He ravished me. He couldn’t take his eyes off me and I knew there lay no other pleasure in the world, the knowledge that my beauty had unnerved the mighty God of the Seas. It could not matter we were in the sacred temple of Athena. The white marble had turned blue with age and rage. I scoffed at her warning eye. And closed my eyes.
I awoke, left alone at the temple. A trail of blood and hair at my side. My hair. I touched my head and felt a pool of snakes. I cried, red droplets hitting the floor. I looked up and men were frozen with my unforgiving appearance. Men who wanted me to live only to satisfy their own desires. Who felt I was a burden to the world and had nothing more to offer than a submissive sigh. Frozen.
A power in exchange for my vanity. To freeze. And to be eternally remembered. To realise there is a certain assurance in being able to unleash yourself on an unjust world. To be transformed from a “delicate maiden”, to be freed from the taunting stereotypes that men bring down upon us and to come out just as powerful and even more. I looked up at Athena and thanked her.
I am Medusa.
photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/lapicarita/2599369972/”>Glenda Torrado</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a>
The stage lights scorched me. My eyes made their way past the lights to find ignorant people clapping for me. A sense of power electrified my waist, running down my hips, my legs and my toes. It helped me move- I walked- slowly, towards the glittering trophy. Best author of the year, I was told. I took it graciously from the pompous man. He had red eyes and a taunting nose. I looked away and smiled at the unaccomplished crowd. They had irrelevant, unrecognisable faces and I didn’t care. I was preoccupied with more pertinent thoughts.
Schizophrenia. The doctor had diagnosed me with schizophrenia, earlier that evening. Mild, he told me. But what did the doctor know? He said my creativity was fuelled by my ability to see a non existent reality. But I had seen nothing unreal. My manuscripts were on the wall of my room, along with all the other novels I had published. My mother agreed.
With a self affirmed sense of conviction, I walked down the stairs, taking small, dignified steps. I was comforted by the loud cheers of the spectators and the evidence of my genius. I looked up to confirm this feeling.
I saw the people gradually evaporate. The air reeked of their mocking faces.They were turning into yellow dust and red vapour. They sneered at me as they disappeared into the pungent air. It clogged my soul. I couldn’t breathe. I fell to the floor, gasping.
I crawled away, into a darkened space. Crying and heaving, I saw the red eyes again, provocative and challenging. I held on tighter to my golden trophy, knowing I was the best they had seen, and then let my dignity vaporise with my skin.
I collapsed completely, as if I was one with the ground. I looked to my side, only to find my mothers red heels and a pile of unwritten manuscripts.
I closed my eyes.
My dog has multiple identities. We named her all kinds of names because nobody could agree on one name. Her names are Poochoo when she’s cute, Annabelle when she’s classy, Kimmy when it’s convenient and Dumb Dog when she’s dumb. The best part is, she responds to all of us. It feels like she has a special place for each of us in her hearts and no matter what other people call her, she will still respond to the name you’ve given her.
I call her ‘Poochoo’. And I love her. My day starts with her staring at my face, waiting for me to wake up. And it ends with her in my room, sleeping next to me because she knows I get scared in the dark.
Every time I take her out for a walk, every time she sits in the bathroom while I brush my teeth (so she can get a bit of toothpaste), every time I look at her adorable and adoring face- I think, “How will I ever live without my baby?”. And although my previous posts states I’m not a big fan of babies, your dog is a different kind of baby.
Your dog will need you to feed her, be in charge of her fitness, her poo and her happiness. It’s quite similar to what a baby needs. BUT- your dogs will love you even if you don’t buy them an X-box, or a chew toy. They will listen to you and give you looks that say “I don’t understand but I’m still comforting”. You wont have to wait for twenty years for them to mature, so that you can actually have a real conversation.
It’s a proven fact that living beings with fur evoke feelings of love and comfort in you. I love my dog.
She closed her eyes. She knew what was coming. She didn’t scream; nobody hears. Nobody listens.
The clock ticked by, and she counted the seconds. Idly, she thought about spirituality. She hadn’t taken the Church seriously. Pantheism. She scoffed now. God might have saved her if she had believed. Oh, how she wished she had believed! She would now only go back in time, and beg Him to never let her be a woman.
Why isn’t it over yet? She is being given time- time to think, time to cry, time to live. It’s hardly a luxury now. Torturous, more than what was to come.
She saw him walk towards her, a steel rod in one hand and pitiless triumph in the other. A violent penetration, and she saw her God.
“Filthy women”, he spat.