literature

The Soul's Window

Deviation Actions

G-R-Visini's avatar
By
Published:
408 Views

Literature Text

Her face looked sad as she stared distantly at the pavement, her eyes empty of all thought and emotion.

I could see why – her future must have looked as dim to her as it did to me.

She was slumped over her lap, hands resting limply on her legs. I watched her sigh deeply and wished there was something I could say that would help her.

But as I dared to glance at her reflection in the window behind her, her future caught my eye and I knew that she was too far gone.

The glass swirled and suddenly she was standing, her eyes closed and the wind sweeping through her short-cropped hair. She looked almost exactly as she did now, only there was a strange peace written on her pallid features. My stomach did a turn as I realized she was standing on the edge of a tall building.

Her reflection took a step forward and I ripped my gaze away, feeling suddenly sick.

The real her straightened and looked at me hollowly and I hurried away, tears pricking my eyes.

I’d been like this ever since I could remember. Every time I looked into a window at someone’s reflection in the glass, I saw their future – horrifying or beautiful. I saw their successes and their fears, their loves and their losses. Even now, after years of trying to get used to what I saw, I still couldn’t handle the truth most of the time.

Knowing exactly how someone’s life would turn out could screw you up real bad. After two suicide attempts and a stint in Brightside Mental Hospital I had only just come to terms with the fact that my life meant just as much as those I so unintentionally intruded on.

Looking into a window for me was like looking directly into someone’s hopes and dreams, and watching them shatter before you. It was like seeing their lost souls floating in the oblivion of their future. Almost no one I had seen had a particularly bright future ahead of them, and almost all of them faced death long before they expected.

I hurried back to my foster home, hoping Patricia wouldn’t be angry that I was hanging around after school. She didn’t usually mind if I was late home, but recently she’d been worrying a lot because my foster brother Danny had been tagging along with the wrong crowd.

Last week when he’d been sitting across from the window I’d dared to look in and hadn’t liked what I’d seen. I’d seen a young adult male, lying in a pool of his own vomit with blood running out of his nose. Beside him there were a number of dirty syringes, and his arm was still bound with a piece of cloth. He was only twelve now, three years younger than me.

On the way home I caught I glimpse of a young couple sitting on their porch in front of the bay window of their house. He was holding her hand and smiling, and her pretty eyes looked so content. But before I could avert my eyes I’d already seen their sad love story play out behind them in the glass.

I saw another, more attractive woman in a cheap hotel room, stripping off her slim red dress before going to the young man. I saw the couple fighting, their baby crying. I saw the woman, now older, holding another man’s hand and smiling. Her wedding ring had changed. I saw twin graves that had what I presumed was her name inscribed on the stone, the other had a strange, foreign name on it and a quote in another language. A woman in her mid-thirties laid flowers across the grave and walked away. Her face looked like her mother’s.

I saw the young man on the porch after their divorce, out at a club dancing with two identical-looking women, their breasts bursting from their tight dresses as they flung themselves over him. I saw him in a small, cramped room in a circle of people, his face grave and unshaven.

I tore my eyes away and carried on home, my heart hardening. If I cared, I would never get myself through life. And if I told them what would happen, they’d never believe me.

I arrived home, creeping through the front door and making my way upstairs to my room. I glanced at my watch. It was 6 o’clock, not too late, but not early either. Shutting my door quietly, I put my bag away and stacked my school books neatly on the desk beside my bed. This was by far the best room I’d ever had in a foster home. After moving through seven homes, I hoped Patricia would see that I wanted to stay here. After only three months living with her, I was still unsure though.

Almost as soon as I perched on my bed there was a light knock on my door. I knew it wasn’t Danny – he would have just come in anyway.

Patricia entered slowly, hanging back slightly in the doorway and shuffling her feet. In her mid-fifties she was a humble-looking woman, with greying hair and clear eyes.

“You okay?” she asked, crossing her arms awkwardly across her chest.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, rubbing my hand across my nose and avoiding her eyes.

She came and sat on the bed next to me, her gaze curiously empathetic. I could see the glass in the window behind her starting to swirl and I looked away before I could see her die prematurely.

But when I looked up again, all I saw was a peaceful smile on an old woman’s face as kids milled around her open coffin, tears dripping off their faces and onto the intricate wooden floor of a church.

“You can talk to me, Scout,” she said quietly, taking my hand.

“I know,” I said softly, smiling at her and trying not to cry. How could someone this lovely die? How could her god let that happen?

“So,” she prompted, “what’s the matter, sweetheart?”

I sighed. “Problems with kids at school.” It was only half a lie. I had avoided having friends since I was a child; it was too hard to see them die every time I looked at their reflection in the windows in class.

Every time I saw Patricia’s reflection I saw the same thing. A good, humble old woman with children of all ages mourning their loss of the only foster mother that ever cared.

Of course, the visions I saw could change sometimes. It was like that with a girl I knew in secondary school. One day I’d seen her reflection at lunch, and I’d seen a similar death to that of Patricia’s. The next week I watched her reflection fall from her horse as she rode with her sister, and watched the angle of her neck change as she hit the hard ground.

But she hadn’t ended up going riding that day, and her reflection had again returned to its original version.

“I had problems in school too,” Patricia said evenly. “I grew up in foster homes just like you. Kids at school would call me an orphan and sometimes throw things. They can be very mean, can’t they?”

“They can,” I agreed, bringing my knees up and hugging them.

“But you know,” she continued. “It doesn’t last. Once you grow up people don’t have a reason to be like that. They appreciate that everyone is different, and they love you for it.”

“When’s that gonna happen?” I asked, my voice betraying the slight sense of hope that I now had.

“Soon,” she promised with a smile. “Now, dinner’s on the table downstairs. Do you feel like eating?”

“Of course,” I nodded.

We made our way downstairs to the dining room, Patricia’s hand gentle and guiding on my shoulder. She’d made a grand Friday roast, with potatoes and gravy and a giant chicken that looked tantalizing.

Danny was at the table, fiddling with his phone and humming some strange song under his breath. He was sitting in front of the kitchen window, which made me catch my breath at first.

Patricia served me first, her eyes kind and understanding. I knew I couldn’t eat everything she put on my plate, but I knew she didn’t expect me to. She just wanted me to have a choice.

Danny ate silently while Patricia and I made small talk, his face void of any betraying expression.

Just as Patricia cleared away the plates I dared to glance up at his reflection behind him.

A man was standing in the glass, his face smiling and happy. Beside him stood a beautiful woman, a newborn baby sleeping peacefully in her arms. Then they were at a foster home, choosing a child that they could change the life of forever.

I saw them sitting at their dining room table, Danny’s older self’s face lit with a gracious smile as he, like Patricia was now, dished his children up a healthy portion of ice-cream and pie. I saw his funeral, an old man resting in his coffin, his widow looking down at him lovingly. I saw their headstones, side by side, facing the future with proud dignity.

There were no empty syringes, and no messy death.

I smiled at him, and he looked at me confusedly, but smiled back shyly.

“Do you want some pie?” Patricia asked, beaming from the kitchen doorway.

I felt a grin break out across my face, “Sure, Mom.”

Finally, my broken soul was stitching itself back together. Maybe I could survive this after all.
for the #Live-Love-Write writing prompt (Windows)

A fifteen year-old girl struggles with the ability to see people's futures. As she moves through life, she begins to heal, although life will never be for her what it is for us.

Recently I've been writing at each end of the emotional spectrum, I don't know why. My last piece was almost void of any real feelings while this one is full of suffering and sadness.

Comments and critiques welcome :)
© 2013 - 2024 G-R-Visini
Comments6
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
buslimpan's avatar
I love it! You wrote it really well!