The Broken Castle

I hate castles, of all types; sand, clay and stone. They are deep, dark, evil places where secrets are locked up and sometimes people. Their labyrinthine corridors remind me of the convent. Once you set forth, you were never sure you would find your classroom again. You could almost feel the stark white walls closing in on you, but you were too scared to look back.

Sometimes, you ventured into the chapel, it’s silence seeping into your marrow. The nun’s funless face descended forbiddingly upon yours resenting your unsolicited presence in this realm of tranquillity. Jesus and Mary, their faces perfect porcelain casts, smilingly told you otherwise. But you did not know whether to believe them. Nobody else did.

Sometimes, you looked out through the window bars in your classroom, wondering if your father was coming to take you home. As your mates filed out, you wondered if anyone was coming for you.

And when in detention, you sat all day in a big, cold dungeon sure that they had forgotten about you and all that would be left were your desiccated bones.

I hated all that and that’s why I hate castles. Even the sand variety. Everyone else’s was always better than mine. Mine always broke off, a large chunk here or at least a little bit there, as I drew out my foot. No matter how closely I tried to watch and emulate the perfect castles, mine was always a broken one.