Corpse Daughter

Have you ever heard of the Corpse Daughter?

She started off the same as you and I, mouths tasting like lingering laughter and hearts dancing through rhythms. She never walked but pranced, from person to person just to bubble up anyone’s conversation; she was someone who bubbled up and poured out rivers of enthusiasm and curiosity. Some would lift cheeks whilst others carried deep breaths and distanced themselves from the loud rush.

Alive Daughter was often the colour red, her cheeks puffed up and held a hue of burning excitement whenever she let herself fall into the ramble of delightful thoughts. A conversation could go from hair colouring to thoughts on betrayal in relationship, travelling in Italy, even though she had never been and finally, how it feels to see the moon. Topics could always come back and often enough, a conversation could be briefly paused in order to quench the thirst of exploring a new idea. That inability to let an idea fall and potentially sink could be seen as gluttonous to some; that is why her burning cheeks could come from embarrassment.

There was this one time where Alive Daughter was in a crowded changing room where all the girls were swiftly spilling gossips and laughter from the tips of their tongues as they undressed themselves. Alive Daughter was wide eyed at the dispute, and eager to add her own witty words and songs, like bells desperate to be rung by the wind. Although, all words that were thrown back and forth flew incredibly fast and it never seemed to reach her turn. Impatience took its turn and her words tumbled out, cutting its way through the crowd as every girl worked their necks toward her; everyone had heard but did not react like lifeless dolls, staring at her and then each other. Suddenly everything burned, her cheeks, her neck, her entire skin that was only hidden by the socks on her feet and the underwear hugging her tightly - suddenly she could simply disappear. Moments of burning skin did not phase her at first, but when the burning became constant, even as she stared at the dark empty ceiling afterwards, going out instilled a fear of pain.

Winter came and when life lost itself to the yearly cycle and decay stretched itself over the entire city. She morphed into the season and as leaves fell from a twig, so did the locks on her head, when flowers wilted and grayed, so did her skin. Her bleached body attached to the matching bed-dress, she began to move pillows and blankets like mountains and build a swirling tower where she could shut her eyes.

She dreamt of a place where everybody laughed and shared her rhythm. Imagine having seven older sisters that embraced her, sang to her and told her golden strings of life wisdom that she could weave and carry with her. There would be golden pancakes for breakfast and all of them would sit around a small crowded table where their elbows accidentally touch, making them would push and giggle. Then there would be studies where the older girls teach the younger in preparation for fun - the fun was always climbing over the backyard fence and across the city into the woods. They would track and find creatures only to carry them deeper into the woods and into their save heaven. Did not matter of the weather, they would all dance barefooted with white gowns and have tea with all the creatures. These parties would occur until Alive Daughter yawned for the first time, and then would be tucked under the stars whilst storybook pages turned and a soft whisper eased her into slumber. She would always wake up back in the city's yellow bustle so she figured that she must be carried by bears back home.

By the time a lovely layer of white filled the streets, her skin and nightgown found itself to match. She could lay on the street and bypasses would not blink. No girl was found on the steps of city nights but only clumps of snow that were left by children’s playtime cut short. It did not matter if she laid there or not, so Corpse Daughter remained in her castle cocoon of white bunnies on light pink fabric skin.

Every now and then, she would peep through the castle and catch a glimpse of the creek beyond. Across the bed, under door was a little space; not high enough for mice, but maybe fairies, she could partake, momentarily, in life. At times, shadows moved across yellow light and she could hear the thumping heels with quick muffled sounds of questions and answers, as the cycle went, especially now in preparations of the holidays. Stars need to be hung, goods need to go into the oven and gifts need to be scurried to a corner and swiftly wrapped without being seen. It was as if a magical barrier concealed her room because after a while, people passed but nobody questioned or even dated to approach the door.

But the thing was that everyone knew about the door, because when they rested their heads and ended their cycle they could hear the door creek open and the steps of a mouse scurrying into the fridge, stealing the crumbs and drops for that day to then return to her whole. It did not matter if the rest slept or not, nobody would walk whilst the corpse was awake. When she returned, she climbed back into her castle cocoon, that would never transform into anything else, and fell back into her dream; the pancakes, wooden table, study books, trees, sun, moon, her sisters, bears, rabbits and her voice.

They say that to this day, long after her family met their own grave, she resides in her castle and when hungry, walks through the ghostly streets looking for a bite. Her skin might be smooth and her hair long, but her eyes are empty and so far away that if she sees you she might not see you as a friend, but as a crumb. Beware of the Corpse Daughter.