awritersminds-blog

[awritersminds-blog]

A Simple Story

So… a simple opening isn’t it, ‘so’. Makes you, or me anyway, think of an excited teenager approaching a friend with that weekends story, that past conversation, that catastrophic event that won’t amount to anything by tomorrow. But this isn’t a story about a teenager though her age would suggest that. No, this is a story about my friend, my extraordinary friend.

So, to begin, I’ll tell you of her trajectory…

Imagine, if you would, braces, starch white-blonde hair, pale skin, and a faint English accent. Imagine this within one face, one body, that of a small girl. I didn’t know her then but I have the photographic evidence to prove it.

From what I’ve heard, she strolled through primary school as the quiet but intelligent girl in the corner. Shyly floating her way through school without a clue of what the future held for her, simply existing in her own little corner of the classroom.

I met this friend (lets call her Mary) after moving to a new high school. Yet, I only knew her from afar as the quiet girl she had always been. For a few years our paths were never intertwined, we dealt with our own problems, our own triumphs, our own journeys. Then on a day in Year 10, I sat down with her group of friends, having abandoned my own for reasons of terrible back-stabbing that could, and should, become an epic movie when Steven Spielberg decides to discover me (a slight side-note, I apologies). Anyway, I sat down and we exchanged these life-changing words:

“Hi!”

“Hello.”

The conversations, I’m afraid, have become fait in my memory over the years but I can tell you that we became friends.  However, this is a realistic story, not a wildly melodramatic one of mystery and adventure. Thus, we were friends, not instant best, nor inseparable, friends as you’ve hear of in the movies but friends nonetheless.

Fast forward to our final year of school. Without any planning, we did the exact same subjects and were both destine to be incredible writers (at least in our minds). Due to these extensive overlaps, our friendship was thrust into fast-forward, similar to this paragraph. Before long we were those close friends mentioned earlier. We were comfortable with each other, invested in each others success and willing to support each other through all the stress and hardships that accompanied our final year of high school.

Until now I was simply prefacing, setting up the story as they say. Now the crux of the, well really her, story:

This friend of mine began to question where she was placed in the world. Going to an all girls and private school there wasn’t much room for questioning one’s identity and desires but… she had a friend, a significantly significant friend… Their relationship was complex and interspersed with friendship, desire and a furious yearning to find where they stood with each other and within their own worlds.

As Mary knows, I never really approved of this friend. Indeed, Mary herself, acknowledged the flaws and limitations of their friendship, but only ever in passing, never truly seeing the toxicity. Despite my view, I felt it was not my place to drive apart something that was so vital to Mary, and so their relationship continued. A relationship of which I didn’t know many details and didn’t really need to know because I loved Mary, she was the down-to-earth friend with a world of perspective that I had always wanted.

One night, she confessed to me, on the brick wall of a low garden fence, that she considered herself pansexual; that it was a personality she fell for, not a gender. To me, this made perfect sense; it suited her personality to a tee. She was the accepting friend who accepted everyone. Yet, I could tell that she was still discovering herself, unsure of whether to put a label on herself or simply float through her sexuality as she had primary school (a strange parallel, I know).

Throughout this time, Mary’s friend struggled with her own issues, in my opinion; she used her friendship with Mary as a safety blanket, smothering herself in the comfort of this blanket when it suited her and thrusting it out into the cold when a more interesting something came along.

She took advantage of Mary’s innate kindness and desperation to fit in somewhere and, from a far, I saw them bring Mary down, make her doubt herself, and deflate her incredible energy. She told me one day that she was aware of the negative effect this friend had on other people, but I’m not sure if she saw the effect it had on her. I could tell when they were fighting without her telling me. I knew when they were on good terms without an exchange of words. It was reflected in her attitude, in her eyes. As I said, I don’t know the details but at some point in our final year of school I saw a change in her. She was more comfortable with herself, more independent, more openly Mary. I feel that this may have confused her friend because I witnessed a slight shift in their relationship; a distancing. To me, I confess, this was a great occurrence. As much as I was aware that this friendship was integral to Mary, I felt that this distancing was the push she needed to really come into her own.

The year concluded with champagne, smiles and nerves for our results but these were drowned out by our excitement to meet the world outside of high school with open arms (a slight cliché, but truly, this was our outlook).

I spent the summer holidays travelling with only a distance concern for Mary. It was not that I disregarded the tough decisions that I knew she would have to face; I was simply caught up in my own experiences, my own problems. Yet, on the 17th of January 2016, Mary sent me a message (a very expensive message from across the seas).

It simply said:

Melbourne Arts??

My reply was a completely over-the-top, elaborate paragraph with too many explanation points to count and a confirmation that we were indeed attending the same University and, of course, realising our potential as famous writers (we’re still working on that dream). History was, incredibly, going to repeat itself as our lives were destine to overlap once more (no, it wasn’t as melodramatic as I’m making it out, I was just very excited).

A few weeks later, when I returned from travel, I was ecstatic to meet up with Mary. After a few drinks, we ventured from her house to a small playground. It was there, on the low-hanging swing, with her eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol that Mary confessed that she had chosen a label for herself: bisexual. She was adamant that this was her identity and I couldn’t have been happier for her.

Granted, you may be wondering what happened to her friend; did she have any influence on this decision? However, this is not a story with a twist or a turn or an antagonist, it’s about a real person; a true experience. Her friend, I believe, had very little influence on this turning point in Mary’s life. She had, in fact, moved to Sydney to pursue her studies, but as I said, I don’t think this was the reason for Mary’s newfound confidence in her identity. I may be wrong, but I believe that she had simply come to a forked road and chosen the path that most suited her. Despite the wine, she was completely adamant and I couldn’t have been happier that she had found herself.

Which brings us to present day. Mary is now the type of person that is loved by all. You know that one person who seems to know and be liked by everyone? That’s her. She now tells me stories of ending up in the wildest places with the most incredible people.  She’s the type to slap on purple lipstick and dance around her room to the entire soundtrack of The Rocky Horror Show. And I’m of the opinion that, she doesn’t need the label, she is just, simply herself.

[awritersminds-blog]

Turning Point

Cancer. The word alone puts a lump in my throat that wasn’t ever there two years ago. It was something that was thrown around on TV, something that happened to other people. A foreign concept that didn’t really mean anything because I didn’t understand its gravity.

You know when you feel as though everything is coming at you from all sides? That there is no relief, no release from misery or bad luck or whatever negativity you’re faced with that day? I do. I feel it all the time these days. Without being boastful, I am often told that I have a bubbly personality, that I’m outgoing or really social, and to be honest I thought that too. It never occurred to me that my life was horrible or that I was neglected in any way. I grew up in a well off family, went to a great school, had great friends. In my own little bubble I never really expected tragedy to hit. Ever. I thought I’d just drift through life without issue. Of course there were the minor hurdles; friends who weren’t who they seemed, pointless arguments with a parent or sibling. However, these instances were usually those that, if you looked from a distance, were completely minor in the grand scheme of things. 

Then one day, two years ago, my auntie was diagnosed with breast cancer. Immediately, the reaction was, ‘She’ll get better, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ I had nothing in my life to inform me otherwise. My whole family had been around until now; aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins, grandparents – all were still alive and healthy.

There were ups and downs with my auntie’s illness. Sometimes she would feel great and hope would stand on a podium – triumphant. Then, she lost her hair, she lost her colour, she lost her personality. I watched my family go through all the things you see in the movies. Only, this was real, this was real doctors appointments, real wigs, real tears, real despair. No one tells you about less glamorous of cancer. The fluid that has to be drained monthly, the yellowing of the skin when it spreads to your liver. Watching it all happen was surreal, I would be at the hospital with her, I would get home and the memories would be hazy. It had happened to someone else surely, she was sitting in her office where she made herbal remedies… it was someone else.

My mum says these days, that Sue would have said this and Sue would have wanted that. Sometimes she says it with a knowing smile, amused by the memory of her headstrong and overbearing sister and it’s almost as though she’s still here sometimes.

For me, this was a turning point in my life, a point when I realised how petty and trivial my everyday struggles were. I think, or at least I hope, that everyone comes to this conclusion, that there’s a point or a person or a conversation that transforms our outlook.

Cancer is something that affects more people than you realise. There’s that statement that keeps being passed around: Everyone knows someone who has or is affected by cancer. It’s true. Since her, the disease seems to reveal itself everywhere. It like an invisible barrier has been lifted, a cloud cover over my eyes that’s suddenly not there anymore. Now I hear of my friends aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers who have it or are suffering it themselves. Then it was all around me, on all sides. My auntie then my grandma, then my grandfather, all were fighting the same battle, winning or losing.

As crazy as it sounds, I’ve had time to accept that she’s not here anymore. That all that is left of her is her only child, my cousin, and all our memories. As much as I miss her, as much as I wish she was here, I have accepted that I won’t get to see her again; that her short life was all she was allowed. However, the experience and ongoing longing, has made me more aware of this disease, of the ways it can affect so many people and, despite the terror of her story. She left an impression I will never forget.

[awritersminds-blog]

The Roundabout

In the half-light, arms, legs, sweat of each body clashes together in an endless dance – one of passion and unknowing. Thrashing, desperate to touch, to feel, to learn what it means to feel close to someone else, to be wanted. His hands glide over her, encasing her in a gentle yet passionate cocoon. His muscles ripple compared to her small pale arms as the tumble across the bed…

She wakes without opening her eyes, splayed; she feels the warmth of the sunlight heating her eyelids, creating that all too familiar orange glow that she sees every morning. The lids slowly open, disorientated for a moment, she looks around the unfamiliar room. A flood of the night before hits her just as the headache does. She groans.

He hears her, though he has been awake for hours watching her, he quickly closes his eyes without shifting his position as she turns to face him. Her naked body is still etched in his mind, a flawless curvature of lines and heat and love, he wanted to love her already. Wanted her to be his. This wasn’t like the other girls, the endless cycle who would crawl to his house, be useful then expire. This was different, this one he wanted to conquer – to keep, to mold, to capture.

“Um, hey.”

He pretends to stir, opening his eyes slowly with the illusion of sleep in their depths. He stares at her, resisting the urge grab, tug. Capture.

She purses her lips in discomfort. The morning goodbyes were always awkward, one night, drinks, it was meant to stop there, the morning was never supposed to come.

“I had a great night, but I have to get going.”

His stares made her uncomfortable, they were too intense. Too knowing.

“Stay for breakfast.”

Sometimes this would be offered, but she never took it. No attachment. No friendship. No nothing.

“No, thank you. I’ll get something on my way.”

He rolls and wraps big, imposing arms around her. The discomfort grows. Without the boozy haze from last night, his touch feels aggressive. Unwelcome.

He slowly draws his tongue across her chest, as if marking a territory.

She stays.

__________________________________________________________________

She turns the silver key in the lock, slowly. Her shoulder is throbbing, her neck blackened. She enters the apartment, desperate for emptiness. No. 

He sits at the table, coffee in his hand. Another, for her, left in front of the seat next to him. He stares at her, even with imperfections; she is still his beautiful girl. A flash of this morning comes to mind, time for forgiveness.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I was tired and angry. You know I didn’t mean it.”

“I’m leaving.”

Those words cut him. Leave? Anger begins to radiate. Deep breathe. She was his. Always.

“You know I wouldn’t have if you’d just listened to me. I didn’t mean to, it wasn’t all my fault. 

This morning is hazy for her. Did she start it? Maybe. Maybe it was just a bad day.

“Come on, baby. You can’t leave.”

He sees the uncertainness in her body language. Holding herself stiff but eyes darting.

He rises. She takes a step back. He advances as a preditor, preparing for the surrender of a prey. Another step. She doesn’t move. Two more and he is upon her. She slumps, giving in, allowing him to lift her. Legs around waists, arms around necks, lips around tongues.

He begins gently to ensure she remains. Then the caresses become restraining. The fingers through hair become pulls, strands quiver and break. Sighs become groans. Then it is all for him. She is simply there for him, to satisfy him.

In the half-light, she can see the blackness on her arms, her stomach. She curls in on herself, trying for comfort. His arms encircle her, big and imposing. Unwelcome.

“You’ll stay?”

She stays

__________________________________________________________________

She drives. Glancing in the mirror to check the child is still sleeping. Rosy cheeks pressed against the cooling door, she breathes with the innocence of a simpler life. In. Out. Turning back to the road she breathes as well. Only, her breathes are uneven, fragmented, boar down with years.

Houses flick past, two story with white picket fences, the stuff you see in movies. She drives on. The houses become more simple but still comfortable enough.

She pulls into the driveway of the house with the red bricks, the low fence, raised on stilts. Opening her door she moves to the rear and takes out the shopping before moving to the child. The years have made her expert and she carries all with a grace unbecoming to the simple task of emptying a car.

Entering the dark house she lays the child, still sleeping on the couch and moves to the kitchen to unpack everything, perfectly. She can hear the snores from their bedroom and preys they continue until hers begin. No such luck.

He stirs and rises. A waft of liquor ricochets off the walls. He can’t smell it.

He enters the kitchen stretching, broad muscles billowing in the shadows.

“You’re doing dishes in the dark?”

Shoulders stiffen.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

With an effortless chuckle he enfolds her in his arms and begins to kiss her neck. Slow at first, then with more ferocity. Spinning her around to face him, he feels her reluctance. The challenge excites him; he liked it when she struggled.

“She’s asleep in the next room, we can’t!”

“Exactly. She’s asleep.”

She tries to push him away. The child was an excuse. Any excuse to get him away from her. knowing what he wanted, she returned his kisses for a moment before gentle pushing him away. Tame the monster.

Another effortless chuckle, a brief squeeze and he releases her. He ventures over to the cupboard where food was magically replenished just as he liked it.

“Did you get the beer?”

Disaster. She freezes, muscles clenched together so tightly they might shatter, taking her with them. If only.

“Did you get my beer?”

The menace is so familiar now she expects it and braces herself for the explosion.

On the floor. She stares up, dazed. He stands above her like a hulking tree, braches doubled in her vision. This was where she belonged, at his feet, she knew it. It was all her fault. She forgot the beer.  

She stumbles into the kitchen in search of ice. The blotches have progressed down her torso, but never anywhere that couldn’t be hidden. He had learnt well.  

More sorrys. More tears. More.

“Baby, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.”

She stays.

__________________________________________________________________

A door opens. In the dark she moves along the hallway. Quietly. A low creak. She peers in at the child sleeping. A sigh of relief. She enters the kitchen and begins her daily routine. Quiet. He wouldn’t like to be woken, no.

She glances out the window. In the sunrise she can just make out a nest in the high tree in the backyard, two birds reside. As she watches, one falls to the ground. The remaining bird spreads its feathers more comfortably. No concern 

“You woke me.” 

She jumps. Tries to pass it off as a cough. Unconvincing. She continues making coffee to cover the moment. He was always telling her she was weak.

“Sorry, I have to be gone early today.”

The cup meant for her is placed in front of him at the table. She returns to make another.

“I think you should stay home today.”

Did he see the shudder that passes over her shoulders? She knew what staying home would mean. Struggles, cries, being restrained. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“You never want to stay. You hate me don’t you?”

“No.”

The truth. She knew he never meant to hurt her. If she would do as she was told it wouldn’t happen. He was simply very particular. 

As if reading her thoughts.

“You know I don’t mean it. If you would just do what I tell you, it wouldn’t happen. Don’t hate me baby. I love you. Please stay today.”

There was a flicker of softness in her. She loved him too. She always had. She had learnt to push away the uncomfortable feeling, it was nothing. He loved her.

“I’m sorry, I wish I could stay, but they need me in today.”

Coffee on the floor. A mop to clean the mess. She leans down to pick up what remains of the cup. A blow to her left shoulder. She collapses. Blurred vision, she glances up. He has a red mirage surrounding his hulking figure.

“You don’t want to stay! You don’t love me!”

Her hair in his fist. Strands quiver and break. Hands around wrists. He pulls her up and spits. All she can smell is the drink from last night, that intruding, impetuous scent. It’s cloudy. What is he saying? She can understand through the haze. Get out. She has to get out. The child! No, he wouldn’t hurt her. She runs to the door, leaving him standing with a chunk of hair in his clenched knuckles.

In her bed, the child dreams. The waves on the beach break and retreat. She runs back and forth, never allowing the water to catch her but following it out before the next wave breaks. A continuous cycle. Always.

She opens the door, silently. He’s there, he always is.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. Please.”

Tears make tracks that could lead to her forgiveness.

“It won’t happen again. I promise.”

A twinge. Maybe he won’t. He somehow seems smaller this time. Or was she standing straighter?

“Please?”

She glances out the window over the sink, expecting to see the two birds from this morning. No. Only one remains. Part of her hopes the other will return, but she knows it won’t. She takes a deep breath and turns to face him.

“Baby, I’m sorry please don’t leave.”

…