The Kitchen: A Short Story

 

"I beg you, my darling

Don't leave me, I'm hurting

Lick my legs, I'm on fire

Lick my legs of desire..."

- PJ Harvey, "Rid Of Me" from the album Rid Of Me (1993)

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Paranoia (n.) – unjustified suspicion and mistrust of other people and their actions

     To be a woman is to be confined to the four spaces of monotony; the encapsulating and suffocating customs of my birthright, are accustomed to these walls of the kitchen. Our packaged hopelessness is sent off with red rings of lipstick; they waiver off a final kiss to our sealed childlike aspirations, to be locked away by the concrete weight of maturity. It has always been this way. The way it shall always be. 

     Proclivity of the fridge and her murmurs rope the delving subconscious, of the minnow, that is my mind. Like the lonesome tree that lies just about the bend of the horizon, the grandfather apricot who has positioned himself in the land, since the death of authenticity of the world, my vision only exceeds the short-temperment of visual illusion. The lively nature that infiltrates the air, a liberating sense of humor and comfort, shall never pass between the crevices of my embroidered lips. Sometimes I believe freedom to be a sin. For if women had the exception to captivate the potential of the world, most wrongs would be corrected; most wrongs of the world would never be born. It's too late in humanity now. Perhaps my lonesome yet limerent spirit of "if" lingers outside the two-paned glass that reflects anything short of emancipation. I wonder if grandfather apricot recognizes that his temporary misbehavior of acting on the roots of misogyny and destiny of a man's path, destruction and oppression, has led to the repetitive fall of the Queen. She lies dead on her square of the board. Her ghost laments over the passing transaction; I hear her mourn and moan for the confinement of my figure. 

     To bear an apron is the degradation to any worth of my name. There is simply no fortune to be passed down in my death, for my actions will be swept under the rug. I am dust; the tormenting particles that will collect and be brushed off the oak bookshelf, they will tingle the sprites of the canals, in between flesh and cartilage of your nose. Only then, will my name trickle and tickle the membrane of remembrance. I will be disposed of once again. Like I've said, I'm merely dust. To bear an apron should be a proud honor. I'm afraid if I unravel the double-knotted reinforcement of eternal silence, my intestines and mortality will spill all over the kitchen tiles. What a mess I've made!

     I've been in this kitchen for as long as I can remember. In first grade, the bird-like nature of nagging that the boys possessed, seemed to trap me within these four walls with the sketching of their crayons against the beaten pages of our ABC's. We have always been here. Though at the time, I aspired to be more than a stupid girl. But what is one supposed to do when men are pulling at the threads of my skirt, in every which way, until I'm unraveled into the purest form of femininity: a virtuous girl that lacks the ambition to even flex the muscles of her mouth, in hopes of a lip-reader, to spell out the tumultuous message of No? I shall do nothing, for the iron clasp of the blue wax has been anchoring me down, bellowing into the dead sea. Down here, not even the vegetative algae will survive due to the absolute lack of clarity and choice. So how does one expect my livelihood to stand a chance? 

     However, I will remain smiling whilst stirring the boiling vat of rigor mortis stew. For if I prod at the intertwined strings that pull the corners of my mouth into a contorted nature, they will know it's just a show. They will know it's performative art: a facade of a lifetime wasted. I hope someday, they will cut me off my strings.