Tuesday, 1 June 2010
My father stood, tersely muttering that it was a shame. Whether he meant that the family name had been disgraced or whether he actually felt some kind of pity was moot. Either way I sat dejectedly staring at the ground; there was only so far a person could physically stoop and no mere words could bend me any more. He paused, standing awkwardly amongst the silence before shuffling out of the room. I couldn't blame him for not wanting to get involved. How could I ask anyone to accept me when I could no longer accept myself? I hated my body, it was a rotting cocoon of filth, a refuse tip for other people's bodily emissions. It was tainted and no amount of scrubbing could clean it. No simple baptism of water could save me. So I looked up, begging, with tears streaming down my face, and from the dining room where I sat, I could see His blue halo. It danced, beautiful upon the stove top, as if Terpsichore herself embodied it. On my knees in reverence I touched it's blue light and covered myself with it.