Tuesday, 21 January 2014
A Coupling
"It'll just give rise to people marrying their pets or farm animals!" cried Harold Wiest MP, flapping unrelated papers that he clutched in his chubby fist.
This was when social media went into an expected frenzy, people posting memes of a hastily cut-n-pasted Wiest as the groom in various bestial weddings.
Crol held hir brain pod in hir suckers and despaired. This is what shhe had feared this debate would become once it finally reached the parliaments of Earth.
For all their perceived progress, hir progenitor had told hir, humans are unflinchingly irrational. Shhe was resilient, believing that most people are good. Besides, shhe had fallen in love with one of them.
Love, for hir kind, was a - no pun intended - alien concept. Crol had come to Earth to study philosophy, shhe enjoyed the dilemmas that Earth thinkers would pose for themselves and it opened hir mind to analysing hir own kind in a different light. Though, at first, they had felt superior in the regard of being a species that lacked gender, and therefore lacked any inequality between sexes, they soon discovered that they shared many similiar forms of exclusion and repression familiar to humans and, in instances where the two species were incompatible, new and unique forms of division.
Crol experienced this at a young age, with certain regard to hir fascination and obsession with humans. They used to call hir a dirty gene pool, taunted hir with lurid gestures and doodles of what hir mutant offspring would look like and hir ugly, hairy partner.
If anything this ultimately made Crol reluctant, to the extent that shhe began to try and suppress and deny hir feelings as shhe found hirself falling for one of hir fellow students. Shhe was ashamed, shhe thought he would undoubtedly be repulsed by hir because of who shhe had lead hirself to believe shhe was. Made incapable of looking beyond the torment of cruel, narrow attitudes.
He didn't reciprocate hir feelings, though he spoke so eloquently in class and seemed so reasonable and understanding he was also unable to transcend the superficial differences that had been created between the species.
We, humanity, had thought we were such an understanding and enlightened species, having fought for centuries to eliminate racism, sexism, homophobia, ableism, discrimination of all forms. It became obvious to those who had been blissfully ignorant that many of these are battles never truly won, that blinkered tolerance is not the same as true unconscious equality. These beings that came to our planet reawakened a wealth of dormant prejudices that embarrassed us as a species.
People would hold up examples of protest from our seemingly distant past, people picketing against integration, against mixed race couples, against same sex couples, and they would say; "Look how foolish and short-sighted these people seem now." As if that were enough to crumble the foundations of hard-wired bigotry.
It had been someone reaching out to hir in the end. Shhe had retreated, feeling admonished by his rejection, as if he were confirming hir worst expectations, what humans had shouted at hir in the street; "There's no place for your kind here."
When he was questioned about it by his friends they always, with a telling lack of sensitivity, leapt towards the most lurid of questions; "Yeah, but how do you do it?" Tact soon left him and he told his friends to "just fuck off", and this seemed to help them understand.
He had rubbish thrown at him as he walked down the street, names shouted from strangers, threatening letters sent to his home and his family, once somebody posted a dead squid through his letterbox with a note saying, in angry scrawl, 'Why don't you marry it?'
It was in part because they had become the figureheads of the campaign to legalise inter-species marriage, and it was on this subject that Harold Wiest MP was harrumphing like a stuck pig. Those people who bleated the rhetoric of marrying pets seemed to wilfully overlook the issue of mutual compliance and how "Meow", "Moo", "Baa" or "Quack" is no subsitute for "I do".
It wasn't even that he and Crol wanted to get married, they just wanted equality, we cannot live in a world where there's one rule for some and another rule for everyone else. We cannot put in caveats to the detriment, exclusion and alienation of others. It would drive them both insane that people seemed to be afraid of an unknown corrupting force, one that would make them - against their will - change who they are, becoming a prisoner of some imposed way of life that they fundamentally disagreed with. Oh, the irony, that others might be forced to live lives - against their will - that strangulate and confine them, make them behave the way people expect and want them to, to wear masks, to deny their right to be themselves.
"Do you ever stop to think," Crol said, looking towards Harold Wiest MP, who could not hold hir gaze, "what it would be like to not be the dominant kind?"
That's all shhe wanted to say, because shhe didn't enjoy confrontation and despite how much it hurt hir, how shhe trembled inside as shhe saw people trying to prevent hir from being hirself, shhe could never bring hirself to want to dismantle someone else's beliefs. Shhe just wanted them to afford others the same courtesy that shhe gave them.
Shhe wished shhe was a more aggressive type, then shhe'd snatch Harold Wiest MP from his bed and take him back to another planet, one intolerant - unlike hir's - of humankind. He'd be put on show, ridiculed, made to feel exactly how shhe feels when he talks - with no regard for anyone but himself - about putting restrictions on the freedom of others.
And other planets, other species, did hate humankind. They were amused, though wearied, by our enduring intolerance. It was outsiders who brought us interstellar travel, who brought us technology beyond our comprehension, things they were capable of because they had - long ago - moved beyond petty bickering over, what they considered, trivial matters. The ethnicity, the sexuality, the beliefs of others were almost irrelevant to what a unified planet could achieve. Whilst arguments will never cease it is at least more noble to argue for something worthwhile other than the constructed and perceived inferiority of one race or class or gender or persuasion to another.
Other planets thought us petulant, stroppy toddlers, and maybe it's because we're a young planet? A young species. But, still, these differences never really occured to many of them amongst themselves.
Shhe wanted to prove them wrong, he wanted to prove them wrong, they turned their love over as a willing symbol, an act of public defiance and whilst the voice of fear and hatred is often louder and more startling, the voice of hope and reason and love - though shy - is larger, and ultimately stronger. It just needs to push. It just needs to break through.
They held one another close, and waited for the votes to be counted, and waited for the voices to be heard.
Friday, 17 January 2014
The Time Machine
"Ladies and gentlemen, I know there's been some confusion, but let me explain. To travel through time into the past or future is impossible, and ultimately pointless. However, what we all need in our lives is more time. My time machine is capable of generating time. Time between time. For instance, I can split a second down the middle and place another second inside it.
"To an observer, as I will demonstrate, your perception of time remains unchanged. Whereas for me - FUCK YOU - I have an extra second.
"Now, my invention is not limited to a flimsy second here and there, by adjusting the dosage I receive I have inserted amounts of time up to..."
I stepped out from behind the podium, walked towards the audience, their faces drowsy with slowtime. I scan them all, one by one, taking in their expressions which, the last they knew, were looking at me delivering my lecture in front of them. Playfully I swap notebooks around on their desks, pull pens from hands and nestle them behind ears, I finish someone's coffee, take a bite from a cookie, wander the entire lecture hall and return to my podium.
"...ten minutes."
It takes a moment or two for them to realise things have changed, and the commotion is quite jolly and good-natured as they swap their belongings back, or discover other suggestions of my mischief.
"You see, time is relative and our ability to move within it is a construct of our perception of reality. My machine - implanted into the hypothalamus - and my formula directly effect the suprachiasmatic nucleus, which controls our circadian rhythms, and warps my perception of time. Depending on the dosage the more time stretches. I am able to move - at what you would experience as - faster-than-light within this continnum that I have created."
After the lecture I signed some copies of my findings, a quite vague essay that belied my reticence to reveal my invention and give the gift of time to everyone. The more people who would travel at slowtime, then the more slowtime becomes like normal time, and I treasure slowtime because it means I can escape.
When I was younger I'd say that I was born in the wrong time, I used to pine for the past, I had such hopes for the future. But I can never go back, and tomorrow keeps letting me down. If I could exist forever inbetween the moments then I think I'd be happy. If I could find a way to slow down time for me indefinitely then I'd be happy to grow old there, to live and die in the blink of an eye.
As the last of them shakes my hand, congratulating me on my work, I brush the hair from my eyes and move a pin to hold it in place. I could never afford to make enough formula to spend the next fifty or sixty years in slowtime, the only way I could would be to sell the patent, to give it to the people. Perhaps if the world became hooked on slowtime then I'd enjoy the days as they are? Rather than feel myself burdened, weighed down by each and every second.
Ten minutes, that's all I can make for myself each day. Ten minutes of time to myself. It would take me 144 days to save up enough for a day off. 52,560 days for a year away. There's never enough time.
My mind flutters with daydreams about how I could generate the formula itself within slowtime, meaning it would perpetuate more quickly. If there was some way of creating a pocket of slowtime that I could interact with in normal time, an ever-expanding bubble that I could use to harvest the formula. If there were a way to create a wormhole between moments, from the present via the expanded time between a second and then the present again so that as soon as the process begins the results are achieved.
I've always been impatient, most projects go unfinished because once I can visualise the goal in my mind I lose interest in the efforts required to attain it. This formula, this machine, it was an accident. A George's Marvellous Medicine concocted as I played mixologist with my prescriptions. I began to experience affected perceptions of time, but then noticed that it wasn't just perceived time that moved slowly, it was time itself and if my head was clear then my speed would remain at a constant whilst everything slowed down around me.
If anything it gave me hope, the meds had taken that from me. I'd been dulled down, too calm to care, and controlled by the wagging fingers that warned me of coming off of my medication. I wanted to die, that's why I mixed them, I wanted to go to the place where time doesn't exist, where my consciousness doesn't exist, I wanted to feel the nothingness. At first I thought it was a cruel joke, that I was a ghost stuck in a moment, and I had to haunt that frozen point in time for the rest of eternity.
Between time I'm free, I'm happy. Nobody really looks at me - they can't - and nobody is aware that I'm gone. It's like I become someone else, and each time I return to the same time as everyone else I have to remember who I am, what everyone thinks of me, their superficial perceptions and judgments, and I have to wait, wait for the next moment to escape.
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
Life Outside
I run a bath, tickling my fingers in the water, checking the temperature is just so. As the tub fills I pace the bathroom in my robe, daylight framing the closed shutters on the window. There's a weary glumness to the light inside the room, a sombre sadness to this early Summer afternoon.
Afterwards I try to find Tilly and the children, they're somewhere in the house, but with our wealth of rooms they could be anywhere, and my cries are swallowed up by the expanse. Eventually, I hear Margot's laughter coming from one of the guest bedrooms, and I discover, to their great amusement, that they've turned the bed's blankets and pillows into a fort.
"No Daddy!" Alex commands as I step forward to search for them, "You can't come in."
After a circular discussion in which I try to bargain my way into the fort I go downstairs to the dining room. Lunch has been served, and I ring the bell to let the family know, expecting the temptation to bring them running.
The kitchen staff have shyed away from me recently, since I dismissed Tiago - my last lunch chef - to the outside. They tend just to notify me once the meals have been served, and the waiting staff - at dinners - have perfected an almost invisible art of clearing plates and presenting the successive courses.
"What did he do?" Tilly had asked, removing her jewellry as we prepared for bed that evening.
I told her that he had this neck tattoo, a bloody skull, I hadn't noticed it before, and I'm sure it wasn't new. Perhaps, I posited, he had been covering it with make-up and it had slipped his mind. Tilly agreed that it was most inappropriate, not something we would want the children to be exposed to.
After lunch I logged into the office cloud, I had a meeting with the other MDs, each beamed in from their respective studies. I made sure that I was framed by my bookshelf in the webcam's view, father had told me that this would give off a positive and knowledgable perception, and I carefully noted what my colleagues had chosen as their backdrops.
There was a flat beige wall, a world map, a garden view, a Miro painting, and another had also chosen a bookshelf, though his was less impressive - mine heaved with hardback tomes, his was rife with paperback page-turners; I considered flagging this up to the Chief Executive as an item of concern.
More frustrating though, Alfred - who lives in a very pleasant pile near Haslemere - was clearly wearing his pajamas to the meeting, whereas the rest of us were in suit and tie. I scribbled a note, to remind myself of this.
After the meeting I went into the garden, the sun was at its apex, so there was a warm, flat light over the grounds. I enjoy this time of day best, since having the high walls installed I've missed sunrise and sunset, but in the summer especially this time of day is most pleasant.
Tilly had come out into the garden to, she was in a lounger by the pond.
"Were you kicked out of the fort?" I asked, strolling over and taking an orange from the fruit bowl besider her.
"The kids got bored, realised it was a lovely day and wanted to play outside."
I dig my finger into the skin, it resists my efforts to tear a chunk away and begin peeling.
"Where are they now?"
She looked up and scanned the garden, my eyes followed, and we found Alex throwing a dinosaur up in the air near the sandpit, and then Margot over by the guardhouse.
I was a little out of breath when I got to her, checked she was okay, and aside from a look of panic - probably a reflection of my own - she seemed fine. I stared up at the guard on duty, a short man, but broad, with a neat grey beard and round glasses.
"Afternoon, sir," he nodded at me.
"Please don't talk to my daughter."
"I hadn't, sir. She was talking at me."
I ushered Margot back towards her mother, standing my ground, watching the guard glancing at me but keeping his eyes fixed on the monitors that showed the perimeter, outside the walls, that showed the people idling around.
"Can't you do something about them?" I asked.
"There's a 10pm curfew in the summer months," the guard said reaching for his tea. "Other than that they can do what they like most afternoons. Got to give the inmates a bit of free time."
"But they could be made to work, do something productive."
"Ay, they do, eight until one in the afternoon, then lunch. Well, they try to. I was talking to a warden, he says it's getting harder to... Well, I shouldn't gossip."
"No," I sized the man up again, "you shouldn't." I tried to make the warning clear, he was lucky to be getting that.
I turned and made my way back to the house.
"Have a good evening, sir," the guard called after me. "Any plans?"
Perhaps it was the jovial tone in his voice, but something about his farewell crawled under my skin. I couldn't sleep that night, tossing and turning in the sheets, which felt damp and clammy against my body.
Tilly called to me from her bed, asked if I wouldn't mind sleeping in another room if I was going to be so restless.
"Are you going to report me?" I joked as I took my quilt and a pillow elsewhere.
I made myself comfy on the sofa, despite the guest rooms I rather fancied falling asleep whilst watching some television. I ordered a hot chocolate from the night staff and went to draw the curtains.
At the end of the garden, by the guardhouse, I could see a light - the tip of a cigarette - the audacity of that man! Smoking on my property without permission. I moved to the phone, but hesitated at the last moment, and I'm not sure entirely sure why, but I suddenly felt that - despite everything - I didn't want to send him away, I wanted to keep him here, this guard, this insipid stranger, as if something about that was a form of punishment.
I went back to the window, the figure had returned to the guardhouse. I drew the curtains, and when I returned to the sofa there was a hot chocolate steaming on the side table.
Turning on the television there was a high pitched whining, a test signal, and a card that read 'Due to unforseen circumstances all programming has been suspended', and behind that a spectrum of colour bars.
I lowered the volume so the whine was barely audible, yet its presence gave me a little comfort, I pulled the quilt over myself and snuggled onto the sofa, sipping at my hot chocolate, letting it softly warm me inside.
Afterwards I try to find Tilly and the children, they're somewhere in the house, but with our wealth of rooms they could be anywhere, and my cries are swallowed up by the expanse. Eventually, I hear Margot's laughter coming from one of the guest bedrooms, and I discover, to their great amusement, that they've turned the bed's blankets and pillows into a fort.
"No Daddy!" Alex commands as I step forward to search for them, "You can't come in."
After a circular discussion in which I try to bargain my way into the fort I go downstairs to the dining room. Lunch has been served, and I ring the bell to let the family know, expecting the temptation to bring them running.
The kitchen staff have shyed away from me recently, since I dismissed Tiago - my last lunch chef - to the outside. They tend just to notify me once the meals have been served, and the waiting staff - at dinners - have perfected an almost invisible art of clearing plates and presenting the successive courses.
"What did he do?" Tilly had asked, removing her jewellry as we prepared for bed that evening.
I told her that he had this neck tattoo, a bloody skull, I hadn't noticed it before, and I'm sure it wasn't new. Perhaps, I posited, he had been covering it with make-up and it had slipped his mind. Tilly agreed that it was most inappropriate, not something we would want the children to be exposed to.
After lunch I logged into the office cloud, I had a meeting with the other MDs, each beamed in from their respective studies. I made sure that I was framed by my bookshelf in the webcam's view, father had told me that this would give off a positive and knowledgable perception, and I carefully noted what my colleagues had chosen as their backdrops.
There was a flat beige wall, a world map, a garden view, a Miro painting, and another had also chosen a bookshelf, though his was less impressive - mine heaved with hardback tomes, his was rife with paperback page-turners; I considered flagging this up to the Chief Executive as an item of concern.
More frustrating though, Alfred - who lives in a very pleasant pile near Haslemere - was clearly wearing his pajamas to the meeting, whereas the rest of us were in suit and tie. I scribbled a note, to remind myself of this.
After the meeting I went into the garden, the sun was at its apex, so there was a warm, flat light over the grounds. I enjoy this time of day best, since having the high walls installed I've missed sunrise and sunset, but in the summer especially this time of day is most pleasant.
Tilly had come out into the garden to, she was in a lounger by the pond.
"Were you kicked out of the fort?" I asked, strolling over and taking an orange from the fruit bowl besider her.
"The kids got bored, realised it was a lovely day and wanted to play outside."
I dig my finger into the skin, it resists my efforts to tear a chunk away and begin peeling.
"Where are they now?"
She looked up and scanned the garden, my eyes followed, and we found Alex throwing a dinosaur up in the air near the sandpit, and then Margot over by the guardhouse.
I was a little out of breath when I got to her, checked she was okay, and aside from a look of panic - probably a reflection of my own - she seemed fine. I stared up at the guard on duty, a short man, but broad, with a neat grey beard and round glasses.
"Afternoon, sir," he nodded at me.
"Please don't talk to my daughter."
"I hadn't, sir. She was talking at me."
I ushered Margot back towards her mother, standing my ground, watching the guard glancing at me but keeping his eyes fixed on the monitors that showed the perimeter, outside the walls, that showed the people idling around.
"Can't you do something about them?" I asked.
"There's a 10pm curfew in the summer months," the guard said reaching for his tea. "Other than that they can do what they like most afternoons. Got to give the inmates a bit of free time."
"But they could be made to work, do something productive."
"Ay, they do, eight until one in the afternoon, then lunch. Well, they try to. I was talking to a warden, he says it's getting harder to... Well, I shouldn't gossip."
"No," I sized the man up again, "you shouldn't." I tried to make the warning clear, he was lucky to be getting that.
I turned and made my way back to the house.
"Have a good evening, sir," the guard called after me. "Any plans?"
Perhaps it was the jovial tone in his voice, but something about his farewell crawled under my skin. I couldn't sleep that night, tossing and turning in the sheets, which felt damp and clammy against my body.
Tilly called to me from her bed, asked if I wouldn't mind sleeping in another room if I was going to be so restless.
"Are you going to report me?" I joked as I took my quilt and a pillow elsewhere.
I made myself comfy on the sofa, despite the guest rooms I rather fancied falling asleep whilst watching some television. I ordered a hot chocolate from the night staff and went to draw the curtains.
At the end of the garden, by the guardhouse, I could see a light - the tip of a cigarette - the audacity of that man! Smoking on my property without permission. I moved to the phone, but hesitated at the last moment, and I'm not sure entirely sure why, but I suddenly felt that - despite everything - I didn't want to send him away, I wanted to keep him here, this guard, this insipid stranger, as if something about that was a form of punishment.
I went back to the window, the figure had returned to the guardhouse. I drew the curtains, and when I returned to the sofa there was a hot chocolate steaming on the side table.
Turning on the television there was a high pitched whining, a test signal, and a card that read 'Due to unforseen circumstances all programming has been suspended', and behind that a spectrum of colour bars.
I lowered the volume so the whine was barely audible, yet its presence gave me a little comfort, I pulled the quilt over myself and snuggled onto the sofa, sipping at my hot chocolate, letting it softly warm me inside.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Flow
At the start of the day the data entry software would reward Masha when she completed 25 lines of information. A little bronze star would appear, a glittery sound would chime, and the star would drift into a little box called 'Achievements'. After about an hour, it would be for every 50 lines of information, then 100, 200, and so on with the colour of the star changing from bronze, to silver, gold, ruby, emerald with diamond as the ultimate - almost unattainable - crowning accomplishment if someone, somehow managed 12,800 lines of information in one working day. She'd known colleagues to arrive early and stay late in an effort to attain diamond star status.
Nobody had, and nobody knew what happened if you did.
That day she'd reached Blue Garnet (3,200) and didn't think Serendibite was within her reach. Colette, in stall 89, looked sleepless yet determined, when Masha glanced her way Colette yelled; "9,000!" A small crowd, Henry, Barnes, Petra, had gathered around her, cheering her on.
Masha rolled her eyes, smiling, and left the office.
On the way home she stopped into Cafe Zeno for a latte, she didn't really feel like a coffee, but she only had to get one more stamp on her card and she could have a free drink. She smiled as the clerk, whose nametag read 'Mikey: Caramel Latte with Chocolate & Two Sugars', under this he had two gold stars.
"What are the stars for?" Masha asked, as Mikey took her charge card.
"Customer service," Mikey smiled. "Could I take your name?"
"Masha."
And Mikey wrote Marsha on the paper cup, sliding it down to his colleague hidden behind the gargantuan hissing coffee machine. Masha smiled and followed her cup, reminding herself that - as far as her coffee was concerned - she was called Marsha.
At home, with her dinner on her lap, she opened up her TV Planner on the digibox and checked her completion levels on the shows she was watching. She was a little disgruntled to find that no new episodes had been uploaded, so she'd either have to find something new or just watch something again.
Then she thought about Alex, maybe she should send a text or call, they'd had three dates, kissed a little, it wasn't out of place to do such a thing. But she wasn't sure exactly what she'd say, I mean, she hadn't really done anything all day and couldn't exactly tell her about the stars at work or the coffee card. Maybe she should ask for a recommendation of something to watch? It'd make Alex feel good.
The text delivered, with a little notification saying 'Text sent 19:37', which Masha kept eyeballing until it changed to 'Text read 19:39'.
With a growing ire Masha - at 19:57 - began to wonder what exactly could be causing Alex to dither for so long. Was this a hint, a sign that perhaps she had been getting her hopes up and Alex didn't feel as strongly about her? Maybe Alex was busy compiling an exhaustive list of great television shows to really impress her? Maybe she'd just forgotten that Masha had sent her the text, insipid as it was.
Perhaps, Masha thought if she sent something better, something more enticing that would prompt Alex to respond. She began reminiscing about their dates, trying to happen upon some detail, some anecdote, that Masha could belatedly respond to. What music did Alex say she liked? Maybe one of her favourite bands has a gig coming up and she could suggest they go? Or a screening of a classic film?
Or is that too desperate?
Suddenly her phone buzzed, juddering excitedly upon her thigh, but it was a text from Barnes reading: 'Colette did it!'
Strangely this gave Masha a sense of optimism, that anything is possible, and she immediately composed a text for Alex that read: 'If you're stuck for something good to watch too, maybe we should put our heads together?' Masha enjoyed the innuendo, and hoped that Alex would pick up on it.
Afterward she replied to Barnes, 'What happened?'
'Big diamond star. Longer tune. Now all future stars are +1 level.'
'That it?'
'Think boss got a msg, so maybe more? Don't know, finished pretty l8.'
It was disappointing for Masha just to read, she can't really imagine how Colette must have felt at the end of all that anticipation just to get more of the same. Still, there's a strong chance that if the boss has heard of the achievement then she'll give Colette some sort of bonus or extra day off, some kind of recognition.
Masha's phone buzzed again, it was Alex: 'Sounds fun. Your place?'
Feeling good about herself Masha claimed her free coffee that morning, striding quite proudly up to the counter and holding out the completed card.
"Hi Mikey," she beamed.
"Morning, free coffee today, good for you!" he stapled the card to the receipt and slipped it into the till, handing her a new, empty card for her to continue on with. "What's your name?"
Walking into the office, holding a cup with the word 'Martha' scribbled on the side, she craned her neck to try and see if Colette was in. She wasn't, but there was a balloon tied to her desk. Curious, Masha approached and written on the stretched peach rubber were the words: 'Congratulations on your diamond day. Everyone at DataPro.'
"Hey," Masha called to Petra who was walking towards the break room, "did you get this for Col?"
"No, the boss did."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Petra carried on her way leaving Masha to stare, quite judgmentally, at the hovering helium balloon jigging slightly in the air con's breeze.
Colette had, according to Barnes who texted from his stall, come in before Masha got there, she'd seen the balloon and immediately gone home, calling in to say she'd had a migraine come on suddenly. Barnes wasn't convinced, neither was Masha, and both didn't feel so enamoured by the star targets any more.
That afternoon though Ms. Radchec made an announcement, letting the team know that the rewards system was changing from stars to a leaderboard, with each employee's four weekly totals being totted up and averaged to see who was the most productive each month. The winner, Ms. Radchec said, would be rewarded. Barnes, under his breath, made a joke about her being full of gas, much like the reward would be, but it went largely unnoticed.
She'd felt a bit down all day, so had sent Alex a text seeing if she could come over after work, but Alex hadn't replied and, in an effort to stave off depression, Masha had picked up some ice-cream on the way home.
She was sat, with her dinner on her lap, pleased to see that one of her favourite series had two new episodes now - a double-bill had been on - so she could watch those tonight.
Her phone thrummed eagerly on the cushion beside her, she could see it was Alex calling, but she didn't answer, she didn't want to give Alex the satisfaction after she hadn't replied earlier. She kind of enjoyed this moment of being in control of the dispensation of happiness, besides she had her tv show and her dinner and her ice-cream.
Nobody had, and nobody knew what happened if you did.
That day she'd reached Blue Garnet (3,200) and didn't think Serendibite was within her reach. Colette, in stall 89, looked sleepless yet determined, when Masha glanced her way Colette yelled; "9,000!" A small crowd, Henry, Barnes, Petra, had gathered around her, cheering her on.
Masha rolled her eyes, smiling, and left the office.
On the way home she stopped into Cafe Zeno for a latte, she didn't really feel like a coffee, but she only had to get one more stamp on her card and she could have a free drink. She smiled as the clerk, whose nametag read 'Mikey: Caramel Latte with Chocolate & Two Sugars', under this he had two gold stars.
"What are the stars for?" Masha asked, as Mikey took her charge card.
"Customer service," Mikey smiled. "Could I take your name?"
"Masha."
And Mikey wrote Marsha on the paper cup, sliding it down to his colleague hidden behind the gargantuan hissing coffee machine. Masha smiled and followed her cup, reminding herself that - as far as her coffee was concerned - she was called Marsha.
At home, with her dinner on her lap, she opened up her TV Planner on the digibox and checked her completion levels on the shows she was watching. She was a little disgruntled to find that no new episodes had been uploaded, so she'd either have to find something new or just watch something again.
Then she thought about Alex, maybe she should send a text or call, they'd had three dates, kissed a little, it wasn't out of place to do such a thing. But she wasn't sure exactly what she'd say, I mean, she hadn't really done anything all day and couldn't exactly tell her about the stars at work or the coffee card. Maybe she should ask for a recommendation of something to watch? It'd make Alex feel good.
The text delivered, with a little notification saying 'Text sent 19:37', which Masha kept eyeballing until it changed to 'Text read 19:39'.
With a growing ire Masha - at 19:57 - began to wonder what exactly could be causing Alex to dither for so long. Was this a hint, a sign that perhaps she had been getting her hopes up and Alex didn't feel as strongly about her? Maybe Alex was busy compiling an exhaustive list of great television shows to really impress her? Maybe she'd just forgotten that Masha had sent her the text, insipid as it was.
Perhaps, Masha thought if she sent something better, something more enticing that would prompt Alex to respond. She began reminiscing about their dates, trying to happen upon some detail, some anecdote, that Masha could belatedly respond to. What music did Alex say she liked? Maybe one of her favourite bands has a gig coming up and she could suggest they go? Or a screening of a classic film?
Or is that too desperate?
Suddenly her phone buzzed, juddering excitedly upon her thigh, but it was a text from Barnes reading: 'Colette did it!'
Strangely this gave Masha a sense of optimism, that anything is possible, and she immediately composed a text for Alex that read: 'If you're stuck for something good to watch too, maybe we should put our heads together?' Masha enjoyed the innuendo, and hoped that Alex would pick up on it.
Afterward she replied to Barnes, 'What happened?'
'Big diamond star. Longer tune. Now all future stars are +1 level.'
'That it?'
'Think boss got a msg, so maybe more? Don't know, finished pretty l8.'
It was disappointing for Masha just to read, she can't really imagine how Colette must have felt at the end of all that anticipation just to get more of the same. Still, there's a strong chance that if the boss has heard of the achievement then she'll give Colette some sort of bonus or extra day off, some kind of recognition.
Masha's phone buzzed again, it was Alex: 'Sounds fun. Your place?'
Feeling good about herself Masha claimed her free coffee that morning, striding quite proudly up to the counter and holding out the completed card.
"Hi Mikey," she beamed.
"Morning, free coffee today, good for you!" he stapled the card to the receipt and slipped it into the till, handing her a new, empty card for her to continue on with. "What's your name?"
Walking into the office, holding a cup with the word 'Martha' scribbled on the side, she craned her neck to try and see if Colette was in. She wasn't, but there was a balloon tied to her desk. Curious, Masha approached and written on the stretched peach rubber were the words: 'Congratulations on your diamond day. Everyone at DataPro.'
"Hey," Masha called to Petra who was walking towards the break room, "did you get this for Col?"
"No, the boss did."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Petra carried on her way leaving Masha to stare, quite judgmentally, at the hovering helium balloon jigging slightly in the air con's breeze.
Colette had, according to Barnes who texted from his stall, come in before Masha got there, she'd seen the balloon and immediately gone home, calling in to say she'd had a migraine come on suddenly. Barnes wasn't convinced, neither was Masha, and both didn't feel so enamoured by the star targets any more.
That afternoon though Ms. Radchec made an announcement, letting the team know that the rewards system was changing from stars to a leaderboard, with each employee's four weekly totals being totted up and averaged to see who was the most productive each month. The winner, Ms. Radchec said, would be rewarded. Barnes, under his breath, made a joke about her being full of gas, much like the reward would be, but it went largely unnoticed.
She'd felt a bit down all day, so had sent Alex a text seeing if she could come over after work, but Alex hadn't replied and, in an effort to stave off depression, Masha had picked up some ice-cream on the way home.
She was sat, with her dinner on her lap, pleased to see that one of her favourite series had two new episodes now - a double-bill had been on - so she could watch those tonight.
Her phone thrummed eagerly on the cushion beside her, she could see it was Alex calling, but she didn't answer, she didn't want to give Alex the satisfaction after she hadn't replied earlier. She kind of enjoyed this moment of being in control of the dispensation of happiness, besides she had her tv show and her dinner and her ice-cream.
Saturday, 19 October 2013
The Short Story
Just over 10 years ago I started studying Creative Writing and English Literature at Aberystwyth University. The place and people were wonderful, the course was pretty disappointing. Here's the story I submitted for my first marked assignment on 10th November 2003.
The Short Story
Abbott put his arm around me, he kissed me on the forehead and kept his hand on my shoulder looking out at the road ahead. We'd been traveling for about five days now, I didn't know where we were going really, but Abbott seemed to. I looked at him as he drove, all around us was deserted and the sun sat right behind. I leant over and nestled my head on his side.
At that moment I felt my father's hand on my shoulder, prodding me. Daddy didn't like it when we got cosy together in the car, I just liked having time with Abbott and sometimes forgot that my Daddy was even there, he always made sure he reminded me about it though.
My father had raised me by himself for about nine years now, since I was six. He was very protective of me, always lecturing me about being a good girl, coming home on time and he wasn't fond of Abbott to tell you all the truth.
I met Abbott after school, he used to be sitting on the fence by the field with the long grass with his friends. I'd smile at him as I walked by, and soon he was smiling back. One day he jumped down off the fence and asked if he could walk with me.
“I'm not sure if my Daddy would like that.” I grinned.
“Fine,” Abbott nodded respectfully, and then he winked and said, “I won't walk with ya' all the way then.” He walked alongside me, and I could barely speak, couldn't do nothing but smile. “What's your name then?” He asked looking down at me with his blue eyes, I remember how blue they were so well.
“Tess.” I said.
“My name's Abbott.” He stopped and held his hand out to me, I'd never had a boy offer to shake hands with me before and I couldn't help but laugh. “Well, are you gonna shake my hand or aren't ya'?”
The car pulled up to the side of the road, the dirty ground crunching under the wheels. Abbott leant on the door and looked up and down the long empty strip. Then off we went again, this time the car began out over the ground leaving the road behind us. I looked at Abbott like he'd gone and lost his mind, but soon we came to this little secluded place with trees and large dusty rocks.
“We're stopping here tonight.” He said getting out of the car and pulling his leather jacket off the back seat, “You wanna help me?”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Get a fire going or something.” He exclaimed as if it was perfectly obvious to everyone but me. “I'm going for a piss, try and see if you can find some firewood or something.”
I went over to one of the trees and began shaking at its trunk, but it barely made a move, though I'll be honest with you I'm not exactly the toughest person in the world. I leant back on the bonnet of the car and looked up at the tree, a wind blew through the leaves and my hair, it span dust up as if it were alive.
“You look pretty with your hair down.” My father said from the backseat of the car, “Your mother always said you'd grow up beautiful. You're starting to look a lot more like her, everyday it seems.”
Daddy didn't like Abbott, and he made no bones about keeping it under his hat. First time he met him was about a week after he started walking me home, Daddy was sat on the front porch smoking his pipe and he saw me talking down by the road. Abbott was practically begging me to go to the old barn down by the lake that night, some friends of his were having some kinda party, said they were starting a band.
“I'll think about it.” I grinned tugging my bag back up onto my shoulder, I started to walk up towards the house with Abbott nodding and smiling.
“I'll think about you!” He laughed pointing playfully at me, and winking.
I could tell my Daddy was mad the second I could see his face clearly, but to be honest with you I didn't know why. He had his hands on his hips and the pipe drooping sadly from his mouth, I looked up at him and plain as day he swore, “God damn you Tess, what are you playing at? Get inside the house.”
Our house was one of the nicest one's around for miles, I always loved that place despite whatever happened inside those four walls. Though I would've changed a few things about it, that's for sure. My father and his father were proud hunters, and they had heads of all kinds of animals up over the fireplace and the like, deers and boars, they went traveling for weeks finding stuff to kill.
Daddy sat me down at the dinner table, he turned a lamp on as it was getting pretty dark early now in the Autumn. Daddy told me to put my hands on the table, about shoulder width apart and he struck the backs of them hard with his hand, it hurt but I didn't say nothing.
“What are you playing at?” He asked again sitting so upright I thought he'd locked his back again, I didn't say anything because I had nothing to say. He rolled his eyes and looked round the house, “If your mother could see you now? Holy Jesus, I don't know what she'd say. She'd set you straight, that's what she'd do. Tell you how blind you're being, how foolish!” He took my hands in his and stared me straight in the eyes, “Now you listen to me, cause I'm telling you now not to see that fella...”
“But, Daddy...” I began.
“Lord have mercy!” My father interrupted, “Aren't you listening? Don't you hear me? I'm commanding you my girl, my daughter. I didn't raise no commandment breaker now did I? You love your Daddy now don't you? Now, say your prayers and I'll start dinner tonight, but it's to bed early today, you hear?” He paused, “Tell me now, do you hear?”
“Yes Daddy.” I answered.
Later that evening, it was about eight o'clock I reckon, I could hear this sound at my window and when I looked up there was Abbott stood outside, I didn't realise who it was at first and almost jumped out of my own skin. Quietly I crept over to the window, slid open the pane and stuck my head outside.
“What do you want?” I asked in a whisper.
“Come on, I came to take you to the barn, I figured that a lady shouldn't walk alone.” Abbott said starting off into the dark almost immediately.
“Well hold up!” I called with bated breath, “I'm wearing my nightgown, I gotta get changed!”
Abbott threw his hands up and stamped a foot, “I told you we was going to the barn!”
“I'm sorry, b-but my Daddy, he - he said...” I could hardly speak now, and Abbott could see that he'd been a little rash so he came up and put a hand on my cheek.
“Hey there, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at ya'. I didn't realise. Don't be upset now.” Abbott's hand was so warm despite the cold Autumn air at night, and I practically nuzzled against it. “Come on now,” he continued, “Get some clothes and shoes, stick a pillow under the bedsheets, you can wear my jacket if you want, it's real leather.”
“What are you thinking?” My father asked me as I pulled a blanket up over me in the front seat of the car.
“I was wondering why you used to hit me so much?” I said bitterly trying to find some warmth, it was winter even in the desert!
“You can be stubborn sometimes, you get that too from you mother.”
I began to feel tears in my eyes on my skin thinking about her, “Why did she die, Daddy?”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” My Daddy reasoned, but it never made any sense to me.
I was a little angry when nobody else showed up in the barn that night, later Abbott told me that they'd all gone out drinking and forgotten to tell him! He didn't mind though he said, he told me that he was happy enough sitting here with me, and I was with him. There wasn't anywhere to sit as such in the barn, barely anybody used it then, which is a pity because it was so beautiful there in the moonlight. Abbott made us a bed of hay to lie on, it was all bailed up but Abbott tore through the cord holding it with his bare hands! I'd never noticed how strong he was in all the time we'd known each other, and then how carefully he set the hay down on the ground, he was like an artist at work.
That's the night I knew I was in love with Abbott. It was getting late, we could see the sun rising up out in the distance across the lake. My head was on Abbott's chest and I could hear his heart beating, and I felt so calm there with his arms wrapped around me. I wriggled out of his embrace and looked him in the eyes, he looked down at me.
“What?” He smiled. I quickly kissed him on the lips. “What was that?” He asked.
“A kiss.” I replied holding his gaze.
“I know that, but why'd you do that?”
“'Cause I wanted to kiss you, that's why.”
Abbott raised his eyebrows and grinned, he looked around the barn as if he were surrounded by a thousand eyes and didn't care. “Do you still want to kiss me now?”
“I'm not so sure.” I teased.
Abbott chuckled and put an arm round the back of my neck pulling me closer to him and he kissed me, his hands ran down my back and opening his hands his fingers practically wrapped round me.
When I left the barn the next day I pretty much floated all the way home I was so happy, Abbott didn't walk with me he had to be in town, to check on his friends. I remember that the world had never seemed so beautiful before, the barn was a luminous glowing grey sat against the Autumn sky. The grass around it was browning and captured in sunlight, and it didn't matter about all the moss, lichen and rust, because somehow on that day it was all perfect. And I'd seen sunrises before, me and Daddy would stay up and watch them sometimes, we'd eat lamb stew with crusty bread, but this one was special.
Abbott came back looking white as a sheet, he stumbled over a rock in the dim dusk light and cursed quietly to himself looking up at me. “Where's the Goddamn fire?”
“There's no stick or nothing, and I couldn't reach up into the tree there.” I pointed.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Abbott muttered, it shocked me when he swore, he didn't used to swear so much, but you get to know people more and more as time goes on, that's what love's all about I guess. He proceeded to swipe at the tree, but he kept swinging too wide and missing the branches, and eventually he just began kicking at the trunk, bark splintering and denting.
“Are you allright Abbott? Look like you've seen a ghost.” I said getting out of the car and going over to help him.
“I'm fine!” He snapped.
“Are you sure? Do you want some water or something?” I raised a hand to his side and touched him.
Next thing a fist came into my face, it knocked me to the ground and I scratched the underside of my hand as I fell onto the rough desert floor.
“I'M FINE!” He yelled, and then turned placing his hands on the tree, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
My face felt numb and the bridge of my nose buzzed and hummed, it stung like when you crack your elbow on the table. My face felt wet, like I was crying, but I wasn't and when I drew my hand back it had red streaks across it, I dabbed the tears with my finger and saw that it was blood.
Abbott had slumped himself against a rock and was lighting up a cigarette, he seemed to be talking to himself but I didn't care neither way. I got back in the car and found a handkerchief and held it to my nose, the white cloth was quickly blackening red with blood, I looked back to my father but he had got out the car. Looking round I saw that he'd gone over and was stood next to Abbott, smoking his pipe. He looked over to me and nodded, mouthing the words 'Go to sleep', and so I did.
When I got back home in the morning my father wasn't in, so I busied myself by tidying up the kitchen and washing the dishes from dinner last night, then I hanged the clothes out on the line and made the beds. My father's bed though looked like he'd had a rough night, the covers were flung over the floor and I was growing concerned due to his absence. Nevertheless, Daddy often goes out for walks and stuff, and anyways, he didn't know that I was missing school today and I was glad he didn't otherwise he'd probably strangle me! In some ways I began to think that if Daddy didn't come home then Abbott could move in, and he could tend to the fields and the cows, and I could cook for him and he'd stay up late reading to me at bedtime. To some extent I began to dream that Daddy wouldn't come home, and it's practically at that moment when he did.
I never heard a door open and close so loudly before in my life! I looked up at the clock and it was about lunchtime, so I thought that Daddy had come back in for something to eat, but he came straight up to me with a horrific look on his face, beads of sweat dripping off his brow. Suddenly he struck me with the back of his hand across the face, and when I fell to the floor he pulled me back up by my collar and shook me.
“I told you!” My father barked into my face, “I told you again and again. What do you want? Huh!? You want me to hurt you? Is that what you want? 'Cause I'll do it, don't doubt that I will! Heaven above, don't you understand that I love you Tess? Don't you see that I don't want you to be hurt?”
I couldn't stop crying, tears burning my eyes I cried till I could hardly cry no more, I tried to wipe them away but he held my arms down and rattled me, I thought that he'd break my neck he shook me so much. When I could finally see again I noticed that his knuckles were a mucky brown red colour, I looked up at my father and I could see it in his eyes that he'd gone after Abbott before he came to me.
“Daddy what did you do?” I sobbed.
My father looked down at his hands and withdrew them, trying to wipe the stains off onto his shirt, and the moment he did I tore out the side door with all my speed, practically screaming for air as I went.
I could hear my father yelling behind me, but he didn't bother to follow. I ran so fast, I ran past the old barn, down the road and past the fence by the field with the long grass, and then towards Abbott's house on the other side of town. I could tell that something was wrong because the door was hanging off its hinges, and glass from a window was scattered on the floor, it cut into my feet as I walked over it, I'd forgotten to put any shoes on or nothing, but I didn't notice 'til later.
Inside the gloomy, sparse house was Abbott, slumped in a corner a hand to his face and as I stepped towards the shadows where he sat I could hear him sniffing, holding back the tears too. I reached out for him and took his hand from his face, he moved his head forward into the light and I saw what my father had done.
Abbott's eyes were swollen, dark purple and puffy, with blood trickling out of the eyebrow and he'd split an eye lid open, Abbott could barely blink the poor soul. His lip too was gashed and red with blood ran over it, he was scuffed with all kinds of dirt and splinters, but that wasn't the worst of it. I tried to help Abbott to his feet but taking his arm in my hands made him holler in pain, I tried to help him again but he protested so badly. Carefully I looked at his arm and realised the elbow was all awash with blood, it was damp and sticky, so carefully I rolled up the sleeve and saw that the arm looked odd, and then realised that the bone jutted out through the skin where it'd been broken. I clasped my hand over my mouth, I could barely comprehend how my father did this.
“Abbott,” I said running my hand across his cheek, but he winced away in pain, “Abbott? Are you going to be okay? Abbott come on, talk to me now.”
“I-It was y-your father.” Abbott managed to utter, his words wet and gargled, he spat onto the floor and I could see that he was coughing up blood. “He came in raging, like a man possessed he was, I could barely speak, he just didn't let me...”
“That's alright Abbott, you don't have to say anything. You want I should get a doctor?”
“No.” Abbott started, “You go home, I don't want you to get into any more trouble than you are already. I think...” He caught his breath, “I think you shouldn't see me no more, Tess.”
I bit my lip as I let his words fall upon me, but I could tell that he was just trying to be generous to me, “Abbott, I'm not going to leave you, I love you, and I will do anything for you...” I thought about what I was saying, the first time I really paid any attention to what I said or how I said it, but I did so because I meant it and I remembered something my mother used to read to me, “'You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.'”
My father walked back to the car and got in the driver's side, sitting on the front seat, he looked at me and blew jovially into my hair, it roused me from my sleep and I looked round, it was morning. I turned my head all around and we were still in the desert, usually Abbott would drive off in the middle of the night and I'd wake up someplace else, but it was still that little secluded spot. Clouds hung over us in patches, dark grey underneath but glowing fluffy white above, the sky was a baby blue and peeked through like pools in the air.
“Morning.” My Daddy beamed when I wearily blinked at him.
When I returned home my father was in the bathroom shaving, all was quiet in the house, strangely so, except for the sound of water being slapped around by his razor as he cleaned it off. I crept quietly into my room and gathered up my clothes, placing them neatly into my schoolbag and throwing it over my shoulder. I thought briefly about writing him a note, but thought that it'd be better for him to gradually understand as opposed to me trying to explain it myself, and where would I begin?
As I moved through the front room, under the watchful gaze of the deers and boars, bears and other beasts I felt a sense of sadness for all the things I'd be leaving behind, but then again what were they but memories? And now each happy memory lead to a sad one.
I reached the door and then remembered that I wanted to take a book for Abbott to read to me, so crept back over towards the fireplace where my favourite books rested on the mantle. As I dropped my bag to the ground I heard my father's voice behind me.
“What are you doing?” He asked, yet he sounded different, sombre and remote. “Where are you going?”
I turned and saw my father stood in the doorway opposite, his face hidden in shaving foam and the razor in his hand, he rested on the door frame and looked sorrowfully at me, his eyes large, blue, staring.
“I'm going away Daddy.” I said, but then he began to shake his head slowly back and forth.
My father looked up to the ceiling and sighed, smiling to himself and speaking up to the Heavens, “I tried, I'm sorry.” He then looked at me and began walking over, and for some reason I was shaking uncontrollably I felt like my legs were going to give way I was so terrified, I just remember his hands, bloodied and dirty, I just remember Abbott's face as he cowered in the corner, and then I just remember the sound of gunfire.
When I looked round again my father was lying on the floor back by the opposite door, his hand had dropped the razor and the other one was slumped across his chest. He lay with his lungs breathing slowly in and out, getting further seperated by the second and as he breathed more blood pumped out of him, from a hole in his chest and a pool haloing his head.
I looked at my father sat in the driver's seat of the car, as I turned round I saw that Abbott had gone again, when I looked back my father had gone too and I saw the wind blow through the trees, it released some leaves that clung to the branches, and spun dust up into the air as if it were alive.
The Short Story
Abbott put his arm around me, he kissed me on the forehead and kept his hand on my shoulder looking out at the road ahead. We'd been traveling for about five days now, I didn't know where we were going really, but Abbott seemed to. I looked at him as he drove, all around us was deserted and the sun sat right behind. I leant over and nestled my head on his side.
At that moment I felt my father's hand on my shoulder, prodding me. Daddy didn't like it when we got cosy together in the car, I just liked having time with Abbott and sometimes forgot that my Daddy was even there, he always made sure he reminded me about it though.
My father had raised me by himself for about nine years now, since I was six. He was very protective of me, always lecturing me about being a good girl, coming home on time and he wasn't fond of Abbott to tell you all the truth.
I met Abbott after school, he used to be sitting on the fence by the field with the long grass with his friends. I'd smile at him as I walked by, and soon he was smiling back. One day he jumped down off the fence and asked if he could walk with me.
“I'm not sure if my Daddy would like that.” I grinned.
“Fine,” Abbott nodded respectfully, and then he winked and said, “I won't walk with ya' all the way then.” He walked alongside me, and I could barely speak, couldn't do nothing but smile. “What's your name then?” He asked looking down at me with his blue eyes, I remember how blue they were so well.
“Tess.” I said.
“My name's Abbott.” He stopped and held his hand out to me, I'd never had a boy offer to shake hands with me before and I couldn't help but laugh. “Well, are you gonna shake my hand or aren't ya'?”
The car pulled up to the side of the road, the dirty ground crunching under the wheels. Abbott leant on the door and looked up and down the long empty strip. Then off we went again, this time the car began out over the ground leaving the road behind us. I looked at Abbott like he'd gone and lost his mind, but soon we came to this little secluded place with trees and large dusty rocks.
“We're stopping here tonight.” He said getting out of the car and pulling his leather jacket off the back seat, “You wanna help me?”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Get a fire going or something.” He exclaimed as if it was perfectly obvious to everyone but me. “I'm going for a piss, try and see if you can find some firewood or something.”
I went over to one of the trees and began shaking at its trunk, but it barely made a move, though I'll be honest with you I'm not exactly the toughest person in the world. I leant back on the bonnet of the car and looked up at the tree, a wind blew through the leaves and my hair, it span dust up as if it were alive.
“You look pretty with your hair down.” My father said from the backseat of the car, “Your mother always said you'd grow up beautiful. You're starting to look a lot more like her, everyday it seems.”
Daddy didn't like Abbott, and he made no bones about keeping it under his hat. First time he met him was about a week after he started walking me home, Daddy was sat on the front porch smoking his pipe and he saw me talking down by the road. Abbott was practically begging me to go to the old barn down by the lake that night, some friends of his were having some kinda party, said they were starting a band.
“I'll think about it.” I grinned tugging my bag back up onto my shoulder, I started to walk up towards the house with Abbott nodding and smiling.
“I'll think about you!” He laughed pointing playfully at me, and winking.
I could tell my Daddy was mad the second I could see his face clearly, but to be honest with you I didn't know why. He had his hands on his hips and the pipe drooping sadly from his mouth, I looked up at him and plain as day he swore, “God damn you Tess, what are you playing at? Get inside the house.”
Our house was one of the nicest one's around for miles, I always loved that place despite whatever happened inside those four walls. Though I would've changed a few things about it, that's for sure. My father and his father were proud hunters, and they had heads of all kinds of animals up over the fireplace and the like, deers and boars, they went traveling for weeks finding stuff to kill.
Daddy sat me down at the dinner table, he turned a lamp on as it was getting pretty dark early now in the Autumn. Daddy told me to put my hands on the table, about shoulder width apart and he struck the backs of them hard with his hand, it hurt but I didn't say nothing.
“What are you playing at?” He asked again sitting so upright I thought he'd locked his back again, I didn't say anything because I had nothing to say. He rolled his eyes and looked round the house, “If your mother could see you now? Holy Jesus, I don't know what she'd say. She'd set you straight, that's what she'd do. Tell you how blind you're being, how foolish!” He took my hands in his and stared me straight in the eyes, “Now you listen to me, cause I'm telling you now not to see that fella...”
“But, Daddy...” I began.
“Lord have mercy!” My father interrupted, “Aren't you listening? Don't you hear me? I'm commanding you my girl, my daughter. I didn't raise no commandment breaker now did I? You love your Daddy now don't you? Now, say your prayers and I'll start dinner tonight, but it's to bed early today, you hear?” He paused, “Tell me now, do you hear?”
“Yes Daddy.” I answered.
Later that evening, it was about eight o'clock I reckon, I could hear this sound at my window and when I looked up there was Abbott stood outside, I didn't realise who it was at first and almost jumped out of my own skin. Quietly I crept over to the window, slid open the pane and stuck my head outside.
“What do you want?” I asked in a whisper.
“Come on, I came to take you to the barn, I figured that a lady shouldn't walk alone.” Abbott said starting off into the dark almost immediately.
“Well hold up!” I called with bated breath, “I'm wearing my nightgown, I gotta get changed!”
Abbott threw his hands up and stamped a foot, “I told you we was going to the barn!”
“I'm sorry, b-but my Daddy, he - he said...” I could hardly speak now, and Abbott could see that he'd been a little rash so he came up and put a hand on my cheek.
“Hey there, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at ya'. I didn't realise. Don't be upset now.” Abbott's hand was so warm despite the cold Autumn air at night, and I practically nuzzled against it. “Come on now,” he continued, “Get some clothes and shoes, stick a pillow under the bedsheets, you can wear my jacket if you want, it's real leather.”
“What are you thinking?” My father asked me as I pulled a blanket up over me in the front seat of the car.
“I was wondering why you used to hit me so much?” I said bitterly trying to find some warmth, it was winter even in the desert!
“You can be stubborn sometimes, you get that too from you mother.”
I began to feel tears in my eyes on my skin thinking about her, “Why did she die, Daddy?”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” My Daddy reasoned, but it never made any sense to me.
I was a little angry when nobody else showed up in the barn that night, later Abbott told me that they'd all gone out drinking and forgotten to tell him! He didn't mind though he said, he told me that he was happy enough sitting here with me, and I was with him. There wasn't anywhere to sit as such in the barn, barely anybody used it then, which is a pity because it was so beautiful there in the moonlight. Abbott made us a bed of hay to lie on, it was all bailed up but Abbott tore through the cord holding it with his bare hands! I'd never noticed how strong he was in all the time we'd known each other, and then how carefully he set the hay down on the ground, he was like an artist at work.
That's the night I knew I was in love with Abbott. It was getting late, we could see the sun rising up out in the distance across the lake. My head was on Abbott's chest and I could hear his heart beating, and I felt so calm there with his arms wrapped around me. I wriggled out of his embrace and looked him in the eyes, he looked down at me.
“What?” He smiled. I quickly kissed him on the lips. “What was that?” He asked.
“A kiss.” I replied holding his gaze.
“I know that, but why'd you do that?”
“'Cause I wanted to kiss you, that's why.”
Abbott raised his eyebrows and grinned, he looked around the barn as if he were surrounded by a thousand eyes and didn't care. “Do you still want to kiss me now?”
“I'm not so sure.” I teased.
Abbott chuckled and put an arm round the back of my neck pulling me closer to him and he kissed me, his hands ran down my back and opening his hands his fingers practically wrapped round me.
When I left the barn the next day I pretty much floated all the way home I was so happy, Abbott didn't walk with me he had to be in town, to check on his friends. I remember that the world had never seemed so beautiful before, the barn was a luminous glowing grey sat against the Autumn sky. The grass around it was browning and captured in sunlight, and it didn't matter about all the moss, lichen and rust, because somehow on that day it was all perfect. And I'd seen sunrises before, me and Daddy would stay up and watch them sometimes, we'd eat lamb stew with crusty bread, but this one was special.
Abbott came back looking white as a sheet, he stumbled over a rock in the dim dusk light and cursed quietly to himself looking up at me. “Where's the Goddamn fire?”
“There's no stick or nothing, and I couldn't reach up into the tree there.” I pointed.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Abbott muttered, it shocked me when he swore, he didn't used to swear so much, but you get to know people more and more as time goes on, that's what love's all about I guess. He proceeded to swipe at the tree, but he kept swinging too wide and missing the branches, and eventually he just began kicking at the trunk, bark splintering and denting.
“Are you allright Abbott? Look like you've seen a ghost.” I said getting out of the car and going over to help him.
“I'm fine!” He snapped.
“Are you sure? Do you want some water or something?” I raised a hand to his side and touched him.
Next thing a fist came into my face, it knocked me to the ground and I scratched the underside of my hand as I fell onto the rough desert floor.
“I'M FINE!” He yelled, and then turned placing his hands on the tree, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
My face felt numb and the bridge of my nose buzzed and hummed, it stung like when you crack your elbow on the table. My face felt wet, like I was crying, but I wasn't and when I drew my hand back it had red streaks across it, I dabbed the tears with my finger and saw that it was blood.
Abbott had slumped himself against a rock and was lighting up a cigarette, he seemed to be talking to himself but I didn't care neither way. I got back in the car and found a handkerchief and held it to my nose, the white cloth was quickly blackening red with blood, I looked back to my father but he had got out the car. Looking round I saw that he'd gone over and was stood next to Abbott, smoking his pipe. He looked over to me and nodded, mouthing the words 'Go to sleep', and so I did.
When I got back home in the morning my father wasn't in, so I busied myself by tidying up the kitchen and washing the dishes from dinner last night, then I hanged the clothes out on the line and made the beds. My father's bed though looked like he'd had a rough night, the covers were flung over the floor and I was growing concerned due to his absence. Nevertheless, Daddy often goes out for walks and stuff, and anyways, he didn't know that I was missing school today and I was glad he didn't otherwise he'd probably strangle me! In some ways I began to think that if Daddy didn't come home then Abbott could move in, and he could tend to the fields and the cows, and I could cook for him and he'd stay up late reading to me at bedtime. To some extent I began to dream that Daddy wouldn't come home, and it's practically at that moment when he did.
I never heard a door open and close so loudly before in my life! I looked up at the clock and it was about lunchtime, so I thought that Daddy had come back in for something to eat, but he came straight up to me with a horrific look on his face, beads of sweat dripping off his brow. Suddenly he struck me with the back of his hand across the face, and when I fell to the floor he pulled me back up by my collar and shook me.
“I told you!” My father barked into my face, “I told you again and again. What do you want? Huh!? You want me to hurt you? Is that what you want? 'Cause I'll do it, don't doubt that I will! Heaven above, don't you understand that I love you Tess? Don't you see that I don't want you to be hurt?”
I couldn't stop crying, tears burning my eyes I cried till I could hardly cry no more, I tried to wipe them away but he held my arms down and rattled me, I thought that he'd break my neck he shook me so much. When I could finally see again I noticed that his knuckles were a mucky brown red colour, I looked up at my father and I could see it in his eyes that he'd gone after Abbott before he came to me.
“Daddy what did you do?” I sobbed.
My father looked down at his hands and withdrew them, trying to wipe the stains off onto his shirt, and the moment he did I tore out the side door with all my speed, practically screaming for air as I went.
I could hear my father yelling behind me, but he didn't bother to follow. I ran so fast, I ran past the old barn, down the road and past the fence by the field with the long grass, and then towards Abbott's house on the other side of town. I could tell that something was wrong because the door was hanging off its hinges, and glass from a window was scattered on the floor, it cut into my feet as I walked over it, I'd forgotten to put any shoes on or nothing, but I didn't notice 'til later.
Inside the gloomy, sparse house was Abbott, slumped in a corner a hand to his face and as I stepped towards the shadows where he sat I could hear him sniffing, holding back the tears too. I reached out for him and took his hand from his face, he moved his head forward into the light and I saw what my father had done.
Abbott's eyes were swollen, dark purple and puffy, with blood trickling out of the eyebrow and he'd split an eye lid open, Abbott could barely blink the poor soul. His lip too was gashed and red with blood ran over it, he was scuffed with all kinds of dirt and splinters, but that wasn't the worst of it. I tried to help Abbott to his feet but taking his arm in my hands made him holler in pain, I tried to help him again but he protested so badly. Carefully I looked at his arm and realised the elbow was all awash with blood, it was damp and sticky, so carefully I rolled up the sleeve and saw that the arm looked odd, and then realised that the bone jutted out through the skin where it'd been broken. I clasped my hand over my mouth, I could barely comprehend how my father did this.
“Abbott,” I said running my hand across his cheek, but he winced away in pain, “Abbott? Are you going to be okay? Abbott come on, talk to me now.”
“I-It was y-your father.” Abbott managed to utter, his words wet and gargled, he spat onto the floor and I could see that he was coughing up blood. “He came in raging, like a man possessed he was, I could barely speak, he just didn't let me...”
“That's alright Abbott, you don't have to say anything. You want I should get a doctor?”
“No.” Abbott started, “You go home, I don't want you to get into any more trouble than you are already. I think...” He caught his breath, “I think you shouldn't see me no more, Tess.”
I bit my lip as I let his words fall upon me, but I could tell that he was just trying to be generous to me, “Abbott, I'm not going to leave you, I love you, and I will do anything for you...” I thought about what I was saying, the first time I really paid any attention to what I said or how I said it, but I did so because I meant it and I remembered something my mother used to read to me, “'You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.'”
My father walked back to the car and got in the driver's side, sitting on the front seat, he looked at me and blew jovially into my hair, it roused me from my sleep and I looked round, it was morning. I turned my head all around and we were still in the desert, usually Abbott would drive off in the middle of the night and I'd wake up someplace else, but it was still that little secluded spot. Clouds hung over us in patches, dark grey underneath but glowing fluffy white above, the sky was a baby blue and peeked through like pools in the air.
“Morning.” My Daddy beamed when I wearily blinked at him.
When I returned home my father was in the bathroom shaving, all was quiet in the house, strangely so, except for the sound of water being slapped around by his razor as he cleaned it off. I crept quietly into my room and gathered up my clothes, placing them neatly into my schoolbag and throwing it over my shoulder. I thought briefly about writing him a note, but thought that it'd be better for him to gradually understand as opposed to me trying to explain it myself, and where would I begin?
As I moved through the front room, under the watchful gaze of the deers and boars, bears and other beasts I felt a sense of sadness for all the things I'd be leaving behind, but then again what were they but memories? And now each happy memory lead to a sad one.
I reached the door and then remembered that I wanted to take a book for Abbott to read to me, so crept back over towards the fireplace where my favourite books rested on the mantle. As I dropped my bag to the ground I heard my father's voice behind me.
“What are you doing?” He asked, yet he sounded different, sombre and remote. “Where are you going?”
I turned and saw my father stood in the doorway opposite, his face hidden in shaving foam and the razor in his hand, he rested on the door frame and looked sorrowfully at me, his eyes large, blue, staring.
“I'm going away Daddy.” I said, but then he began to shake his head slowly back and forth.
My father looked up to the ceiling and sighed, smiling to himself and speaking up to the Heavens, “I tried, I'm sorry.” He then looked at me and began walking over, and for some reason I was shaking uncontrollably I felt like my legs were going to give way I was so terrified, I just remember his hands, bloodied and dirty, I just remember Abbott's face as he cowered in the corner, and then I just remember the sound of gunfire.
When I looked round again my father was lying on the floor back by the opposite door, his hand had dropped the razor and the other one was slumped across his chest. He lay with his lungs breathing slowly in and out, getting further seperated by the second and as he breathed more blood pumped out of him, from a hole in his chest and a pool haloing his head.
I looked at my father sat in the driver's seat of the car, as I turned round I saw that Abbott had gone again, when I looked back my father had gone too and I saw the wind blow through the trees, it released some leaves that clung to the branches, and spun dust up into the air as if it were alive.
Friday, 4 October 2013
Choices
Not quite from the archives, but I wrote this back in June 2013 and completely forgot about it...
Choices
Wearily I rub my eyes, my colleague is sat on the seat opposite me, our train heading towards the office.
"Feels like Thursday," she pines, it's only Tuesday.
I nod in agreement.
At work I head upstairs immediately, flick the kettle on, grab my preferred mug and am about to spoon in a miniature mountain of coffee, when I realise the jar is empty.
I try to cast my mind back to yesterday, remember that last cup of coffee I had, and I'm certain - adamant - that there was definitely enough coffee in the jar for at least three more cups. I can't imagine who else might have had a coffee, it's a small office, my boss is away on business, and everybody else prefers tea. Could I have been wrong?
I pop to the corner shop to buy some more coffee, hesitating at the display comprised almost exclusively of Nescafe brands and one cheap alternative that, experience suggests, will taste distractingly acrid. I could walk further down the road to a supermarket, but I feel bad for not being at work, I want to conserve my free-time for more important opportunities, so I nab the smallest jar of Nescafe - reasoning that I can get a more ethical alternative quite quickly - and head back to the office.
I text my girlfriend, just something inconsequential, but, after half an hour, I still haven't received a reply. I try to imagine all the things she might be doing that would prevent her from checking her phone, wonder why she doesn't realise that I just want a little bit of validation, just something to remind me that she still cares about me. I guess that's pretty desperate.
Perhaps I was being too optimistic, I reason, even going so far as to call her my girlfriend is a bold gesture. I mean, we've been seeing each other for a while, but I guess I'm more emotionally invested than she is. She says it's all quite new to her, I think she's treating it as a bit of fun, a little bit of experimentation, but for me it's serious, I mean, for her it's a choice, but for me it's not a choice, I was born this way, it's who I am.
Maybe I'm being naive to think that I can get her to change her mind, see me the way I see her, I guess? But, at the same time, I don't want to force someone's hand, we've always been very honest with one another, but I can't help how I feel, or, at least, how I think I'm going to feel and when it comes down to it; to that decision between seeing her and not seeing her, I'm always going to go for the former. I guess I'm selfish like that.
Because that's what it will be ultimately, me forcing someone, who has told me from the start that this is just a bit of fun for them, to sit there whilst I parade my emotions in front of them, a little song and dance, tell them how much they mean to me, but, at the very same time, feel overwhelmingly cruel and guilty that I'm essentially trying to blackmail them into one of two things.
Either they go back on themselves, cave in, try and take things seriously - against their wishes. Or, they're the executioner, and they tell me in plain terms that it'll never happen and we probably shouldn't see one another anymore. I know these are the only two conclusions, but I'm too cowardly to accept that.
It's hypocritical of me, the amount of times I've told people that my lifestyle is not a choice. It's one of those questions you wind up tolerating; "Oh, so, when did you choose to be..." You try not to let the eye-roll show.
I struggle to sleep tonight, I wake up, feeling like I've been in bed for hours, though the clock says it's only 2am, yet the sky is a blue-black, like the sun's feeling impatient this morning. I nod off again, molding the pillow into a makeshift body for me to hold, and then, in what feels like seconds, I wake up again to a blazing, bright day and the clock tells me it's 7am.
However, there's something unnatural about the morning, the feel of the streets, the manner of my fellow commuters, it's calm and orderly, like it would be after the rush hour. But each clock I check just reiterates the time, it's ok, I'm not running late.
At noon I stand in the supermarket staring at the range of microwave meals that often comprises my lunch. There's a nice looking mushroom risotto for £4, but another in the cheap section. Out of both boredom and curiosity, I inspect the labels of each.
Whilst the list of ingriedients blurs into insignificance it's the place of manufacturer that ultimately grabs my attention, with both risottos having been produced and packaged in the very same factory in Chertsey. Ultimately, I realise, the only thing different about these two items is the packaging, one designed to look decadent and delicious, the other functional and basic.
But I still buy the more expensive one.
I sent a text to Iwona again, even though she hasn't replied to me since yesterday. It's been a few days since I saw her and I miss her, though I'm loath to mention this as it might seem a bit too clingy.
Are we the unstoppable force and the immovable object? Should one of us bow out gracefully before somebody gets hurt? I can't help but daydream that there must be some reason, some unconscious something, that is why we haven't done this yet. Though I suspect that we're both too selfish, we both want to get all we can from the other and only relinquish our hold when we absolutely have to. In that respect, how is this unlike any other relationship?
She told me she thought I was open minded, I think that's another stereotype people assume, that because they think it's a choice they imagine that all people are hard-wired to want the same relationships as everyone else, so anyone who chooses otherwise can flip-flop between the two. If you're a guy who likes guys then there's nothing stopping you from liking girls, if you're a girl who likes girls then there's nothing stopping you from liking guys, but if you're a girl or guy who likes the opposite sex then getting with someone of the same sex just isn't the done thing.
My mum re-married shortly after my father died. I wasn't shocked, I'd known for years that they weren't happy together, in fact, she'd been sleeping on a sofa in the lounge for the last year or so of their relationship. I think, if he hadn't had that heart attack, they would have got divorced around about the same time. At least I hope they would have.
They didn't want to be married, that was obvious to me and my sister, but they stayed together until we both left home. I was there last, saw the strained conversations most clearly, in that final Summer, after I'd finished University, earning some money before I moved up to the city.
I know that they only stayed together because of us, to make sure that we came from what they considered to be a stable family. It wasn't a stable family, whatever mask of domestic happiness they thought they had created barely covered their lies, eyes the most telltale feature, and stern mouths held fast as inappropriate comments passed idly over awkward dinnertimes. The farce of my mother carrying duvets and pillows downstairs every night, making her little nest, and then waking up first - or so she often believed - and re-creating the illusion of their normality.
My sister doesn't trust marriage now, but it once felt like the only way for people to move forward in life. These ceremonies, she argued, represented the illusion of progression. We had, as a society, created a series of events designed to act as milestones, deceiving us into thinking that we had achieved something, that we had accomplished a goal as a person, distracted us from the fact that we were, in actuality, unchanging, still fraught with the despair of our youth.
Nobody chooses to be born.
My mother once said, though she was half-asleep when she told me this, that I was an unwanted pregnancy. That her and my father had been fighting, she'd gone out and had some drinks, came home to find him crying, and she took pity on him. She didn't even think about the fact that she might have gotten pregnant, I guess she had deluded herself to think a child could only be conceived in love. When she started showing, when the doctor could confirm that she was going to have a daughter, she thought it was too late to abort me, though she wanted to, she wanted to say to the doctor there and then, Please, make it go away. But, the look in the doctor's eyes had frightened her, made her feel guilty, she couldn't bring herself to do what was in her heart and months later, I was born.
Both my parents remained quite distant from me, I was raised more by my sister, only a handful of years my elder, but still, as an eager five year old, she'd help change my nappies as best she could.
I was an anchor though, holding my mother to that relationship. If I had never been born she could have been free.
It's the end of the month, payday, and for a few fleeting hours my bank account will bob up to the surface, out of debt, draw a deep breath and then sink back under the waves. I have never really understood it, I try and budget, I don't go out as much as I used to, I home cook as much as possible, don't drink as regularly. But still, the money goes.
I scour through my statements trying to find the anomaly, the leak, an unknown standing order perhaps. But there's nothing out of the ordinary, and when I add it all up, it's exactly right, somehow - despite my best efforts, despite getting a raise again recently - that money still goes and I'm left pawing at the dappled sunshine seen through water, caught in the undertow.
I want to move out, move on, get a place to myself, start to make what little effigy of happiness I can, but I don't think I can do this on my own.
That's when I think I'm putting too many of my hopes and dreams in Iwona, too much responsibility unknowingly hoisted upon her shoulders. But surely, she wants these things too? And I'll wait, I don't want them now. But is it naive to keep scratching at the door, like some optimistic puppy, hoping to be taken in?
I feel guilty for feeling the way I do, as if I've allowed Pandora's Box to be opened. But I don't feel like I was complicit in the decision, this emotion was lumbered upon me as much as I am lumbering it upon Iwona. I feel like my mother, pregnant with something unwanted, desperate to get rid of it, but incapable - perhaps afraid - of doing so. For me, it's because I never want to be alone. What did my mother want? Once I was born the slow wait for me to leave began, was it so she could move on with her life, regain what was long lost? It wasn't her fault that she and my father fell out of love? I have to wonder if they were ever really in love to begin with? But, how do we know?
Love is subjective, which is maybe why it's easy for some and difficult for others. I wish I could care less, I wish spending time with Iwona wasn't so wonderful. I feel like a slave to unconscious decisions, but at the same time I am the only one who has the power to do anything about them, but it's only really the power to stubbornly battle on or to walk away. What kind of choice is that? There is no fork in the road, just one path, and we can either continue or turn around and retreat. Perhaps cowardice is just a derogatory term for wisdom? I know that I'm going to get hurt, but I keep moving forwards.
I had an important meeting this morning, but my train was delayed due to signalling problems and I missed my connecting service. I wound up getting into work 90 minutes late, having missed the meeting. A colleague had stepped into my absent place and done, so my boss told me, a brilliant job filling in. I began to feel my tenuous grasp on my job slipping a little from my fingers, and all I could do was say I'm sorry, it wasn't my fault the train was delayed. Feebly adding, It won't happen again, but it's not like I can control that.
For the rest of the day I'm shaking, my emotions are heightened, I'm perhaps a little too curt on the telephone to clients. I don't know why I feel this way, this is a job I've never enjoyed, yet I've stuck it out, never really looking for another role somewhere else, because I can get by doing this, I'm making a decent wage, I don't want to set myself back. But I'm not making any progress either. Sure, they up my salary every now and then, but where does it go from here? What am I trying to achieve?
Two weeks later they give me my notice, I have a month left at the office and I should start seriously hunting for a new career, but I give in to procrastination just as I have done for these past three years. Expecting someone else to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart.
I've been standing still, too afraid to walk forwards, too proud to walk back. I've let others find me, try and urge me to walk on, or at the very least, go back, see what it was I was heading towards, and try again. But we don't know, the path began without our permission, it just appeared, one day nothing and the next day expectation. Except, you can't see the end of the path, you don't get to dictate that either, and maybe you'll walk for a hundred years or maybe you'll walk for a day. Me, I shrink into myself, someone will come along soon, someone will put their arm in mine, they'll want to walk side by side, keeping me company, making sure I'm smiling, and they'll give me hope that there is something to look forward to. All paths have to lead somewhere.
Choices
Wearily I rub my eyes, my colleague is sat on the seat opposite me, our train heading towards the office.
"Feels like Thursday," she pines, it's only Tuesday.
I nod in agreement.
At work I head upstairs immediately, flick the kettle on, grab my preferred mug and am about to spoon in a miniature mountain of coffee, when I realise the jar is empty.
I try to cast my mind back to yesterday, remember that last cup of coffee I had, and I'm certain - adamant - that there was definitely enough coffee in the jar for at least three more cups. I can't imagine who else might have had a coffee, it's a small office, my boss is away on business, and everybody else prefers tea. Could I have been wrong?
I pop to the corner shop to buy some more coffee, hesitating at the display comprised almost exclusively of Nescafe brands and one cheap alternative that, experience suggests, will taste distractingly acrid. I could walk further down the road to a supermarket, but I feel bad for not being at work, I want to conserve my free-time for more important opportunities, so I nab the smallest jar of Nescafe - reasoning that I can get a more ethical alternative quite quickly - and head back to the office.
I text my girlfriend, just something inconsequential, but, after half an hour, I still haven't received a reply. I try to imagine all the things she might be doing that would prevent her from checking her phone, wonder why she doesn't realise that I just want a little bit of validation, just something to remind me that she still cares about me. I guess that's pretty desperate.
Perhaps I was being too optimistic, I reason, even going so far as to call her my girlfriend is a bold gesture. I mean, we've been seeing each other for a while, but I guess I'm more emotionally invested than she is. She says it's all quite new to her, I think she's treating it as a bit of fun, a little bit of experimentation, but for me it's serious, I mean, for her it's a choice, but for me it's not a choice, I was born this way, it's who I am.
Maybe I'm being naive to think that I can get her to change her mind, see me the way I see her, I guess? But, at the same time, I don't want to force someone's hand, we've always been very honest with one another, but I can't help how I feel, or, at least, how I think I'm going to feel and when it comes down to it; to that decision between seeing her and not seeing her, I'm always going to go for the former. I guess I'm selfish like that.
Because that's what it will be ultimately, me forcing someone, who has told me from the start that this is just a bit of fun for them, to sit there whilst I parade my emotions in front of them, a little song and dance, tell them how much they mean to me, but, at the very same time, feel overwhelmingly cruel and guilty that I'm essentially trying to blackmail them into one of two things.
Either they go back on themselves, cave in, try and take things seriously - against their wishes. Or, they're the executioner, and they tell me in plain terms that it'll never happen and we probably shouldn't see one another anymore. I know these are the only two conclusions, but I'm too cowardly to accept that.
It's hypocritical of me, the amount of times I've told people that my lifestyle is not a choice. It's one of those questions you wind up tolerating; "Oh, so, when did you choose to be..." You try not to let the eye-roll show.
I struggle to sleep tonight, I wake up, feeling like I've been in bed for hours, though the clock says it's only 2am, yet the sky is a blue-black, like the sun's feeling impatient this morning. I nod off again, molding the pillow into a makeshift body for me to hold, and then, in what feels like seconds, I wake up again to a blazing, bright day and the clock tells me it's 7am.
However, there's something unnatural about the morning, the feel of the streets, the manner of my fellow commuters, it's calm and orderly, like it would be after the rush hour. But each clock I check just reiterates the time, it's ok, I'm not running late.
At noon I stand in the supermarket staring at the range of microwave meals that often comprises my lunch. There's a nice looking mushroom risotto for £4, but another in the cheap section. Out of both boredom and curiosity, I inspect the labels of each.
Whilst the list of ingriedients blurs into insignificance it's the place of manufacturer that ultimately grabs my attention, with both risottos having been produced and packaged in the very same factory in Chertsey. Ultimately, I realise, the only thing different about these two items is the packaging, one designed to look decadent and delicious, the other functional and basic.
But I still buy the more expensive one.
I sent a text to Iwona again, even though she hasn't replied to me since yesterday. It's been a few days since I saw her and I miss her, though I'm loath to mention this as it might seem a bit too clingy.
Are we the unstoppable force and the immovable object? Should one of us bow out gracefully before somebody gets hurt? I can't help but daydream that there must be some reason, some unconscious something, that is why we haven't done this yet. Though I suspect that we're both too selfish, we both want to get all we can from the other and only relinquish our hold when we absolutely have to. In that respect, how is this unlike any other relationship?
She told me she thought I was open minded, I think that's another stereotype people assume, that because they think it's a choice they imagine that all people are hard-wired to want the same relationships as everyone else, so anyone who chooses otherwise can flip-flop between the two. If you're a guy who likes guys then there's nothing stopping you from liking girls, if you're a girl who likes girls then there's nothing stopping you from liking guys, but if you're a girl or guy who likes the opposite sex then getting with someone of the same sex just isn't the done thing.
My mum re-married shortly after my father died. I wasn't shocked, I'd known for years that they weren't happy together, in fact, she'd been sleeping on a sofa in the lounge for the last year or so of their relationship. I think, if he hadn't had that heart attack, they would have got divorced around about the same time. At least I hope they would have.
They didn't want to be married, that was obvious to me and my sister, but they stayed together until we both left home. I was there last, saw the strained conversations most clearly, in that final Summer, after I'd finished University, earning some money before I moved up to the city.
I know that they only stayed together because of us, to make sure that we came from what they considered to be a stable family. It wasn't a stable family, whatever mask of domestic happiness they thought they had created barely covered their lies, eyes the most telltale feature, and stern mouths held fast as inappropriate comments passed idly over awkward dinnertimes. The farce of my mother carrying duvets and pillows downstairs every night, making her little nest, and then waking up first - or so she often believed - and re-creating the illusion of their normality.
My sister doesn't trust marriage now, but it once felt like the only way for people to move forward in life. These ceremonies, she argued, represented the illusion of progression. We had, as a society, created a series of events designed to act as milestones, deceiving us into thinking that we had achieved something, that we had accomplished a goal as a person, distracted us from the fact that we were, in actuality, unchanging, still fraught with the despair of our youth.
Nobody chooses to be born.
My mother once said, though she was half-asleep when she told me this, that I was an unwanted pregnancy. That her and my father had been fighting, she'd gone out and had some drinks, came home to find him crying, and she took pity on him. She didn't even think about the fact that she might have gotten pregnant, I guess she had deluded herself to think a child could only be conceived in love. When she started showing, when the doctor could confirm that she was going to have a daughter, she thought it was too late to abort me, though she wanted to, she wanted to say to the doctor there and then, Please, make it go away. But, the look in the doctor's eyes had frightened her, made her feel guilty, she couldn't bring herself to do what was in her heart and months later, I was born.
Both my parents remained quite distant from me, I was raised more by my sister, only a handful of years my elder, but still, as an eager five year old, she'd help change my nappies as best she could.
I was an anchor though, holding my mother to that relationship. If I had never been born she could have been free.
It's the end of the month, payday, and for a few fleeting hours my bank account will bob up to the surface, out of debt, draw a deep breath and then sink back under the waves. I have never really understood it, I try and budget, I don't go out as much as I used to, I home cook as much as possible, don't drink as regularly. But still, the money goes.
I scour through my statements trying to find the anomaly, the leak, an unknown standing order perhaps. But there's nothing out of the ordinary, and when I add it all up, it's exactly right, somehow - despite my best efforts, despite getting a raise again recently - that money still goes and I'm left pawing at the dappled sunshine seen through water, caught in the undertow.
I want to move out, move on, get a place to myself, start to make what little effigy of happiness I can, but I don't think I can do this on my own.
That's when I think I'm putting too many of my hopes and dreams in Iwona, too much responsibility unknowingly hoisted upon her shoulders. But surely, she wants these things too? And I'll wait, I don't want them now. But is it naive to keep scratching at the door, like some optimistic puppy, hoping to be taken in?
I feel guilty for feeling the way I do, as if I've allowed Pandora's Box to be opened. But I don't feel like I was complicit in the decision, this emotion was lumbered upon me as much as I am lumbering it upon Iwona. I feel like my mother, pregnant with something unwanted, desperate to get rid of it, but incapable - perhaps afraid - of doing so. For me, it's because I never want to be alone. What did my mother want? Once I was born the slow wait for me to leave began, was it so she could move on with her life, regain what was long lost? It wasn't her fault that she and my father fell out of love? I have to wonder if they were ever really in love to begin with? But, how do we know?
Love is subjective, which is maybe why it's easy for some and difficult for others. I wish I could care less, I wish spending time with Iwona wasn't so wonderful. I feel like a slave to unconscious decisions, but at the same time I am the only one who has the power to do anything about them, but it's only really the power to stubbornly battle on or to walk away. What kind of choice is that? There is no fork in the road, just one path, and we can either continue or turn around and retreat. Perhaps cowardice is just a derogatory term for wisdom? I know that I'm going to get hurt, but I keep moving forwards.
I had an important meeting this morning, but my train was delayed due to signalling problems and I missed my connecting service. I wound up getting into work 90 minutes late, having missed the meeting. A colleague had stepped into my absent place and done, so my boss told me, a brilliant job filling in. I began to feel my tenuous grasp on my job slipping a little from my fingers, and all I could do was say I'm sorry, it wasn't my fault the train was delayed. Feebly adding, It won't happen again, but it's not like I can control that.
For the rest of the day I'm shaking, my emotions are heightened, I'm perhaps a little too curt on the telephone to clients. I don't know why I feel this way, this is a job I've never enjoyed, yet I've stuck it out, never really looking for another role somewhere else, because I can get by doing this, I'm making a decent wage, I don't want to set myself back. But I'm not making any progress either. Sure, they up my salary every now and then, but where does it go from here? What am I trying to achieve?
Two weeks later they give me my notice, I have a month left at the office and I should start seriously hunting for a new career, but I give in to procrastination just as I have done for these past three years. Expecting someone else to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart.
I've been standing still, too afraid to walk forwards, too proud to walk back. I've let others find me, try and urge me to walk on, or at the very least, go back, see what it was I was heading towards, and try again. But we don't know, the path began without our permission, it just appeared, one day nothing and the next day expectation. Except, you can't see the end of the path, you don't get to dictate that either, and maybe you'll walk for a hundred years or maybe you'll walk for a day. Me, I shrink into myself, someone will come along soon, someone will put their arm in mine, they'll want to walk side by side, keeping me company, making sure I'm smiling, and they'll give me hope that there is something to look forward to. All paths have to lead somewhere.
Thursday, 3 October 2013
All Your Birthdays
"Is someone going to address the elephant in the room?"
My housemate couldn't resist saying it, though the reaction was muted due to the hyper-ventilating and panicked thoughts racing through our minds. But, regardless of its humour, it was the right thing to say, because thus far, none of us had addressed the elephant in the room.
To be precise, in case it's unclear, the elephant in the room was an elephant in the room.
Nobody knew where the elephant came from or how it had gained entry to our lounge, but, we all knew that one moment there wasn't an elephant in the room and the next second there was.
As we huddled outside in the hallway, a tentative hand keeping the door closed - as if that would stop an elephant - we were all rather thankful that the elephant, for the most part, seemed to be pretty placid.
"Should we call the RSPCA?" Molly wondered.
"I guess so," Supraj nodded retrieving his mobile.
"It's funny," Evie smiled, "On my ninth birthday, when I blew out the candles, I wished that I had a pet elephant."
"Do you want to go and befriend it?!" Molly exclaimed.
Supraj spluttered a laugh, then asked; "What was your pet elephant's name?"
"Bobo," Evie sheepishly grinned, and suddenly the elephant trumpeted.
Earlier that day, in the Birthdays department, on the 17th floor of WishCorp, the office manager lazily clicked the final card into place on a round of Spider Solitaire. He smiled contentedly at the pixelated fireworks display congratulating him on his achievement, even though he'd already witnessed the same ceremony seventeen times that morning.
A notification appeared, informing him that he had received an approved Birthday Wish from Steph in Approvals.
Clicking on the link another window popped up, the wish had been wished by Leigh aged 5, she'd blown out the candles on her chocolate ladybug cake and had wished, with all her little heart, for her teddys to come to life and play with her. He forwarded it to Boris in Granting.
He cosied back into his chair and started up his nineteenth game of Spider Solitaire.
Moments later the telephone rang, it took him a while to realise this is what was happening because the telephone had never rung before. Cautiously, as if it were a trick, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Is that Colin?"
"Y-yes."
"Colin, this is Jeanie Esteban, I'm the -"
"The President of WishCorp, yes."
Colin shifted his posture, straightening his back and adjusting his tie, hair and tone.
"Colin, we've been looking at our qualitative and quantative reports from the last decade and noticed some troubling consistencies."
"Oh?"
"Whilst the other departments, Stars, Wells, Bones have a reasonably consistent wish to actualisation ratio, it seems Birthdays are, well, you're good at processing people's wishes, phenomenally efficient, you just haven't granted any in the last... well... forever..."
Colin was speechless.
"I'm speechless," said Colin.
"I was too, we all were," she was referring to the board and Colin hoped they weren't listening in. "What we want to know," she changed her tone as well, from stern/casual to stern/stern, "is what you're going to do about this?"
"What I'm...?"
"We want solutions, not problems. End of play today, Colin."
And with that she hung up.
Jimmy Pickle's face lit up, and not just because of the sudden arrival of seven candles illuminating the darkened room. His giddy smile grew even bigger once the glowing object was lowered and the cake, made by his mum, was revealed in all its wonder. In fact, Mark Gretton audibly gasped in amazement at the design. It was Sir Wildtooth, everyone's favourite Medieval Skateboarding Battlecat, and his claws had slashed three rich, red streaks down the cake.
Beaming, Jimmy leant forward and blew out the candles.
Filing a police report, a clearly shocked Mrs. Pickles tried to explain that a gigantic animal, perhaps a lynx or panther, had suddenly burst into the party riding - what she was nervous to describe as - a skateboard, shouted, in booming R.P., "To the Battlements!" and then taken her son, and his friends, upon its back before galloping out into the high street.
Her parents ran round in a panic, unsure of how to maintain control, the birthday party had been chaotic when it was just Leigh and all her friends, but now 37 teddy bears were romping around the garden, playfully at least, but causing twice as much mess as the assembled children. They'd all begun by skipping about, the boys and girls singing teddy bear's picnic, whilst the teddys made muffled noises due to having no actual mouths, and rapidly things had descended into screaming giggles as the picnic became a food fight.
Gary can't remember the last time he'd been this stoned, but it quickly transpired that the fire-breathing unicorn standing in his kitchen was generating flames of an all-too-real quality, and he had to run - bleary eyed - out into the street, trying, through his drug addled mind, to remember the number for the emergency services; he knew it had a 9 in it.
Stuart Dandridge was horrified to step into his garden to find himself plummeting into a swimming pool that hadn't been there the night before.
Harriet Lipsy was trying to recover from a hangover whilst her former favourite boyband Hi-Five performed their greatest hits in her bedsit.
Gita Virk was trying to find her car keys but kept pulling an infinite amount of cupcakes from her pockets instead.
At 5.30pm Colin carried a dull beige box down from the 17th floor to the parking level, where he loaded the salvaged Newton's Cradle and a five-fingered pack of highlighters into the boot of his car.
My housemate couldn't resist saying it, though the reaction was muted due to the hyper-ventilating and panicked thoughts racing through our minds. But, regardless of its humour, it was the right thing to say, because thus far, none of us had addressed the elephant in the room.
To be precise, in case it's unclear, the elephant in the room was an elephant in the room.
Nobody knew where the elephant came from or how it had gained entry to our lounge, but, we all knew that one moment there wasn't an elephant in the room and the next second there was.
As we huddled outside in the hallway, a tentative hand keeping the door closed - as if that would stop an elephant - we were all rather thankful that the elephant, for the most part, seemed to be pretty placid.
"Should we call the RSPCA?" Molly wondered.
"I guess so," Supraj nodded retrieving his mobile.
"It's funny," Evie smiled, "On my ninth birthday, when I blew out the candles, I wished that I had a pet elephant."
"Do you want to go and befriend it?!" Molly exclaimed.
Supraj spluttered a laugh, then asked; "What was your pet elephant's name?"
"Bobo," Evie sheepishly grinned, and suddenly the elephant trumpeted.
Earlier that day, in the Birthdays department, on the 17th floor of WishCorp, the office manager lazily clicked the final card into place on a round of Spider Solitaire. He smiled contentedly at the pixelated fireworks display congratulating him on his achievement, even though he'd already witnessed the same ceremony seventeen times that morning.
A notification appeared, informing him that he had received an approved Birthday Wish from Steph in Approvals.
Clicking on the link another window popped up, the wish had been wished by Leigh aged 5, she'd blown out the candles on her chocolate ladybug cake and had wished, with all her little heart, for her teddys to come to life and play with her. He forwarded it to Boris in Granting.
He cosied back into his chair and started up his nineteenth game of Spider Solitaire.
Moments later the telephone rang, it took him a while to realise this is what was happening because the telephone had never rung before. Cautiously, as if it were a trick, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Is that Colin?"
"Y-yes."
"Colin, this is Jeanie Esteban, I'm the -"
"The President of WishCorp, yes."
Colin shifted his posture, straightening his back and adjusting his tie, hair and tone.
"Colin, we've been looking at our qualitative and quantative reports from the last decade and noticed some troubling consistencies."
"Oh?"
"Whilst the other departments, Stars, Wells, Bones have a reasonably consistent wish to actualisation ratio, it seems Birthdays are, well, you're good at processing people's wishes, phenomenally efficient, you just haven't granted any in the last... well... forever..."
Colin was speechless.
"I'm speechless," said Colin.
"I was too, we all were," she was referring to the board and Colin hoped they weren't listening in. "What we want to know," she changed her tone as well, from stern/casual to stern/stern, "is what you're going to do about this?"
"What I'm...?"
"We want solutions, not problems. End of play today, Colin."
And with that she hung up.
Jimmy Pickle's face lit up, and not just because of the sudden arrival of seven candles illuminating the darkened room. His giddy smile grew even bigger once the glowing object was lowered and the cake, made by his mum, was revealed in all its wonder. In fact, Mark Gretton audibly gasped in amazement at the design. It was Sir Wildtooth, everyone's favourite Medieval Skateboarding Battlecat, and his claws had slashed three rich, red streaks down the cake.
Beaming, Jimmy leant forward and blew out the candles.
Filing a police report, a clearly shocked Mrs. Pickles tried to explain that a gigantic animal, perhaps a lynx or panther, had suddenly burst into the party riding - what she was nervous to describe as - a skateboard, shouted, in booming R.P., "To the Battlements!" and then taken her son, and his friends, upon its back before galloping out into the high street.
Her parents ran round in a panic, unsure of how to maintain control, the birthday party had been chaotic when it was just Leigh and all her friends, but now 37 teddy bears were romping around the garden, playfully at least, but causing twice as much mess as the assembled children. They'd all begun by skipping about, the boys and girls singing teddy bear's picnic, whilst the teddys made muffled noises due to having no actual mouths, and rapidly things had descended into screaming giggles as the picnic became a food fight.
Gary can't remember the last time he'd been this stoned, but it quickly transpired that the fire-breathing unicorn standing in his kitchen was generating flames of an all-too-real quality, and he had to run - bleary eyed - out into the street, trying, through his drug addled mind, to remember the number for the emergency services; he knew it had a 9 in it.
Stuart Dandridge was horrified to step into his garden to find himself plummeting into a swimming pool that hadn't been there the night before.
Harriet Lipsy was trying to recover from a hangover whilst her former favourite boyband Hi-Five performed their greatest hits in her bedsit.
Gita Virk was trying to find her car keys but kept pulling an infinite amount of cupcakes from her pockets instead.
At 5.30pm Colin carried a dull beige box down from the 17th floor to the parking level, where he loaded the salvaged Newton's Cradle and a five-fingered pack of highlighters into the boot of his car.
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