Interior Monologue

The wood that makes up the frame of the door is soft and pieces have been carved away by years of rushing between rooms. The blue linoleum floor is cool to bear feet and the tiles are cracked with a golden yellow color as if it were imitating an alien granite. The right wall is hugged by a row of high cabinets and a block counter lower down and touching the floor. An old refrigerator murmurs in the corner and is faced by several huge bags of fruit, fresh from the town market and from the garden. They are spilling cherries, apricots, nectarines, and tomatoes into the blue floor. The days are far too hot during the mid-hours, but the drowsy sun slowly sinks the air into a comforting warmth for a few hours before it goes to sleep. The door at

They would have one daughter, the happiest creature the earth would know, so full of an eternal joy that one could easily liken her to a frisky spirit. Yet the cancer which can grown inside the boy when he was young, did not disappear now that he was a man. It could take over his mind at any time. He had no control, and he saw no disease. Nights would come not so rarely where he would throw his wife up against the walls of the blue floored room, where her spine would bend over in pain, forcing her to cower in fear. He would take his frisky daughter and attempt to leave all that she knew to start a new life somewhere else, without her mother. Fear would choke her joy, and her spirit would fall, leaving her often sick. The contents of herself would throw themselves onto the floor of her room in a hurricane of tears and putridity, unable to stay in such a soul of pain. For weeks at a time, the cancer could stay put, leaving time for hope to spring into the eyes of the man’s daughter. Without his tumor, the man was a pleasant specimen of a man. A father anyone would like to have had. Often he would buy treats for his daughter, and take her out to fine places. He had a calm and frisky soul, much like his daughters; however, it was often hidden underneath the grey stain of the anger which consumed him. His daughter was his highest joy in life. Yet, so was thus at a loss, caught between those who refused to see her father for what he was beyond his anger, and her father, who could not be trusted because he was ensnared by his anger. His cancerous anger clouded his judgement and memory, causing him to not be able to realize what he so often was. His daughter’s spirit became laden heavily with the burden which she found herself