.:. Yasmine .:. Khan .:.

.:. Link to PLOT .:.

please excuse poor indentation. I don't know how to fix it yet.

	by Andrea Kawasaki. This image reminds me of my girls

.:. EMALINE .:.


Summer just passed. The sky is back to being colorless and mute.
Over the past three months youd've heard airplanes full of vacationers overhead. There were so many birds and houseflies that they had to close the windows and shut the shutters to drown out the music.
That was then. Now, everything is quiet and gone.
Except for Emaline.
She's standing in the kitchen over the sink dressed in her grandmother's knee length night gown as if she's been washing dishes for hours. Her locks are damp with soapy water and sweat. They stick to her neck and soggy curls frame her collar bone. With her eyelashes parted a stroke too far, a second skin of wet white fabric studying her shoulders and breasts, she looks mad and angelic at once. It is warm and she's feeling light headed. Thankfully, the 'swiss coffee' colored tavertine cools the bottom of her feet and provides her with the sensation that she is firmly planted on sturdy rock.
Well designed rock, on competent foundation. The kitchen is pristine and artfully well lit all hours of the day. At any angle, in any room, the building rivals any set. Even the attic, with it's old bedding loosely draped over dusty furniture and lamps, could double as a chicly drab showroom.
"There are no accidents," a throaty whisper that escapes her lips.
She feels obvious and frustrated.
There is a cavity in the stone beneath her left second toe. She curls all ten toes and feels that single toe relish in the edges and shallow depth of the hole. Holding a sponge in her right hand and a boiling pot in the other she rubs them together like she's trying to get something clean; but she's doing it too slowly. Threads through her eyebrows and lips are pulled tight and tugged down.
On her face, sadness looks awkward and unsteady. We don't remember the last time she didn't look like this. But her features echo happiness: full lips, round high cheeks, almond eyes. It looks like a smile might rise up out of her miserable face at any moment.
She hears me not remembering her happy face and clenches the pot tight. She pounds it on the sink once. It's loud. Again. The 'clank' is so hollow. Again. It shakes the room.
Now she feels stupid and self conscious. You can tell by how she pulls the pot so close to her body all of a sudden. Sometimes the refridgerator conjurs up this loud humming noise out of nowhere. It does it right now and it suprises her. It always suprises her. And it always bothers her that it always suprises her.
She dropped the sponge.
Opens her hand.
She's rubbing the bottom of the pot with her hand. Feeling it real real close. Except, instead of feeling the pot she's mostly feeling soapy water get cold and chapping her hand. She needs to be aware of the thing in her hand. She's remembering now, vaguely, that being aware of the thing in her hand could snip the threads.
The fridge stopped humming.
She's rubbing harder now. She's pushing her hand deep into the metal. It's too forced though. I just know she's going to look over at me, helpless.
I breath slow and steady now.
Maybe she'll feel.
She does.
She draws deep breaths into her body. I can tell she's listening to the sound of it escaping, like she's supposed to. Good girl. Her shoulders drop a little and she's relaxing like she can feel lightness in her sternum. She can. I can tell. Because now she's stroking the pot lightly. There are places where bits of teflon are all spurned up and she stays awhile on those textured spots.
Her left hand is still holding too tightly though.
I think she hears my thoughts.
She releases it. Blood is rushing to her fingers and palm.
Now, instead of clinging onto the pot like she was hanging from it, she can just hold it steady between her palms. Slightly more aware of her surroundings she can better sense its actual proportion to her body. It doesn't seem as little and far away. She can feel its actual weight. It's presence. Understand it's actual size.
It's still quiet and grey outside. It's been nearly forty minutes. She's still standing over the sink. Sometimes now, though, she turns the pot over and over. As things seem more and more familiar a wicked sense of ownership will start taking over. I can tell she's at that point now by the way she pulls her finger round and round through the crevice inside its base. It'll be just a few more minutes before day comes and pulls her away.




Somebody walks down the stairs and turns the corner. They enter the kitchen and say 'Good morning'. Emaline says nothing. They talk a bit more and pause. She's been asked a question? They're waiting for a response. Think. They grunt and swing the refridgerator door open. A drawer is opened and a knife pulled out. Sliced bread is pulled from a plastic bag and slid into the toaster to the left of Emaline.
She sees the long painted nails. Mother.
"You don't need to do that. Vicky will be here in the morning. What are you doing today?"
She looks over slowly so as not to seem so strange, but the effect is worse. Creepy is trying to seem less strange than you are, unsuccesfully. "Nothing."
"Why don't you get out of the house. I'll give you money, go get your nails done. Pick up your brother from school. Take him to a movie."
"I don't want to see any of the movies playing."
"Well, pick up your brother anyway. Can you do that? I'll give you money for lunch. Go outside."
"Now?"
"Go upstairs and take a shower!"
"Oh. Okay."
Mother's voice gets louder, more concerned. She goes on and on and on while Emaline dries her hands quickly. She pulls the gown from her skin and gives it a shake. Upstairs it's quiet. Maybe.
In the bathroom, in the bedroom, in her room. She can stand in front of the mirror and play. She sees eyes and she sees me. She sees tomorrow and yesterday and never. She won't play long today. She wants to be there for her sibling on time. She wants to take care. She wants to be better. She wants me to leave her alone.
I won't do that though.

.:. MARA .:.


Mara, giggling, puts her hand on her hip and gently twists both back.
Her smile is overtly feminine; trying too hard to seem sweet, pretending not to know the things she does.
She looks down, then, finally, up again and answers: 'Well, yeah, and so when I did wake up I felt as if I had died, or been dying, and waking up was.. feeling I was on my deathbed?," squints and touches her hair. Wraps a piece around her pinkie,' No backwards.. ,' drops her hands and looks up, ' having returned from death............ no.. Yes, it was painful physically not to be able to breathe... the whole situation, though, was.. horrible, not so much because I was scared, I was scared... but that feeling, the feeling that all that's left in you is a bag of ashes. A plastic tube pumps air in and out of your throat. Another tube drains the piss from your bladder.... the worst part is not so much that it's frightening. The worst part is that it's so real. You are so very very present when you come back from there.' Looks up to check for rejection. It's not there.
She continues, 'You only have your body. And it only has you: this tiny little lost voice wrapped in itchy government grade sheets.'
It didn't work, the cute smile. She was too affected.
Nobody cared anyway. They were past that point.
Just happy to have her back.
'You are such a fucking fuck up,' mouthed through a smile.