Part 3: Personal Story: Window Woes

By Samuel R. Jordan!

I am curled in a red armchair, staring carelessly though an irregular window, which is divided into
four vague quarters by a wooden cross. I remember dwelling on the possibility that if by some
chance, someone would pass outside of this window, and happened to peer though glass- due to
the worn crimson chair and my gently curled back- they would see me in a womb. My legs drawn
close for warmth and comfort, innocent eyes fixed on their position and movement. But no one did
walk past. The time, date and location each provided their own explanation concerning this
absence of human interaction. 4:00am, Christmas Day 2005, and Englands very own nowhere. !

Everything in this house is made of wood. There had been an argument last night, which had
evicted all hope of an easy slumber, as this particular altercation had arise over me. At the time, I
believed that this rage had arisen tiredness and the usual deep-seeded resentment that comes
with all marriages however, on reflection; whisky had fuelled this awful light, cruelly exposing
familial scandals and real feelings as if they were rain drops, pointlessly falling to their doom.
English reverse had abandoned her post. She had deserted us on that empty evening. It was not
the conflict itself that banished sleep from my mind, it was the resulting footsteps. I heard my father
step with a slow sadness, as he motioned upstairs, toward another lonely sofa. Before this, their
was unplanned, jumbled collapse of his knees, followed by a silent weep, which I recall feeling
guilty for hearing. My Fathers emotional expression was usually invested in Save The Children TV
Ads or Joy Divisions Greatest Hits but these had always seemed plastic; occasions where one is
allowed to cry. The feeling of dread present in my throat and the back of my eyes filled the senses,
blinding the mind from reason. Naturally, I wondered to times where he had been happy. I
summoned the image of St. Peters Cathedral. His steady marvel and quiet jaw-drop as he rotated,
eyes locked above. Frescos and Saints moved to his cautious step, as motioned toward the heart.
Time seemed suspended. I know not what he was thinking during this time, nor do I wish to. This
was his moment and his alone; I felt privileged to obverse the freeness in which he graced the
marble floor, like a dancer in practice, not knowing they were being studied. My Mother has no time
for great halls or Gods of men. She finds comfort at home and in conversation. She talks with life; a
certain charm that forces one to listen. I thought of her at one of her parties; swimming effortlessly
from crowd to couple, performing one of her amusing anecdotes as she disappeared into the early
hours of tomorrow. Wed always been a god fearing family, until this day. Youre jus like your
father! was my fathers concluding line. The deafening silence that followed was the single longest
moment of my life. This statement held more feeling due to fact the her father had fallen to
alcoholism and murdered her mother one night when drunk. But that is another story for sad day
such as this. It was visible. Behind her worn smile and close glare, there is pain. Behind her loud
stories, I knew she would forever be mourning and continue to isolate herself out of fear of moving
on. She always told me that youth is temporary. I suspect that she resented her teenage
responsibly. She was forced to look after her sister when her mother died. Asking a young lady to
let her dreams slip into memory and humbly accept parenthood is no easy feet, and one my
mother never embraced. There was no great anecdotes or simple charm last night, or ever again
for that matter. !

A sheep had now crossed into the my windows parameters. When things return to wild, and
mankind becomes an animal once more, the sheep will be the first to go. The morning mist and
cross that divided the window seemed for a second to present this image as a painting. Not a PreRaphaelite classic, more like one of those painting found in cheap hotels; ungracious , unloved and
unsigned. The animal broke this painting by turning and staring directly at me. The blankness of its
glare made me wonder if it too was judging me. It wondered over a hill and I was alone once more.
The Sun was being to make his appearance. I thought of the difference between people who wake
up to sun rising and those who have waited up for it. The latter views it as a cruel brutal object that
orders them to bed. The other embraces the warmth, as they pull open their curtain, and flood their
face with the purest of lights; they have a new day to live within. Sadly, due to my lack of sleep, I
felt ordered to bed. I resisted. The sun now just kissed the hillside, causing the pinkish sky to fade
to a pastel blue. It was beautiful. I had never seen the greenness of grass, I never had heard the
simple sweet song of the birds. These were reminders of reality. Anything at all happen in this

house but the sun will still rise and the birds would still sing tomorrow. I move closer to the window,
noticing the stiffness in my knees due to lack of movement, and will that, there was a creek from
upstairs. !

I turned to face the staircase and my expected doom. I recognised the steps as my fathers.
Looking down in shame, I saw an eight of hearts on the floor. Eight is a lucky number in China.
China is made up of 23 provinces. The Number 23 is a film, starring Jim Carey released in 2007.
Jim Carey suffers from manic depression. Manic Street Preachers debut album was entitled
Generation Terrorists. The dictionary definition of terrorism is the use of violence and threats to
intimidate or coerce, especially for political purposes. The dictionary was first published by Samuel
Johnson. Johnson is the second most common second name in North America. The most northern
place in America is Barrow, Alaska. Barrow rhymes with marrow. !
-It is human beings need to develop links between pointless bits of matter that makes us weak. I
was weak at this moment. The steps were increasing in regularity and speed. I shut my eyes and
with that- a downward wave of tiredness engulfed every corner of my existence. My fingers were
heavy and felt numb to feeling. My heart beating but not in my chest, in my hears and throat. The
steadiness of the steps were as constant as a Metronome, serving as a countdown to my demise.
My breath was weary and uneven. The dread consumed all. The room seemed to darken and lean
in, as if the walls were listening intently. The imposing shadow of him now plagued the whole of the
staircase. The !sway of the darkness suggested that he was still drunk or in pain, or quite possibly
both. Step followed step. Time was reduced to my reluctant tick. !

There he was. The window at the top of the staircase made him a silhouette. I fell to my knees and
held out my arms die to a desperate pain of the mind. But there was no warm embrace or soft
jumper to lose oneself in. There was no caress of the face nor was there promise that things would
get better. There was nothing. !
Go to sleep- he whispered sadly. !

I arose to smell of food. As I slowly motioned out of the room, I played the events of the last day
once more. My mind had stressed every detail and I was beginning to distrust the conclusions I
had drawn. I walked downstairs. The sleep was amazing. My dad was craving an animal like a
mad surgeon. I took my place opposite my younger sister, who had been asleep during the battle.
The food was good, but we ate in silence. Oh mummy, we forgot to pray to Jesus on his birthday!
said my sister, with half a mouth of stuffing. Is, is- was God even real mummy?! The silence that
followed demonstrated my mothers true answer perfectly. From this moment I never believed in
God. From this moment, I felt free from blame and judgement from the sky and walls. I looked up
to my father. A single tear ran down his cheek and he staring directly at my mother. If there is a
God- then he is a cruel cruel man- If there is a God, then he does not live here. !

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