From the upstairs window

November 29, 2010 § Leave a comment

From where she’s standing, she can’t see much – just the corner of the driveway, and the wet street pulsing with waves of blue as the light from the policecar bounces back and away.

She is half-wrapped in the curtain, so that anyone entering the room would see just a pair of legs and the bottom of a slightly-too-short pink nightdress below the heavy green velvet. Inside the curtain, she is holding her breath, trying not to steam up the window. She wouldn’t want ayone to look up and know that she is here. She wants it to be a secret, as if she was a detective. That’s what she’ll be when she grows up, she tellse everyone – some sort of spy. Already, at seven, she’s prone to listening to the adults’ conversations with an intensity that causes her mother to break off and turn to her daughter, once again encouraging her to go and play with the other children.

The girl would rather watch, though. She watches in order to learn about the world. She’d listen too, right now, but the voices of the policement at the door never rise to properly audible levels, not even when her mother begins to shout and to struggle.


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