I had a bad dream last night and my Shadow Sister came to stay. She does that from time to time. Her siren call is a turbulent sky, the shock of bad news, or an unkind word from a friend - she loves them all. Moves right on in. 'Shut the curtains, lock the door, dim the lights, it's far too bright in here. Bunk up, we're gonna be here a while.' She doesn't like it when I try to look her in the eye. She's been lurking just out of sight for as long as I can remember. She makes me think that these damning thoughts are my own, the judging stares of others are the Truth, and solitude my punishment for letting her down. Like Terminator she morphs into different shapes to hide from me among the crowd. And though I can't see her clearly, I feel the weight of her settle into the seat beside me, place her heavy arm around my neck. She doesn't give up. Like a bossy older sister, she makes me sit in obedient silence while she spins her tale of woe. She is the proud keeper of sad memories from the past, guarding over a lake of tears collected while I cried alone. She thumbs through her roladex of accomplices, those willing to bring drama and feelings of inadequacy, brandishing reams of convincing accusations. We've done this dance for so long she knows every soft spot, every gap in the armour just big enough for the piercing stab of a dirty look or a carelessly tossed demeaning phrase. Guilt is her currency, imagined failings her blood, disappointment the strength in her bones. She's good at this. Like a malevolent muse she knows how to skew the picture so the masterpiece looks flawed. How to taint the entree so the taste is off. And she gets me every time, for I held the brush and added the spices, so it must be my fault after all.
Staring out through the thick bars at the window I wonder why she's back here again and how she let herself in. Just a moment ago I was floating through a meadow, the heady scent of flowers in my lungs. Now I'm back in the pit, scrabbling up slippery sides that I cannot climb, a well worn groove that the needle drops into again and again. It all happens so quietly, so subtly, bit by bit the scenery changes so I don't notice a thing until it's too late. I turn back into the room and see her sitting, content, in my favourite chair. What does she want this time? Why has she come back? This waltz that we do is tiring me now. We swing her way and the dank cloak of her depression blots out the sun. Sway back to me and the day is suddenly filled with smiles. I can't see her clearly but I can see the damage she has done. She flashes with the image of every face that has done me harm. Angry voices echoing down the line of all the roles I have played in past lives. I can see the actors practising the parts assigned to them. 'You stand there, hold your arm just so, tower over me like this.' The audience may change, the set colours alter, but the plot is always a thinly veiled rehash of the show we did last year.
Dear Shadow Sister, if you are me and I am you, why do you hate me so? Why do I vow I'll never see you again while dialling your number in my phone? One time while you were sleeping I looked up from the pit and caught a glimpse of you then. Saw how you dart about to avoid enquiring eyes. How you've always worked alone, been ignored, taken on all the jobs too dirty for anyone else. I didn't want to know. 'Just get it done, don't tell me the details.' As I sat hunched over, clutching my knees to my chest, Hope stepped out of the darkness and took the gun from your hand. 'Now you, pull back those curtains and let some light in here. Dust the sofas, plump up those cushions, and lay out the food. Send out the invitations and bring in the band, opening night will be soon upon us and we need to be ready.'
Hope turned and fanned out a new script on the ground. 'Shadow Sister', she said, 'it's time to choose. There's a taxi waiting outside to take you to the retirement home down the street. I hear they've got a spare room out back that no-one ever goes to. You can sit and scowl at the other residents while you spit out your soup, throwing dominoes at the backs of their heads as they try to walk away. Or you can stay. There's a door down the hall with your name on it. A room with blank pictures on the walls, wilting flowers by the bed, and a view over the pit. But you gotta play nice. Can you promise to say what you have to say, then hold your tongue, step back, and let the heart and the soul speak too? Can you stand aside and let the party reach full swing, without calling the cops and getting it all shut down? Can you shake my hand for a job well done, and not whisper in my ear about all the mistakes I've made? Can you hear my good news, without placing a hand on the small of my back, and listing all the ways I'm bound to screw up? Can you bask in my triumphs, and not wait until we're alone to tell me all the ways I disappoint you?'
Shadow Sister, why don't you answer. What are you thinking? Suddenly, I feel the cold, the ligatures around my wrists, hear the sound of the judge's gavel coming down. It's too late. She's awake. With a curl of her lips I feel her brush my joyful vision with a sorrowful glaze that blocks out the light. With a narrowing of her eyes I sense the dome of her protection cover my heart like a screen reflecting the hot rays of the sun. Bravo, well played. You're good at this. I feel the weight of her body settle in next to mine, so close that I cannot breathe. I pull her cloak tighter around my shoulders, try not to look through the bars at the window, and sit in obedient silence whilst she gleefully thumbs through the photo album of all the times Hope died.
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