Her safe haven

She had found a sanctuary in him. There was no other way to describe it. He was her safe haven. He totally accepted her the way she was, without wanting to change anything about her. He was actually even okay with things that bothered her, like her overweight and her crying fits. It was a completely new experience for her. She had never met anyone before who had not wanted to alter or even exterminate parts of her. All the times she had heard that she had bad taste in clothes and makeup, or that she was bad at maths, weighed heavily on her shoulders. She only just about managed to carry that burden every day without falling over. There had been no balance in her life. No yin and yang. Only the black without the little white spot in it.

Even though she loved every minute of their time together, she found it difficult to adjust to being wholeheartedly accepted. She just was not used to it, and somehow it make her criticise herself all the more harshly, her belief being that if someone loved her and totally accepted her, she had to be perfect to earn that love. That was what she had been led to believe earlier on in life. Had he come too late to rescue her or was there still time? She did not know. Only time would tell. Sometimes it made her think about all those videos on Youtube where you saw dogs who had been rescued. She certainly felt like one of those sick,  flee ridden dog, but it gave her hope because they were mostly able to adapt to their new situation. And they could learn to trust again.

Inspired by The Daily Post: Sanctuary

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Annonser

Burnout

She slowly walked past the window and tried not to look. It was difficult, since she loved to take in the colours and shapess of new garments on display. Fashion did not really interest her and never had since she had left her teens behind; it was more as if she viewed the clothes as objects in a museum, not as old stuff but as something worthwhile looking at. But it was getting increasingly more difficult to allow herself to look not that she could not afford to buy anything. She dreamt of having enough money to – once again – buy something. At least one piece of clothing. A scarf at least. Or a pair of socks. Something new.

Her brain was bored to death with wearing the same clothes over and over again. She got depressed from boredom. It had always been like that. And the fact that her situation continually got worse did not help. People kept saying that money could not buy happiness. That may be true – if you had any money, that is. But when you had none, the lack of money surely made people unhappy. Most of her clothes were worn out, she could not pay her bills and she was very soon to be evicted from the poor excuse of a flat she was living in. It had nevertheless provided a roof over her head, and soon she would have to make do without it.

Some people blamed her for her circumstances. She blamed the government. Ten years ago she had been pretty well off, at least by her own standards. At least she had had a job. In fact, she had worked too hard. She burnt herself out. It was light blowing out a candle. In a matter of seconds all her strength had flowed out of her and had never returned. Neither brain nor body worked as they should, and after some time she was afflicted by more illnesses until, some days,  she could hardly even get out of bed in the morning. The government decided that it was the fault of the victims of illness. If they did not want to work, they would have no money. Had they never been struck by illness themselves, she wondered, or one of their loved ones? She wanted nothing more than to go back to the Life she had before, when she was able to work and not dependent on some vicious government who wanted to exterminate the likes of her.

Inspired by The Daily Post: Slowly

Råtta

Wreck

It was one of those really hot summer days, and she had agreed to meet a friend in the park in town. Driving down a slope, she left the white church behind her. Once she was on the road to town she became more alert. It was a tricky road. It appeared to be almost straight and equally almost straight, but she had learnt that it was not. The air was so hot above the road that it turned into an almost black fog. She had seen it before – on equally hot days.

However, when she got closer to where she had seen the black fog, she saw the outline of some cars. One stood across the ditch. The other stood in the middle of the road. It was still, too still. Two other cars had stopped and so did she. She had had some medical training in the air force, and she jumped out of the car to see if she could help.

Someone had already called for an ambulance, she was told. They had said not to move anyone. Still she went up to car number one, where a man was trying to calm down a small boy who was bleeding from his forehead. The driver, presumably the boy’s father, was dead, as was the driver of the other car, an elderly man.

Inspired by The Daily Post: Drive

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Nightmare – or not

When she was a child and saw people who sat in her room, she used to call her mum. She was painfully shy and avoided strangers as much as she could. It was torture when strange ladies admired her hair, came up to her and touched it. Naturally, she objected to having people in her bedroom that she did not know. Her mother came and told her that she he just had a nightmare and should go back to sleep, but the thing was that she had never had a nightmare before this happened, because she had not yet gone to sleep.

She was astonished that her mother could not see the men who were sitting on the small chairs at the table in her room. Why was she the only one seeing them? She could only hear that the men were talking, but she was not able to make out any words, so she did not know if they were talking about her. Within a few years she had stopped seeing strange people in her bedroom, and at more or less that precise moment in time she became unhappy. Almost depressed. She stopped being herself; she did not know how any more. Every once in a while she gave those people in her room a thought but no more than that.

Many, many years later, when she was already an adult, she had a dream. It was not a nightmare this time either, but a dream almost like other dreams. There was a woman with her in the flat – it felt like her grandmother but she could not see her – and this woman was teaching her something. They were watching people on the landing.

”But how do I know which ones are alive and which ones are dead?” I asked the lady.

”The dead ones are somewhat translucent”, the woman who seemed like her grandmother replied.

And she thought about those translucent people she had had in her bedroom many years ago and could not stop wondering what they had wanted and what had happened if her mother had not been so adamant that no one was there.

Inspired by The Daily Post: Nightmare

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