.comment-link {margin-left:.6em;}

the word whisperer

Saturday, September 17, 2005


Karen stood by the window, watching raindrops roll down the glass. She traced their paths with her finger.

“You always visit me on Tuesday, don’t you?” she whispered to the drops. “Tomorrow is my 13th birthday. I want to get my ears pierced, but I know Mother won’t let me. What do you think?”

A drop slid off the pane.

“You don’t want me to, do you? But why? I promise I won’t wear them every day. It’s just for special occasions,” she implored, then after a pause, raised her voice. “You’re just like everybody else – don’t care what I may think! You think it’s easy to live, knowing that you’ve got little say in your own life? Always forced to be in the middle of every argument? Pretending not to notice hurt looks? Trying to change the subject to cheer up the atmosphere? What do you think I am, an ungrateful spoiled brat or something?”

The wind hushed and the raindrops froze.

“If you keep silent, why do you come at all? Go to those flowers outside. See, they’re thirsty!” she cried, tears forming in her eyes. “Go on, leave me! I want to see the blue sky, the sunny field; I want my window to be clear. You do nothing but bore me!”

But the drops paid no heed to Karen’s sobs. With all her strength, she smashed the glass. Blood oozed from her fist and Karen bit her lip in pain. What’s Mom gonna say?

Just then, the rain came and wet her wounds. Karen gazed onto the drops as they mingled with blood. The wind soothed her pain and Karen smiled – someone understood her. Footsteps were nearing the door.

“See you next Tuesday,” she whispered.