Writing for Fun
January 2016
Commitment - Vivian Burdon
Standing here on a bright morning like this, it's hard to imagine how painful life had become. The constant anguish churning in the pit of the stomach. Each day a torturous trial of hostile testimonies. Ephemeral and malicious advocates flapping about in gowns and powdered wigs, playing mind games, tormenting the soul and luring life to the edge of defeat.
Then, softly, and without fanfare an understanding of all that is valuable. A realisation that all that is of no consequence had fallen away. Cast aside like dried, useless skin. Skin that had snagged and embedded itself long ago into an open wound of self loathing.
How had it happened? No discernible moment, no epiphany or flash of lucidity. Just a warm glow of knowing. Of knowing deep down what was OK, what was comfortable, what was love.
So here, now, a defiant stance in front of a familiar mirror. Seeing for the first time the flashy, primped and preened reflected image for what it was. A mask, a defence against the brutal and ambivalent world of growing up.
So to begin. Toe lightly perched on the chair, loosen the fastenings and roll down the soft silk fabric and let each stocking drop lightly to the floor. Effortlessly slip the palest of pink silk dresses over the head and leave to float where it will. Less simple the basque, the ribbons and lace a masquerade, a screen for the fortress of hooks and buttons. Leave it till last. Cream and cotton wool. Take time to remove the pouting lips and Kohl eyes, the exaggerated cheek bones. Finally tear off the ludicrous corset and release the bridled flesh. Feel the comfort in a natural form that is soft and ingloriously perfect.
Turn slightly, there in the mirror, another reflection leaning in the door. Don't move, just nod your answer to the quizzical frown. Just nod to confirm your decision. Affirm your commitment. 'Well,' she says, moving into their bedroom, 'I never thought I'd see him again.'