The faces reside in the corners where I put away things that I’ve long since left behind. Like ghosts, or wilted flowers, or some other whimsical cliché. I put them there and there they remain, because I don’t have the guts to open the window and let them out. They can’t leave those corners, because I like to remember they’re there, but they also can’t fly away and for that I am truly sorry. It’s just the hand dealt to me by the universe and there are much worse deals to be had so I always take what I can get. What I get just happens to be quite beautiful and thus quite cruel when it goes away, so I hold on, if only in the hollows of the attic.
They are a varied bunch, my corner girls; exuberant, caramel-coated sweetcheeks; thin eyebrows penciled in for extra expressive oomph; narrow nose accentuating the kind of striking profile that makes a girl look nosy but exotic; wide, hollow eyes that melt a man’s will like so much salt over a fresh snowfall. They are the features of many lost loves. I think they still look out from the corners, but while I keep them there I can’t allow myself to glance in their direction. Too risky, you understand. My corner girls would tear me to shreds.
Foresight I lack, but forethought is plentiful, and I’ve had much time to contemplate matters. I know how it ends. I’m going to die in the corner grasping a wall or a lamp or anything within reach, and my corner girls will leap out of their corners and break all the windows as they feel the rush of the wind for the first time. The ones I acted cruelly towards will scratch at my face and stomp on my skull, and I can’t fault them for seeking revenge before they flee for freedom.
God, I hope they make it.