FLOOD LIGHTS ON THE HERO (Miracles from dust part 1)

She is a wreak . . .

she cries tears of blood and her sweat is liquid metal. . .it swirls silver. . . bright and grey.

At least there is blood . . . life blood. . . that sometimes glistens, resting on the swell of her cheeks . . . she is alive then. . . they think. . . she still lives. . . there is use for her yet. . .

She is a wreak. . .

They task her to use just a little more of her life. . . lie for us just this one last time, . . .again. . . yes sell us another piece of your integrity we will make it worth your while. . . she hives off another piece of herself. . . the brutal act leaving a violent angry spill of her life blood. . . she watches it gush out of her body. . . the life blood, she is dizzy so she sits and waits as the gush slowly becomes a trickle which then starts to coagulate into a more viscous drudge, she passes out. . . when she comes to, she looks down at the angry red site . . .

she is a wreak

the crave has taken over her life, she cannot think of anything other than the high. It haunts her day and night . . . steals her life and has a firm lid on her will, she is no longer living on the earth we see, she walks on it, but does not dwell in it. . . what they see walking looks other worldly to her, her body is something familiar yet not quite her, something that looks like them but does not quite behave like them, sometimes it represents a relic of a life she no longer even remembers. . . when she was a child and her body listened to her mind with more obedience. . .when she roamed freely, laughing and playing in the bliss of total innocence. . .way way before they made her aware that she was different. . . odd. . . weird. . . long loong looong before they called her . . .a retard. . . she feels . . .a wreak.

The discrepancy in her mind is confusing. . . exhausting. . . loud. She is struggling to walk like everyone else but her mind wants her to follow a different path, a zigzag to the straight, black to color, color to black. She is sensitive to everything, excessive light gives her a headache makes her irritable, any little touch on her skin feels like an insect crawling on her skin. . . yet not all touch is unpleasant. . . when the one she loves touches her, it relieves her anxiety. . . for some seconds. Neurologically . . . the abuse just made it worse. . . she longs for connection, company, community. . .love. . . but does not know how to initiate closeness. She is awkward in crowds. . .and muffs! the anxiety when she has a crush. . . it’s a complex feeling of being removed from him intertwined with a clumsy forwardness. . . to the kind, it can be endearing . . . but it never stops being awkward and odd.

When it gets dark. . . when her feelings are confused and her mind noisy, all she wants . . . all she craves is her safe place. . . she cannot find it. . .

She is living for the crave, in a constant state of denial and self pity. . . she wallows in her shame, it is in every inch intertwined with her identity. . . it’s a free fall. . . she has embraced the fall, the sinking. . . she is no longer fighting to stay afloat. . . she feels guilty for not fighting. . .she should fight. . . but for who? herself?. . . she lost hope for herself. . . or herself lost hope in her. . . it does not matter though. . .it does not. . .for she. . . is a wreak,

Image from a Pinterest account

She titers on the edge of morality, what is truth?. . . was truth the searing pain she feels? pain she is never sure is a consequence of her actions. . . her choices, or is the pain inflicted by others who are malicious and also in pain. . .even if she were to answer those questions. . .she is not sure of the resultant action. . .

She does not feel strong enough for vengeance and part of her feels shame for neglecting the fight. . . the anger . . . why does she never feel angry at them, why? why? Does she fail herself when she does not feel anger? Is this why she is unable to stop the flow of that river of pain . . .Is her lack of reaction and action an excuse for the monsters to continue bleeding her.

. . .Do they not care. . . that she feels ever closer to the gates of death. . . she is comforted by the other world, the next life. . . maybe she will be in the majority there. . . she will have similar minded companions . . . they will do the zigzag dance, laugh with colors, live in autonomy, each a master of thine own. The sun will not set and fear will stop lurking in all corners

Until then, what she feels is a constant push towards what she has learnt away from the pull of what she feels. She mimics what the others do. . . for now. . . I think her facial expressions tend to be either excessive or comical but definitely. . .fairly unnatural enough to raise an un ease in her audience.

What she needs is a miracle from the dust, a fire in ice, a resurrection from the ashes. . . for a flood light to be shone into the hero inside. For in this moment all she sees is that. . .

she is a wreak.

Belief is like a spark, tiny, unseen, fragile, with every possibility of burning out, yet, belief is still belief . . .so she begins rolling up her stone of belief up and up it goes. . .she slowly begins cover ground, inch by inch. . .

She is trembling from the effort, her legs are like mash, shaking so hard her only job becomes shifting her body weight against the rock, willing her legs not to buckle under the pressure. . . it starts to lighten, the load. . .the walls start to come down one after the other. . . a tiny light appears at the end of her tunnel. . .

At the end of the tunnel . . . is love. . . shinning a light so bright, the tunnel trembles. . . relief cools the sweat trickling down her brow, as the load lightens, she turns to look up, there she finds the sweet, warm smile of Love. . . the Hero inside is awakening. . . called out to dominate in courage by the power of Love. . .

. . . she smiles back, tentatively . . .tilting her head to the side. . . observing him. . .deciding whether to love or hide. . .she slowly stretches her hand towards the light . . .her smile crooked . . .Love receives her smile, and responds with a bright, enduring, all encompassing one. . . hope bubbles. . .

I wrote this piece in an attempt to shine a light on Autism and the silent abuse people with it go through. I try to reach into the emotions of an autistic girl in this piece and her ignorant sometimes cruel tormentors. Who are themselves victims of their own lack of imagination. I normally leave the pieces to speak for themselves but whilst trying to write this one I got lost, . . .unsure of the story I wanted to weave but sure of my intention and goal. . . I really don’t want my beloved reader to get tangled along with me by the vines of confusion 🙂 I really hope only the vines of understanding tangle you.

Autistic individuals are difficult to understand, because they go through the same spectrum of feelings Neurotypicals go through, but they process the feelings differently, they feel love, pain and joy just as deeply as everyone else, at times even more acutely . . . difference being that because they process them differently the resultant expression of the same may be inconsistent. . .when we find these divergent expressions and displays weird, we hurt and confuse them, making them either clam up and fold into themselves or become anxious to be ‘normal’ . They are lovely. . . we are lovely . . . we all have ownership and authenticity, we all belong. Lets choose love and empathy. . .in another life we may be the minority. . . in need for the extension of understanding and empathy towards us.

Differences are mostly received with difficulty by society, not necessarily always because of hate . . . society has taught us to stick to what we understand and sometimes it is all we know so we cling to it. By the grace of God the tide is changing, more and more of us are becoming curious about what is different and understanding that diversity be it of skin color, be it in physical features or in mind and personality differences . . .all these differences are beautiful, they make our world whole and we ought to celebrate and normalize them.

As always, with love;


By Ruth Mgendi

I have an appreciation for words, the power words have to uplift, build, create, without words we would not be able to convey intent or meaning to each other.

I am also a legal researcher, lover of comics, art, color, stories, adventure and beauty. Above all I appreciate and respect life, the body, the mind and the soul.
I seek a higher connectivity and understanding of the co-existence between these three parts of life and hope to share this journey with any other learner.
I hope this forum will be interactive, positive and above all I hope it adds value in some way to those that read and interact.

Hope Nyambura is my attempt at a pen name, so. . . indulge my pink and golden bubble :-)

Thank you!

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