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My Runner-Up entry for Microcosms 79. The prompt was to include the line 'The rain seemed to be writing cryptic messages on my window panes.'
Life was being difficult. People would look at me oddly, speak in languages I didn’t understand, move further than they needed to when I joined their queue. Even the rain seemed to be writing cryptic messages on my window pane. Somebody was trying to tell me something. I just needed to tune-in, decode the transmission. So I listened with greater care to the babble of those around me, felt their words spike my brain, repetitive waves of command merging into something I could not ignore, something I had to share.
“Mummy, tell me a story …”
So I told her a story, a story made of the words from the world beyond. I didn’t notice her shrink from me.
“Mummy, can you draw me a picture …”
So I drew her a picture made by the words hooked onto my heart. I didn’t notice her tears watering the page.
The word was even stronger in the hospital. It was everywhere. But I never told anyone. It was my secret.
“Time for Mary to go now, Mrs Williams.”
“Can we have a minute alone?”
A smile, a nod, a closed door.
The word crawled on my tongue, itching to be released. My gift to my child. A secret to be passed from mother to daughter.
“I have a present for you, Mary.”
I pulled her tight to me, whispered my secret word into her ear. I didn’t notice when she stopped struggling.
A scream. “What did you do?”
Still the word itched. It had tasted freedom and wanted more.
“Do, nurse? Come here and I’ll tell you. Let me whisper in your ear …”
A writer - I think that says it all.