unfinished story part two
As the weeks past the little girl lost hope, and slowly her eyes stopped scanning the figures in the street below, and she would find herself, as she used to, staring at the birds roosting in the trees, or at th earchitecture, or at where her own building reflected in the windows and mirrored surfaces that she could make out from her vantager point. When she found herself thus distracted she would at first shake her head, and return to searching for the boy, but as time wore she worried less at her lapses and looked for him less and less assiduously.
One day, her father arrived home, and as she made her dash from the window to her room as the key turned in the lock, she realised that she had not looked for the boy all day. That night she decided to escape.
She had read books about boys who escaped things, and inverts who escaped to London, but she did not know how to escape herself. Now, in her mind, there was was when she looked forward a boiling sea of adreniline and uncertaintl that matched and contrasted the uncontrolable sorrow that balcked out her memory when she tried to look too far back.
She began to watch her father. She would look at him when he was asleep, spy on him watching his tv from the kitchen, peek out of her room when she heard him go to the toilet. He, she knew, left every day, he went away and then came back, out of the door that neither she, nor anyone else for as long as she could remember, had used to traverse from her world to that unknown outside.
He had the key.
One night when she was standing before him as he sat there, uncouncious on the couch, he twitched and murmored in his sleep, and she ran into her room in fright, just like that day so long ago now, when the little boy had waved. The next night, when her father had passed out, she reached into his pocket and took out the key, walked up to the door and, reaching up, turned the key in the lock and opened the door and stepped out.
Her father noticed nothing. She had simply reached into his pocket and taken the key, and he had not moved or stirred. She had not looked back as sh ewalked through the door, but if she had, she would have seen that he did not move or stir, he was dead to the world as she made her way into it. Stepping into the corridor outside her home for the first time in her life was a strange marriage of familiarity and vertigo. With her eyes pointed down the carpet that covered the floor was the same as her fathers lounge room, but when she raised her eyes to see the wall opposite her streching impossibly out to either side, she became dizzy, and fell.
Lying on the carpet in the hall in front of her door she felt the adreniline that had been waiting for her in her future desend on her, it told her that her father might have heard her, that she was not safe, that she must get up, and it infused her limbs with a magical kind of warmth that proppelled them into action without her will. finding the door in front of her locked she tries the key, but to no avail, her only path is along the corridor, following the sticky, black spotted carpet along its mind repelling length.
Past door after door, she went with tentative steps until she came to a place where the doors change, one wall is blank and the other has shiny, mirror like rectangular screens, large and flat.
The little girl looked at herself in the mirror, transfixed by the sight of herself removed form her usual context, her only reflections at home where in the bathroom mirror, small and round, the glass of her window and the water in the sink or the surface of a soapy dish. Here, in front of the lifts, she was whole, cut out from the flat, reflected in her entirity but herself alone.
She stood there for a long time.