I have committed to writing every day for 28 days, using this prompt list that I put together. Today I drew number 1 from the lucky dip.
A Group of Strangers Meet
I only knew my sister when we were bound together and thrown in there with the others. She was pretty in pink, and warm, and fresh; she was just like me. Together we faced the unknown bravely. We were ready for this.
The others were similar to us, but different somehow: older, worn from lives well-lived, and they were varying degrees of welcoming. Most had siblings like us but the odd ones were alone. It was those ones I didn’t trust. It wasn’t natural to be on your own in this world. Having lost your sibling in this world was too tragic to speak of. Would that happen to us?
As time went by and seasons changed we learned there would be more; fresh pairs coming, and singular souls leaving. It never got any easier, but it was a home of sorts. We only left the house two or three times a month, but we didn’t want to. We liked it there in that safe, dark, warm wooden apartment. We liked our comfortable nest where we could be together with others, also safe in their pairs, entertwined and able to forget, if only for a week or so, the terrors of the outside world.
On those occasional outings, that started off as abruptly as they finished, we would be peeled apart and taken singularly to opposite sides. We were placed in different vehicles, worked hard, and given no choice in the matter. Then at the end of the day we were thrust, again singularly, into a large chasm with others like us and not like us. We would stay there for sometimes several days, communicating but not being able to touch each other, bent out of shape and forced to mingle with acquaintances not of our choosing. That was always the calm before the storm though, we quickly came to learn.
On that fateful day of the week that we were removed from the pit, we were tumbled into somewhere worse; a place where we would see each other and meet intermittently, stroking each other calmingly amongst the turmoil. Those were the worst days. Those days felt like chaos itself as we were rushed around wetly slapping into friends, acquaintances, enemies and sometimes still, strangers. There was sometimes a pattern to it, if we dared allow ourselves to dream. Maybe if we cracked the code it would all be over and we could go back to our haven with the others? They weren’t so bad. There was a new couple that were a lot like us and we got along well with them. Their preferred colour was purple; we matched. The oldest ones had moved on, so things certainly smelled a lot better. I caught myself dreaming again as the horrid cycle came to a speedy but screeching holt.
It was now that we could begin looking forward again to the warmth of each other’s company. We never knew exactly how it would happen - would we be left somewhere to drip dry, and if so where - under the sun or under the big white blowy machine? Would we be escorted to the large warm dusty hall and be forced to run laps until we warmed up and dried off? Again we tried to ascertain a pattern and often came up short. What we did know though, was that although the big musty lint-filled room was full of debris from previous visits, remains of our predescessors and ourselves, we would not be in there long and we would be together again much faster than if we were left out to dry on the wind.
After this ordeal, we once again found each other and cried, hugging each other as we tried to forget, knitting our lives back together. She was my equal, my twin, my home. The others - the friends, enemies, and strangers, were also a comfort - even the odd ones who were being kept purely out of hope. We were folded into one another and placed in rows, entertwined, back into our drawer where we were left in peace.
Until next time.