The little girl and the mouse is a series I’ve been continuing in my head, and for some reason, the mouse has been absent from most wanderings of thought for the past few days.
This shouldn’t be happening, the mouse (the positive and more important things in my life) has been present in my real life. My job, though still sprinkled with difficult and exhausting days, is okay at the moment. My relationship, although still not quite what I want it to be all the time, is sort of healthy now. My mum and I are getting along slightly more, though we do still have difficult moments and I do still feel hurt often.
For some reason though, I keep seeing the little girl wandering around alone, she’s losing her way a bit though, so I thought I may expand on that a bit. I’m no writer and, realistically, never will be, but I thought I’d go with the feeling for a bit.
She couldn’t remember where she started. Or when really. The flowers had drawn her, all the bright reds and shocking yellows, like blood splattered on sunflowers. A detour down a small garden path had become a trek through forest and rocks, her small wandering had somehow developed into a journey to nowhere. The sun was setting, the sky dripping with pinks and oranges, as though a painter was pouring his paints from the sky. She stopped to watch it. The very colour from the world around her was leaking and pouring with the paint. She almost felt it pulling the colour from her own being as well, she looked down at herself, fearing she would see her body slowly fading away as well. She was intact for now, but something seemed indistinct, as though not quite finished.
She sighed as she wandered on. She had come too far to turn back and wouldn’t know which way to turn anyway, the night would bring colder weather, but she did not fear it. As she walked and the flowers, the rocks, the trees all faded into nothing, the painter angrily swiping the darkest paint on his palette over the world around her, she stopped fearing everything. She felt the cold creep inside of her and protect her from the fear, the darkness wrapped itself around her legs and hid her from the anxiety, the eerie whistling of the wind wound around her neck like a scarf, ensuring to guard her against the dangers of this dark world. She did not remember falling asleep.
When she awoke, the cold and darkness and wind had left her. She saw the footprints of where the wolves had circled her, she saw the marks on the trees from the terrors slinking from above while she was asleep, but she had been protected, she had been concealed from the night by those that the night loved. The day had brought colour and warmth and life back to the world around her and she felt herself longing for the cold to fill her again instead, but she walked on, wondering if she would ever get home, ever find herself in familiar lands, ever see her mouse again.
The flowers around her, while beautiful and shocking, were only a reminder of being in a foreign land. She missed the pale pinks and purples and the dark greens of home. The pathway under her feet changed to grass and then to stone and then to dust. On and on she walked, hoping to find some direction. The sun has risen in seemingly the same place it had set the night before, so she did not trust it, she did not look to it. Her constants had dissolved into uncertainties and without the night, she felt alone for the first time since walking from home.
The soft sounds of the wind seemed to be carrying her now, the very feeling of walking had turned her body numb to it, she was simply a moving shape now and moved as the wind and flowers and path dictated. The sun above her was growing warm and she felt her clothes stick to her, she felt her hair wet against the back of her neck and around her temples. She searched for trees and shade and water, but in the strange rhythm, she had lost interest in her surroundings and had not seen the change in terrain. Every way she looked was long and sandy and flat. The path underfoot looked as uncertain as she felt and she wished for some sign, some strange inkling of her way home, her way to something, her way to life.
She felt, in that moment, as aimless and lost as ever in her life. With no direction, no signs, no guide, she lost herself further. In those hours in the desert and the following days in this strange endless world, she felt that she lost all of herself. She had wandered away from all of the good things she had ignored, all of the things she found familiar and she wandered away from her mouse and their happiness.
Indeed, the little girl lost herself, alone.