Edith, Corrupted

This is me. Edith. And this is my vision. My dry lungs are corrupted with gas. The moment I stop playing and remove this foul rubber mask, my soul and air will be all gas and I will extinguish. I have nothing left to breathe, I am shorn of dignity but can still escape to the one corner of my mind the hunger hasn't eviscerated yet. There, my vision sits waiting for me.

In it, I have a beautiful dress with Belgian lace at the collar, my hair is high and knotted, I look like a china doll or a porcelain figurine that you might see on a mantel-piece or at a low window of a house near the canal. This porcelain tells you I am fragile, I will shatter soon but for now I am whole and beautiful and with my daughters. I think of them as Dutch now and so orange in this vision. Margot behind me, supporting, dependable, taking the weight of my oxygen and Anne, my harp. With my own hands I made her, such a precocious talent, eloquent cadences flowing from her strings and sinews. That unmistakeable timbre which will resonate for generations comes from her beechwood. Her music can easily turn into a weapon, my beautiful harp can also be a bow, the quavers and semiquavers bolts that will fly far into the future and will not leave the flesh easily. They will tug and pull some of your flesh out should you try to remove. Best leave them in and let them travel to your heart.