barn of wonder

Dad used to yell a lot. He was never happy. Always unsatisfied. I never really knew why, but I knew that at a certain point, I couldn’t live with him. As a newly graduated teen with an undecided future, options were limited and I wanted more than anything to distance myself without cutting all family ties.

There were a few options.

I could move in with the cousins, who were VERY catholic and postured. I’m sure I’d lose my mind, and my lactose intolerance would go unnoticed.

I could live in the playroom at my grandparents. The wallpaper and thick smell of my father’s musty childhood would be forever up my nose, but at least he’d be out of my hair. Although, I would surely eat mashed potatoes five days a week and watch a whole lot of jeopardy.

Last realistic option: the old barn, neglected, at the end of the property… but not all hope was lost. It had been renovated to a lounge area sometime in the 90’s but the furniture was outdated and covered in dust. The barn itself gave off puppy-dog eyes, like something you’d want to nurture, but didn’t quite know how or why.

It seemed clear that the barn would heed the most freedom and give me a space to place all the almond milk, dirty clothes and collages that I’d for some reason got into heavily recently.

It didn’t take that much convincing before I had the keys to place and began jiggling them in the lock, suitcase in hand. It was tough, but eventually whatever muck that had made it into the key hole gave way and the door creaked open, to reveal a shadowed but comforting scene. Grandmas best quilt laid across a worn navy couch; Velvet and corduroy in exterior which is oddly enough coming back in style.

I pushed the handle down into my oversized luggage, a deep shade of red that had always signified adventure for me. Red means go, right?

The funny thing about this barn is that I’m not exactly sure what all has lived in it up to this point. There are a few corky structures that really add a discerning yet intriguing affect. The most noticeable difference is the swinging wooden half-door that separates the bedroom from the hallway, as if you live in a stall. There are pillars where you’d imagine previous stalls to be, and yet, small wooden perches peek out from each, as though the barn was once a bird sanctuary of sorts. There is also barbed wire wrapped- oh come on its not THAT misplaced… but it was quite different from the contemporary home I’d become so accustomed to. As a matter a fact, my dad built our home from the ground up when I was too young to give any input. All the more reason for the burning desire I had to escape. The walls here are splintered but they don’t look tattered, just worn, like many lives had passed through. I decided that at the ripe time of 6:30 PM, I would get ready for an evening to myself, pajamas and all.

The night was rather peaceful, though I’d imagined it being way less quiet in my head… maybe it’s the constant music that plays internally when I’m going about my day. Either way, Netflix worked and the stove and I won a fight against popcorn; as in we completely demolished it. I think I fell asleep sometime after season 2 episode 5 of New Girl, and before episode 8? I have the whole day to catch up, though I might keep my phone on the nightstand for a while today, and clean up the barn a little more. As I squirm and stretch my way to a sitting stance, I realize the mugginess of the room. Conveniently the window above my bedframe is a roll-out one, just as you’d expect for a decades old structure. As I turned the handle, the window began to open like a door, and hit a bell hanging lowly above. The ding was different from the typical dinner bell and I was alarmed at its resonance. Out of nowhere, a light pink bird flies straight through the window and lands on a perch in the corner of the bedroom. It sits, awaiting something, but my food supply is low and my morning breath is top of the to-do list. I reach over and stick my hand into the greasy orange mixing bowl that had held my popcorn… and to my surprise I had left a few straggling pieces. The bird watched my fingers grip the fragile piece of corn and roll it in my palm before sticking it out as a peaceful gesture. With no time to waste it seemed the bird went from a statue to a blur and flung at the treat. A pink bird, on the palm of my hand. Call me Cinderella.

The bird stuck around longer than anticipated, but that’s alright with me. It’s a little lonely here, and I like the utopia vibes its emanating.

It’s nearing noon and I’m hungry for adventure. The sister is using my car today, and I might as well dig around a little more in here; the barn reminds me of a vintage store that’s set up as a livable space… like an IKEA room display- EVERYTHINGS FOR SALE. I make my way through the hall, pass the bright blue bathroom with the oddly yellowed tiles that give me the creeps and comfort me in the same moment. Down to the door at the end of the hall, the storage garage? I’m not exactly sure what lies behind but what’s mine is yours, so here we go.

I’m talking to the bird now. God help me.

I reach for the classic gold knob and twist. The door is not budging. I lean against it and push once again, still with no give. Maybe it doesn’t want to be opened, but I’m nosey and bored, so the combination will inevitably be the death of this door.

I forgot about my new found feathered friend hovering above, watching me struggle.

HELP PLEASE, I begged, knowing it could do little to nothing for me.

I decided to run and twist and push, this can work right? Taking a few steps back, I notice the bird following my every move. I take a deep breath and lunge for the door, and so does the pink flash of feathery light. When we hit the wood, the knob gives way and the entire thing swings open aggressively. Being completely uncoordinated and unbalanced, I fling through the doorway, falling to the ground. Except, I keep falling, and what seems like a kindergarten classes rug becomes my 360-vision, as I weightlessly fall. Am I dying? I’m dying.

The seconds feel like centuries and the scenery continues to change beneath and around me. Sky, Jungle, Clouds, Ocean, Space, Jungle, Clouds, Sky, Darkness. Blinding Light.

I am back in bed. I am on a rabbit. I am being boiled alive. I am face to face with Dad. Dad! Dad? DAD.

I sit up, covered in soot, and I reach down to wipe it away. My legs are wrinkled, varicose veins running down my calf. I feel my hair, its thinning. Where am I? It smells of horse manure and waffles. Mom? Pink Bird?

Somebody?

It may have been hours but eventually I come to my senses. I’m not sure what got into me. I did however have a revelation. This barn makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland. Also, I shouldn’t eat random vegetation I find outside… It’s definitely giving me a stomach ache. What a weird dream.

THIS IS THE STORY OF ONE LOST GIRL WHO ATE A FEW TOO MANY MUSHROOMS ONE ANGRY NIGHT ALONE. DO NOT TAKE MUSHROOMS ALONE. MAYBE DON’T TAKE MUSHROOMS AT ALL. THE END.