A hairbrush dislocates and slips from the praecipe of the heap. The Heap. My original thought was pile or stack, but both in some degree suggest rationality or care. There is no emotion here among this heap of tiny tombs.
The slap of brush on brush in the death row silence is alien and intrusive. The hollow bang of distant shots ringing into the present. The echo of bone on bone in the pit. Then quiet. A stopped breath. I cannot take my eyes off of its descent. Stolen autonomy.
So many hair brushes. Each one someone’s last possession. Each one someone’s last link to humanity. Normality. An ordinary object but each has it’s own unique DNA, and here they lie all lumped together. Each one a representation of a human life.
As I stand and stare a creeping wind blows between the spines of the brushes, catching at stray hairs and raising them skywards before abruptly abandoning them to fall back, alone.
Goosebumps on the back of my neck.
A silent scream.
Another short writing assignment from class. I can't really remember what the actual assignment was but I know we had to choose a picture to write from, and I chose the hairbrushes. This piece is a bit shaky and I can't seem to get it right for some reason but I'll keep on trying.
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