a portrait bordered with fake gold. In it, an elderly apple tree is centered and lonely in a field of grass.

She pushes her chair out loudly, lies on her stomach on the floor, and shifts her jeans uncomfortably, tugging at her arching, filled pockets. She watches her reflection, softens her eyes, moves the tips of her eyebrows up, and pouts her mouth sadly. She is _______[4] closing her shamed eyes as she hears the bodies hit the glass and mark the orchid glass with heavy breathing. The steam from their hot breath spreads and thins the glass walls. As their mutterings echo, she takes a small[5] box with weathered[6] palms, leaving a square skeleton marking the undusted floor. She lifts and drops it tenderly, then aligns it back onto the outline. With a beaten sigh, she reaches deeply into her crowded pocket and removes a sealed bottle of white ink. Her head tucks into her left shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, and her thick mascara scars her cheek as a single tear marks her. The other side of her remains blank[7]. She unbuttons her shirt, unzips her jeans, and slips out of her clothes. Each piece of clothing is placed as a centerpiece on the floor. Naked, she grabs the pile and tosses it into the fire underneath the portrait. The tree burns as the clothes catch fire, and the portrait empties.

Frowning at the ink in her lap, she turns to the blank painting, puts her finger to her lip and whispers, “Shhh[8].”

The painting remains silent, yet she nods while putting her fingers around the ink. With her eyes on the painting, she pours some ink into her palm. At first, the puddle sits in her hand pointlessly. She waits a few moments then clasps her hands together, white ink running down her arms. The bodies moan louder and shriller outside as she rubs her hands together and cleanses her wrists.

From the other side of the orchid walls, the bodies find an entrance and knock at the lines of the door with their palms. Their voices rise from the thrill, and the girl behind the walls starts humming a single note to distract herself from their accusations.

The white ink dyes her skin and thickens across her limbs. She rubs her elbows, then shoulders, then takes the bottle and starts pouring the whiteness onto her chest and neck. The dye takes her in and gives her a new skin, a camouflage[9].

The mutterings rise to screams. She can hear them clearly now. Their voices label, “Liar!” “Thief!” “Whore!”

She bends down and pours the remaining liquid wildly on her stomach, legs, and feet. Flustered, she calms only as her skin whitens. Taking in a deep breath, she goes to the collapsing door, puts her hand on the cast iron doorknob and tugs vigorously.

The outsiders’ screams pierce as they fall into the room, their body parts molding into one another, eyes passionate with animosity and confusion. The four glass walls shatter, allowing all the others to enter. La Blanche waits as they brush past. She eyes one of the bodies—the eldest woman wearing a lace apron. The woman grabs the largest white box, the size of a coffin, and rips it open. She takes a handful of blue marbles and clutches them to her cheek.

Another body, a man with burnt skin, has torn apart a box filled with feathers, which he gathers and spreads onto his blistered body. The feathers attach to him, and his hands cover his face as relief spreads through his body.

She watches this and notes[10] that no one has noticed her. She looks at the floor, at herself, and sees that her skin is anew. Taking large steps over her friends[11], she walks out the door into a fresh, quiet world, and journeys to find new boxes.

——————————————-

[1] provocations

[2] white – (one of the 56 French words in her bank)

[3] (Mexico. Three days.)

[4] practicing

[5] (and heavy)

[6] un-weathered

[7] stony

[8] Can you hear me?

[9] Tell me I can still escape her if I tell the truth.

[10] is satisfied

[11] victims