List for St. Nicholas
Danielle Purinton
The plastic rocking horse in my dreams: moving back and forth, calming me down with every anxious breath. Beady eyes, pale brown skin and a sparkling saddle distracts me from the drunken innuendos of Nicholas. Just leave me alone, my mind screeched, desperately trying to block out the clattering of bottles near my disheveled bed.
The Pretty Pretty Princess game my mother talked about: the remote castle, bejeweled crown and control. My own world, my own feelings and my own voice that would finally be heard– louder than the deafening silence Nicholas and I share.
The game Battleship: the echoes of bombs across the border matching the screaming wind against our meek shack. The horrific smell of smoke and rotting flesh drifting through the patchy roof. The shack never provided safety, not even with Nicholas around.
A yellow umbrella: the rain never stopped pouring like tears from the gods above. Sometimes the sky cried rivers, carving crevasses into dunes below. Depressing me further into the unkept shack, the rain pounded down, mimicking Nicholas. No matter how hard I tried, I never seemed to see the sun; so the yellow orb would have to do.
Why did I believe Nicholas, after the years receiving nothing but harsh words, smashing of glass on fragmented walls and slurred sweet nothings down my spine. Why did I hope sunlight would awaken me, when it only appeared in my dreams. Why did I pray for vivacity and shelter when life rewarded my commitment to Nicholas with broken promises.
The Barbie Dreamhouse Playset: complete with perfectly cooked food, a full closet of designer clothes and a boyfriend who would always make Barbie happy. All the things I wanted, but never would receive.
A basketball hoop: standing in its tall glory; taunting me with naked bravery. The rusted metal flaking off, banging like pebbles on the walls. Swaying in the vicious wind, whirling around with a distinct purpose.
As I remembered the gifts I desired, I remembered how naive I was– how stupid, how ignorant, how clueless. The ruptured boards which built my home shook in the wind and shivered in the cool breeze. It burned in the summer and dripped in April. April. April. April. Sometimes words replay themselves in my mind, over and over. Burning like vervain in my cortexes, her name failed to recede from my thoughts. Eliminating all hatred towards him, I was abandoned to think about the lust I still possessed, and the lack of emotion he failed to convey towards me. April.
The green and blue skateboard from the boy next door: flying across sand like a bird, free from the suffocating emptiness the shack gifted me. Free from the reverberating sounds of screams both inside and outside the wooden home.
A pair of glasses: the blurry memories of Nicholas coming to fruition, the slurs becoming straight lines, the wavy lines connecting the dots. The fantasies I clung to, the glimpses of shady light that trickled in only to be smashed down by the depressive appearance of my man.
How could I ever forget her? April that is. The skank who stole Nicholas forever. My Nicholas. The man who owned the darkest parts of me, who controlled the fear I possessed. No matter his degrading words, no matter the number of glasses he threw against the shaking walls, no matter the strength of his sour stench– he was mine. The gifts he never gave, but allowed me to dream of. The words I never said, but was allowed to think. The shack he left, leaving his girl in shambles. I was his girl. I am his girl. He can’t leave me. He needs me.
As I walked towards the drizzling horizon, a new wooden shack appears glistening with a sheen I dreamed of having. The sound of silence engulfed my consciousness as it did when I told Nicholas my dreams of a better life. Nicholas was never silent. His breath always staggered and his nostrils flared constantly creating commotion in the air. As I snuck past the open screen door, the stench of fermentation blasted into my face with such a force, I was blown back. I stared into the room past the smoggy air, and searched for the man who would never look into my eyes without a glass in his hand. Man, hell, he was barely a boy. I marched straight into the unknown. My eyes searched the room for the destroyer. There, caressing his cheek, stood the harlot woman of the night. Her eyes burrowing into my skull, her scowl drawing Nicholas closer to her bare, bloody skin.
I never understood his attraction to her, for she dripped like the month itself. April. It has been a long time since Nicholas left the shack, taking every ounce of food, money, and drink he managed to find in my hidden places. Nicholas could never leave me. I refuse to believe that he would leave me for April.
April.
Danielle Purinton
The plastic rocking horse in my dreams: moving back and forth, calming me down with every anxious breath. Beady eyes, pale brown skin and a sparkling saddle distracts me from the drunken innuendos of Nicholas. Just leave me alone, my mind screeched, desperately trying to block out the clattering of bottles near my disheveled bed.
The Pretty Pretty Princess game my mother talked about: the remote castle, bejeweled crown and control. My own world, my own feelings and my own voice that would finally be heard– louder than the deafening silence Nicholas and I share.
The game Battleship: the echoes of bombs across the border matching the screaming wind against our meek shack. The horrific smell of smoke and rotting flesh drifting through the patchy roof. The shack never provided safety, not even with Nicholas around.
A yellow umbrella: the rain never stopped pouring like tears from the gods above. Sometimes the sky cried rivers, carving crevasses into dunes below. Depressing me further into the unkept shack, the rain pounded down, mimicking Nicholas. No matter how hard I tried, I never seemed to see the sun; so the yellow orb would have to do.
Why did I believe Nicholas, after the years receiving nothing but harsh words, smashing of glass on fragmented walls and slurred sweet nothings down my spine. Why did I hope sunlight would awaken me, when it only appeared in my dreams. Why did I pray for vivacity and shelter when life rewarded my commitment to Nicholas with broken promises.
The Barbie Dreamhouse Playset: complete with perfectly cooked food, a full closet of designer clothes and a boyfriend who would always make Barbie happy. All the things I wanted, but never would receive.
A basketball hoop: standing in its tall glory; taunting me with naked bravery. The rusted metal flaking off, banging like pebbles on the walls. Swaying in the vicious wind, whirling around with a distinct purpose.
As I remembered the gifts I desired, I remembered how naive I was– how stupid, how ignorant, how clueless. The ruptured boards which built my home shook in the wind and shivered in the cool breeze. It burned in the summer and dripped in April. April. April. April. Sometimes words replay themselves in my mind, over and over. Burning like vervain in my cortexes, her name failed to recede from my thoughts. Eliminating all hatred towards him, I was abandoned to think about the lust I still possessed, and the lack of emotion he failed to convey towards me. April.
The green and blue skateboard from the boy next door: flying across sand like a bird, free from the suffocating emptiness the shack gifted me. Free from the reverberating sounds of screams both inside and outside the wooden home.
A pair of glasses: the blurry memories of Nicholas coming to fruition, the slurs becoming straight lines, the wavy lines connecting the dots. The fantasies I clung to, the glimpses of shady light that trickled in only to be smashed down by the depressive appearance of my man.
How could I ever forget her? April that is. The skank who stole Nicholas forever. My Nicholas. The man who owned the darkest parts of me, who controlled the fear I possessed. No matter his degrading words, no matter the number of glasses he threw against the shaking walls, no matter the strength of his sour stench– he was mine. The gifts he never gave, but allowed me to dream of. The words I never said, but was allowed to think. The shack he left, leaving his girl in shambles. I was his girl. I am his girl. He can’t leave me. He needs me.
As I walked towards the drizzling horizon, a new wooden shack appears glistening with a sheen I dreamed of having. The sound of silence engulfed my consciousness as it did when I told Nicholas my dreams of a better life. Nicholas was never silent. His breath always staggered and his nostrils flared constantly creating commotion in the air. As I snuck past the open screen door, the stench of fermentation blasted into my face with such a force, I was blown back. I stared into the room past the smoggy air, and searched for the man who would never look into my eyes without a glass in his hand. Man, hell, he was barely a boy. I marched straight into the unknown. My eyes searched the room for the destroyer. There, caressing his cheek, stood the harlot woman of the night. Her eyes burrowing into my skull, her scowl drawing Nicholas closer to her bare, bloody skin.
I never understood his attraction to her, for she dripped like the month itself. April. It has been a long time since Nicholas left the shack, taking every ounce of food, money, and drink he managed to find in my hidden places. Nicholas could never leave me. I refuse to believe that he would leave me for April.
April.