Helen Wondered at their sense of space. She wondered if birds might feel their cage to be sufficient in amenities or not. Is the cage big or little cramped. Are they simply trapped with no way out? Do the humans that placed it there have any real right to demand they appreciate their circumstances with gratitude and positive regard for them?
Helen Felt her way around the typewriter. Running her fingers around the keys, feeling the metal at the sides, refreshingly cool to the touch. She wondered what it would be like to be this typewriter. To not have eyes to see your timeless beauty. To be felt sensually every time you were touched to make some letter. Over and over until words. until phrases. Some impressive display of communication with letters and words.
She let loose in emotional sigh
"This Remington Keller 10." She made believe to herself.
"I simply must have it." A deep manly resonance passed through her.
He came in to find the typewriter that might best suit him and here he has found her. She waited poised. Patient. Longing for the warming touch of flesh. His touch was needed to make her come alive in ways the people who built her could not. She needed the repeated touches for words to feel the warmth she craved. Cravings in moments such as these, alone, she would allow herself to feel.
A wet heat trickled down her face. She imagined she was out in the middle of some dark ocean spilling red hot lava all alone somewhere far out from land.
Helen thought to herself It's still late and Annie still lays asleep.
She thought to make her way back to her bed and hold herself again as she has tended to after such bouts of insomnia.
Her hands lay still and waiting upon the keys on the typewriter. They began to warm from her heat. She wondered if her blood might boil. She wondered if she might then fry an egg on the metals she touched.
Helen rocked back and forth. She rocked over the balls of her feet.
Another surge came through her and she felt pushed to start typing.
She breathed in deeply. Exhaled slowly.
Such things once upon a time took her so rapturously as to render her ill at ease and basically attacking all who where near with all that she had no way to put form to. Maybe sweets might abate some her.
Just what she could reason to herself to do with these emotions and these wants?
She thought that she could not possibly bare it one more day one more moment.
Helen waited for the right words to come. Maybe simply bleeding would lay her lava out to cool on the page. A place for a piercing grace to land.
Yes. A well worded letter to Twain, Perhaps. No, an appeal to someone who might see the woman behind the reputation. A well worded letter to a wealthy intellectual or some rich writer. Someone who could keep the letter to themselves. Any such communication would be intercepted by her transcriber and translator. She knew this. There would be no way to covertly communicate her need or want to them. Teacher knew her too well.
"Guard, step mother, jailer."
She didn't know if she said that right. She didn't care. It felt good to say it with no fear of the words being corrected or stoped or spun into something else. Helen felt so sick and tired of being censored. Teacher has done so much. Helen also told herself.
"Teacher"
She drew a heavy sigh from her heart and Helen's heart did not feel any lighter.
A queer anticipation came from between her legs and she shook them side to side until the heat abated.
Annie would hear the typewriter. Even if she didn't come now to check on her ward, she would inquire tomorrow. Who could she pass the letter off to for sending? How could she receive a reply covertly?
Helen wondered if she could truly and utterly resign herself to not ever knowing the touch of the man. To not experience letting herself be seen as might only be possible in the ways that a lover looks upon its subject of Lust, adoration, love. Perhaps, Helen thought, if she were not some world renowned saint, this is some bit of normalcy that would not particularly perturb most.
"Mi-ra-cle" What came out felt about right to Helen. She felt the lilt of sobs
The typewriter was hot to her touch. Helen thought to herself, she'd rather not be in this moment much longer. She thought if she read one of those books and put it away before she fell asleep, she wouldn't have to deal with Teacher acosting her for what she was doing with her wants and her feelings. But then, if she did fall asleep reading, she wouldn't have spent another night clutching herself alone.