“She sat fidgety on her futon in her Merlot drenched room and solemnly wept alone as the sound of music filled the air sending trembling vibrations throughout her four safe walls. The plaques of achievements hammered to her walls danced upon the rugged nails and swayed in a cosmic chaos “
The boisterous sounds dominantly encased the airwaves, two people entangled in opposition fighting for a cause within themselves, which would never reach an absolution. Alcohol infused fires, that seemed to simmer in the coals for days, as the little girl watched with intent as it ignited, she clutched her stuffed plush white animal as she scurried upstairs fearing to be caught in the crossfire. She avidly closed the bedroom door and locked it with a vengeance, in fear that the demons would reach her vibrant soul and break down her walls with the vibrations of shrill. She dove underneath her misconstrued covers and prayed, hoped and was entranced with the glory of owning her own journal and pen. She ultimately knew that if there was a way out, this was her ultimate escape.
The rage continued, slowly seeping into the teenage years of her life as she frantically awaited the day, she would become free and cultivate her own life. She was introduced to various stereotypes, attempting to fit in wherever she felt that she was “needed”, where she could feel her spark arise in the world.
She attempted, she tried, yet she failed with the best of intentions, to be everything her nightmares weren’t.
Constantly, she awoke in a cold sweat and pitched the covers to her side, as she recollected her nightmare. There it was again, “the machine”. It was a large dark three-story Victorian house covered in cobwebs and brown ivy vines, rafters exposed and completely furnished with a west wing that was forbidden unless she wanted to face the greatest fear of her life. She shuddered every single time she “got close” and she awoke sobbing, clutching her soft plush white stuffed animal in fear of what the west wing held for her once she laid down to go to sleep. She said her prayers, hoped and the only way out was to grab that pen and a piece of paper write down what she was feeling at that very moment.
“The terrors of the night are too much to handle, always clenching the pillow in hopes that I don’t fall asleep long enough to discover the west wing”. “I want to stay awake forever.”
The next night as predicted, the little girl was tucked into bed in her pink nightgown and drifted off into the dark abysmal as it consumed her subconscious. The West Wing was still very much alive and thriving as she started up the wooden spiral staircase encased with shadows scurrying about. “What was this place”, she thought to herself. “Is this where my utmost fear resides?”. She heard the vibrations of the oppositions she once knew in her waking world as she closed into the gruesome depths of the wooden doorway drafting with frigid air as she slowly approached. She placed her dream-like transparent hands on the brass handle and turned the knob only to find she had awakened to her nightmare of a life, once again.
She awoke with the angst to go back to sleep and find out what the plague was that was encasing her dimensional world. She was never “herself”, she used to find reasons to fall in and out of simple plans, in hopes to chase the everlasting dream that she once knew. She learned quickly that divulging into something that was a nightmare was a devotion, she plunged in, determined quickly realizing that the nightmare was exactly where she left off.
She slowly crouched as the shadows encased her every move, the rafters pulsed with paranormal energy as she approached the brass handle where she had left off. The door was frigid as the cold air rolled from under the door to reach her naked feet.
The chilling brass knob clicked open; suddenly she was faced with the opposition of her real world. “Why does she possess the West Wing?” she asked herself. A voice from the shadows softly spoke, “Because you were always meant to run away from me, my darling, I’m The Machine.”