Almost as an afterthought, she notices the blissful quiet and is overcome with thanks for the peace. Never one to overlook an opportunity for gratitude, she breathes in meditatively, feeling the glow of its potential for recovery. She revels in the silence; the poignancy of its rarity cannot be overstated. This state of bliss clears her mind and transports her to a place of solidarity and independence – freedom. A fleeting freedom, it reveals itself to be, for mere moments after the silence begins, the terrorism is reinstated. There are unrelenting, unforgiving, mind-controlling beasts within her midst. The torture has been customized and prescribed for the undeserving.
Most hours of every day massive creatures and inanimate, terrestrial bodies are in constant motion only a few feet away. Heavy objects are threateningly thrust around a small space – carelessly, randomly, loudly. The movements, all unseen, create sustained, deep, guttural sounds, which she likens to traveling tanks and Humvees, machine guns and bombs, intermittently exploding. The experience is irrational and treacherous, a constant threat to the conservation of tranquil coexistence.
It happens early in the morning and late at night. A cacophonous symphony that must bring about in its creators pure joy, for they so rarely pause. Her jaw drops from shock when the objects in her home are vibrated from the movements; her head is lifted upward in vain, searching for help when the noise is so loud she believes it cannot possibly be real. There is no guardian to control the beasts. They run amok, pounding, slamming their bodies against all surfaces. The invisible terrorists control everything. All other living beings are at their mercy. The world is their playground; their disproportionate display of size and sound bestowed with the power to collapse any democratic institution. The fascists live among her; there is no voice for the meek.
In a rare moment, she has seen the beasts from the windows, above her, looking derisively down. Smiling and waving, dressed in their miniature attire, which displays no apparent association to the destruction occurring in their midst. Their mission of destruction unwittingly plots to shred whatever remains of her sanity. Their miniature hands do not appear to be capable of tossing the grenades, of smartly positioning the bombs. Their tiny-toothed smiles do not reveal the recent construction of battle forts and weapons movements. Their giggles overshadow their battle cries.
Manipulation is their forte. She knows that she can take lessons from these well-honed masters of torture. She feels there could be use for their methods at some point in time, although she shivers when to think of when it might be needed, so vicious are their ways.
And, yet, as she joyfully imagines their destruction and glorious demise, she ever-so-often can hear their squeaky voices and pint-sized curiosity. So inconsistent is this experience when it occurs, it throws her into a state of discord, a cognitive dissonance. So deep is their control that they live inside her subconscious, their mind-control beyond anything that she can identify or understand. She cannot allow herself to take it to the next level she knows it deserves. She cannot take away their battlefield, infringe on their plots of hate.
After all, the renter did warn them that the neighbor’s kids were loud. But seriously, this is ridiculous.