Mosaic Monologues
Creation
(Fear gives a great sigh, as though recollecting a beautiful memory.) Can you see it? Just how exquisitely I have crafted her. How I’ve made myself at home, right there, in the soft spaces between her ribs. In her mind, in the hollow of her throat. That’s the place to destroy words before they’re born. Admittedly, it is a mouthful, but she is, I must confess, one of my greatest achievements in the art of human diminishment. Allow me to explain.
I first met her in the city centre, cold and grey. She stood out. All colour, vibrancy. A sweet, innocent little thing, but it was clear that Africa lived in her bones. It was like she was living out her promise to vastness, like she sensed this limitless abundance, just like the old ones once knew. I mean, watching her stand in line, you could see her body sway, that boom, boom, beating in her blood. I could almost see her memories. Open skies and savannahs, stretching throughout her limbs. Ohhh! Beautiful! Terrifying! Her spirit rushed like a river in full flood, wild, free. She seemed at one with the world. It’s a rare thing these days. Clearly I’ve done my job well! (Low, desirous growl.) I knew I had to have her. It wouldn’t be easy, but I do love a challenge!
It may appear that I gloat rather often, but there are moments where my genius truly shines. Listen! I took every one of her strengths and turned them into her greatest shame. It’s easier in the city, I must admit. It is the ultimate ally! Concrete blocks, tall glass towers, all these cramped spaces where humans like to stack themselves like square boxes; it was perfect. For years, she woke up to spaces that squeezed her. When she was young, it was classrooms, buses, lifts. Then she grew up, same thing, tiny apartments, city centre offices, all of them demanding she shrink herself smaller, smaller, always smaller. Hahaha.
I got her to tiptoe around the edge of conversations. She became excellent at measuring each word before it left her lips. I taught her that. You want to know how? (Leaning in, as though it’s a secret.) I would let her know that her thoughts weren’t quite right.
‘Your accent’s a bit funny,’ I would whisper, very quietly, in her ear. ‘You’re not like them. You don’t fit in.’
So she began to speak differently around the others, a bit softer, a bit smaller. Apologetic, before she even began.
(Shy tone.) ‘I might be wrong, but…’
(Smug laugh.) Imagine! (Making fun.) ‘I might be wrong…’, as if her own thoughts needed to be approved by some random person that she probably didn’t know very well. It was brilliant! I was brilliant!
And it gets better. Now what was great fun was when she tried to be funny. She wanted to try her hand at comedy. You’ve never seen such deeply delicious failures. I’d watch her test new jokes in her mind, rehearsing them, polishing them until they were perfect, then I’d wait and strike right on cue. Just as she opened her mouth, I’d make her aware… of how she moved, of how her eyes bulged when she tried too hard, how the silence stretched just a tiny bit too long after her punchline. Of course her jokes fell flat. She was a disaster! I couldn’t get enough of those moments. I’d feast on them. I’d gorge myself silly on her, smiling and nodding as if it didn’t matter, as if she wasn’t dying a tiny little death inside.
And her body, ahhhhh, well that was a playground! She was skinny and scrawny when I first met her, but as she grew older and so… (angrily) beautiful, I decided to take up residence in her hips, in her curves. I made myself comfortable in her dimply thighs, her scars. I reminded her constantly of their presence, their weight. When she walked, I made her conscious of every step, every sway, every inch of flesh that moved with her. We’d enter changing rooms together. Find something perfect! Then it would come.
‘Maybe not that one today,’ I would say. (Evil grin.)
She learnt to dress around me, to hide the parts of herself that I wanted for myself. In the end, I helped her believe her body was something to hide, something to minimise, that it took up far too much room in a world that prefers its women small.
Not bad eh! But even more magnificent, was how I handled those wild, mad dreams she used to have. I had to be clever with those. Here’s the thing. You can’t just crush them outright; Nah. Nah. Nah. That would be far too obvious… and, to be frank, not as much fun! No, the most effective way is to make them feel foolish. Too big. Too much. You have to allow them to ask themselves, who do you think you are, dreaming such things? That’s what I did! I’d whisper in her ear, comparisons, show her all the ways she fell short. I’d show her reasons why her dreams belonged to other people, better people, more deserving people, certainly those who don’t have me all cuddled up in their chests. I took over her desires. Convinced her that wanting was dangerous.
‘Longing makes you weak.’ I’d say.
So she yearned quietly, trying to forget that mild sense of shame, as though wanting things made her less valuable. I mean, why should she feel special? I’d ask her that question every day, but I never did get a reply.
Of course, all this would lead to loneliness. It always does! It got to the point where she could be surrounded by hundreds of people, some that she actually loved, yet still she felt utterly alone because I had convinced her that she was just a bit much, too weird, too this, too that. She listened, and then played out this nice, accommodating, far less interesting version of herself, and then sat at home alone crying, ‘Nobody sees me!’ (Chuckle.) A bit of a masterstroke if you ask me!
But, I dare say, that perhaps the jewel in the crown was how I made her complicit in her own imprisonment. She learned to control herself, she was able to make herself small before anyone else had the chance to do it for her. She chose the safe man, the smaller opportunity, a more contained life, and the entire time, she thought she was being wise, mature, responsible even! Actually believed it! I mean, my job was really quite simple. All I had to do was put on a mask. Pretend to be wise, then hold her hand and whisper, ‘Maybe next time.’ Over the years, she sabotaged herself so consistently that I became, almost… redundant.
Now there was one thing I had to be wary of. I recognised that her spirit was strong, so I did allow her to travel. Carefully, of course! Travel is a dangerous thing, always threatening my work. And when people, especially the curious ones, move through different spaces, something ancient in them stirs. It’s happened before. It’s as if they remember that they are part of something larger, greater even. It always makes me a bit queasy, but I generally know how to bring them back. It’s not too difficult! There’s a strange human compulsion to be contained. Duty, or responsibility, they call it. Once you water those little seeds of expectation, it works wonders, especially if they have family. Anyway, back to my little darling.
‘You can’t simply wander,’ I would remind her. ‘You can’t just be. What about your house, your job, bills, what about the life you need to maintain?’
And so she would return to those tiny places where I could watch over her, (condescending) so sweet, so pretty.
Hmmm. It was……
(Pause.)
… going extraordinarily well, until that morning. (The voice shifts, becomes agitated, less assured.) She woke up, breathing hard, said her chest was tight, that she couldn’t swallow. Who knows, perhaps I had gone too far. Perhaps I’d squeezed too tight, claimed too much, so she began to suffocate under my weight. That has happened before. Normally they gasp and claw at the throat or something, but I’m usually able to get them back under control. I just convince them that everything will be ok if they just… calm… down. But for the first time in years, she stopped performing, She stopped pretending. She just tried to breathe.
Then she did what most do not. She went away. She wanted to be alone. She wanted space to breathe. I hate that. Makes life so much more difficult. It gives them time to think, reflect, to actually consider the consequences of their own decisions. She was alone for a while, and that’s when I realised to my horror, my enemy was beginning to stir. She’d decided to go for a walk in the forest. I tried desperately to fill her head with all kinds of stories, there’s crazy people out there, the cold, what if she got lost, what if something happened, but it was as though my voice was just swept away in the wind.
That’s where Peace found her. I don’t like it, but I can understand how it happened. A forest is like a sanctuary. Trees don’t judge. They don’t demand perfection. They ask nothing, just invite you to be. (Frustrated cry.) They began to recognise that ancient call. She began to remember all the things I’d tried so hard to make her forget. And then… (voice becomes urgent, desperate) this fool saw her. He looked like I must have done so long ago, as though seeing a goddess for the very first time. He saw beauty where I had taught her to see just flaws. He saw strength, though I had insisted it was weakness. He saw a woman worth wanting, pursuing, celebrating even. She felt it. She was suspicious at first, but somehow he managed to draw out the stories I had convinced her were too strange to tell. He wanted the wildness of her, the crazy parts of her. He received it with delight.
It was awful! Everything I had worked so hard to build, now threatened. She began to see herself as I had never allowed – She was right. She was powerful, desirable, beautiful. (Desperate.) I threw everything I had at her, every insecurity, every doubt, but she had already begun to change. I could feel myself being crushed, squeezed out. Peace had started to take root everywhere. It moved slowly, filling her up with something (disgusted at himself) I… I couldn’t touch. The man was a mess. Deeply flawed. I don’t know why but she loved him, even with all of those imperfections. She even began to accept her own.
(The voice becomes increasingly frantic.) I tried everything. I screamed louder, tried to remind her of the good old days. How she should be grateful for small mercies. I tried to remind her of the importance of reasonable expectations. But Peace had taken hold. She didn’t argue or even fight back. She simply… was. There was nothing I could do. I could only watch with disgust as she began to feel it all. She danced, she sang loudly, she admired the scars on her body. Some admired her. Others weren’t sure what to make of her. She didn’t seem to care. It was awful. I felt myself growing weaker, fainter.
(Fear snarls back.) But I can be very, very patient. I am Fear, and I know how to play the long game.
© Mara Menzies
