capettitwrites

[capettitwrites]

Blurb: In Verona's bustling streets, beneath the shadow of Juliet's iconic balcony, a traveler reflects on the weight of tradition, love, and the enduring objectification of women. As tourists flock to touch the bronze statue of Shakespeare's heroine, seeking luck in love, one woman confronts her own past and the cultural stories that shape us. 'To Be A Statue' is a poignant exploration of autonomy, trauma, and the silent strength required to reclaim one's narrative.

CW: Sexual harassment/assault, objectification, implied trauma.

They say that touching certain parts of statues will bring good luck. Rubbing the belly of a Budha, or a dog statue’s nose, or the Charging Bull’s balls. I’ve seen my fair share of bronze statues buffed by human hands, even participated in some myself. A little turtle on Il Porcellino in Sydney owes its shiny head, at least in part, to me and the daily pets I give it on my morning walk. Something about bronze statues just makes us want to reach out and touch. 

Verona, Italy was beautiful. A day and a half of cramped legs and turbulence was well worth it for the medieval town that meandered along the Adige River. The orange street lights glittered off the turquoise water. Foliage of trees and potted plants hanging from balconies doused the streets in green. Burnt orange and muted yellow bricks contrasted against the beige masonry of the Romanesque architecture that surrounded us. 

Yesterday, Hayley and I had visited the Arena. While only a third of the size compared to the Colosseum, we were absolutely struck by how much it imposed. The streets of Piazza Bra from the Arena danced like a rainbow with its colourful houses. In addition to the tour, we managed to get tickets to Giuseppe Zenatallo’s Aida and the tragic opera filled our evening. 

Today, Hayley and I stand in Juliet’s House. Well, her courtyard to be more precise. Amongst the crowds, we admire her balcony and the ivy-coated trellis her Romeo would have climbed. The gate at the back of the courtyard is heavy with the weight of lovers’ locks, names of couples daring to love like Romeo and Juliet shining out under the sun. I can’t help but be reminded of the love lock bridge in Paris and wonder how long before the government puts an end to this too. How long before the gate falls over and all those relationships shatter with it?

There’s a bronze statue of Juliet standing just below the balcony. The people queue to have a photo with her and we join the curling line. All around, the tourists chatter in a thesaurus of languages. As we come to the front, with Juliet’s dim face staring back at us, I remember how cruel humanity is. Locked into herself, the people laugh and fondle her breast. Only her clothed chest has been rubbed golden. 

‘It’s a tradition,’ Hayley whispers to me. ‘They say if you touch her right breast, it’ll bring good luck for finding your one true love.’ 

The more I look at her, the sadder her eyes seem. It’s a familiar sadness. With our eyes locked, the line between statue and person begins to blur. As if the day were Friday and we spoke in unison, I feel I’m the one encased in bronze, standing there having my right breast cupped and carressed for the good fortune of a stranger. Juliet takes my place in line with Hayley, carrying all my history. 

It seems easy to put that young girl, only age fourteen, in my place. In my memories, my fiery red locks turn into her coppery bronze. The girl in My Little Pony pyjamas, dancing to Hannah Montana, becomes the statue Juliet. When Aunt Petra helps Mum in the kitchen and her boyfriend stays, I’m no longer the one in the room. Juliet takes the fall. Dull bronze shining under his touch. Maybe it’ll bring him luck. Maybe he and Aunt Petra will be together forever.. 

I can feel tourists groping at my breast when Juliet wanders onto my high school oval. The boys crowd her like the sightseers at Casa de Giulietta. It wasn’t her fault that she began maturing so young. It was natural for her to have a D-cup chest by the time she started high school. She wasn’t doing anything wrong when she let them ogle her. As far as she was concerned that’s what gave her purpose. If being sexualised was the only time she was given attention then how can you blame her for letting them have their way?

Juliet never grew past that point. Man devoured her before she became a grown up. Murder by lust. I think if she had the opportunity to live in this world a little longer, her eyes would have ended up looking like mine. Maybe her eyes were even the same shade ofshade of green. With age, they’d harden and grey. With age, she’d learn to hate her body. With age, she’d come to learn that Romeo never loved her. His infatuation was flighty and hardly worth the death she endured. Dream that the two resolved their families’ issues, that they spent their final moments with wrinkled hands wrapped around each other. Enjoy that innocence. 

‘Should we leave a message?’ Hayley asks and gestures to the wall below Juliet’s balcony. Littered in messages from young lovers in the hopes their love will last forever. Wandering closer, I see notes from Gloria and Chiara, Leo and Baby, E+R, someone named Armin. Messages that read ‘por las amores que te hacen’ and ‘que se lia conmigo’ and ‘I love my family so much’. People will do anything other than work hard for what they want. Relying on superstition and luck. 

I don’t want love. Not anymore. 

‘Yes,’ I answer and Hayley pulls out a paper and pen. She’s never been one to leave the house without some stationary on her. Writer’s habit, she jokes. Taking the pen in hand, I write down my wish. Maybe someday Juliet will make it come true. 

‘For love that liberates rather than confines. In the pursuit of dreams, may we shatter the bronze ceiling.

-Serena’

[capettitwrites]

Blurb: Haunted by her mother's tragic death, taxidermist Harriet seeks solace in the stillness of her workshop. Memories intertwine with the daily rituals of preserving life in death, while Jenna, her business partner, becomes an unexpected anchor in the cold embrace of grief. Together, they attempt to navigate the delicate balance between love and death.

CW: Self-harm and suicide ideation, grief and loss, graphic descriptions, mental health struggles, family issues, strong language

It’s back again. It likes to attack when I’m alone. Sitting on the tram. Walking through the industrial parking lot. Standing at the warehouse door. When my heart aches and everything feels pointless, my wrists thrum. I wonder whether it’s the knowledge of others' self-inflicted pain that causes the thrumming or whether the thrum itself drives people to cut. I’ve never cut before. Only ever imagined the blade. How it might slice neatly through soft skin, moisturised and sunscreened just like Mum taught me. 

‘You have to protect your skin so you stay young and beautiful forever,’ she would say. An unspoken lecture on the dangers of cancer. 

Or perhaps I’d have to hack into the skin to be rid of the thrum. Carving deep to the root of it and removing it from me in its entirety. A gouged crosshatch of skin left on my forearms. Staring at them now as I battle with my keys, I can almost see the blood. Then what would Mum say? 

Her funeral was nearly a month ago now. The sun bore down, blistering heat as we hid in air conditioned rooms. One lonely cloud disrupted that endless blue, reflecting the ocean underneath. Heat mirage rippling off the black tar roads in waves. Through the window, a child and their father tippy-tapped their way across the burning sidewalk with bare feet. 

A perfect Perth summer. 

Everything Mum would have loved. 

No one else was here yet. The immediate family got an early viewing of the body. Probably so we wouldn’t break down when other people were around. Just behind heavy walnut doors lay Mum’s corpse. Not my actual Mum. She’d left long ago. This was just pageantry, I tried to tell myself, a performance to make us feel better about the whole situation. It did nothing to stop the way my heart decayed in my chest. Finally, Grandma and Pop entered the lobby. Our hug was cut short when the funeral director offered for us to cross that final barricade into the room. This was really happening. I took a deep breath before entering. 

Ammonia and borax. Formaldehyde and alcohol. The smells of my workshop don’t usually register in my brain but today they’re almost offensive. I guess I’ve been away for a while. Weaving through metal worktables, gliding past shelves of domes, and reaching between a bear and a chicken I open the only window. Shoulder mounts and shadow boxes clutter the rest of the walls, Derek the giraffe stretching his neck from mid wall to high ceiling. I can’t stop myself from running my hand along his fur when I pass, the taxidermist in me screaming about the damaging oils on my fingers. 

With a clink, I place my instruments on the workbench. Perfectly aligned. There are a few specimens waiting for me in my freezer; a roadkill possum, someone’s pet budgie, cane toads. Staring down into the freezer chest, I see Mum in the mortuary cabinets and I’m just as frozen as her. Blue and stiff and naked. She needs a jacket. She hates the cold. 

‘I thought you weren’t coming back for another week?’

‘Fuck!’ 

Jolting up, I smack my head on the underside of a metal shelf. Domes above rattle and pain blooms at the place of impact. Just bruised, I’m sure. Still hurts like a motherfucker though. 

‘You ‘right? You’d think God was in that chest the way you’re staring at it.’

Jenna is leaning against the door frame, smirk on her lips but a crease between her eyebrows. Pity hiding in her eyes. The same quiet sadness that filled the faces at the wake. 

‘I’m so sorry, Harriet,’ Aunt Cas whispered in my ear. Her hug was bone crushing and her perfume overwhelming but I didn’t push her away. The familiarity of it dulled the pulsing in my head. If I closed my eyes, I was sure I’d wake up to find myself in Grandma’s living room. TV blaring Play School, cigarette smoke pluming from the porch, and ceiling lights compensating for the closed window blinds. Cas’ tears soaking into my shoulder kept my eyes open. I needed to be present. This wasn’t a moment I could escape. It wouldn’t be fair to Mum. The sea of sad faces stared back at me, all tear tracks and sorrow. My eyes were dry. So dry with the air conditioning sapping away any moisture. It was too cold. I shivered. 

Jenna slips in beside me and shuts the freezer door. So close, her warm skin radiates through my cold and for a moment I think that I must have died. Standing here I’ve become as cold as the dead, just another one of our specimens waiting for treatment. Jenna is alive and I’m just a ghost. 

‘Don’t want those to start defrosting, hey?’ she jokes as she sits on the chest. Her knee bumps against mine and her hand rubs my shoulder. Solid and real. Not dead. 

‘Sorry. Couldn’t decide which one I wanted to do,’ I lie. 

‘We got a fresh order of butterflies yesterday, if you wanna work on some of them. That gorgeous Birdwing you were waiting for came in.’ 

I know what she’s doing. Give me an easy job to ease back into the swing of things. I must look an absolute mess if she’s offering up butterflies. Her eyes try to meet mine but I refuse to grant her that privilege. She doesn’t need to see the exhaustion in them and know that she’s right to worry. I don’t want her to treat me as lesser. In avoiding her searching gaze, mine lands on a thawing rabbit. 

‘You working on that?’ I ask. 

‘Yeah. Memorial piece. Just waiting for her to loosen up a bit more. Wanna make the base for it?’ 

Deflection. 

‘Nah, you can do that. You always make prettier environments than me anyway.’ 

Jenna doesn’t stop me taking the fluffy little bunny away from her station or complain when I place it at mine. Rubbing up its body to loosen the joints before laying it flat in front of my instruments, the silver table seems shinier. I can hear birds chirping outside where there was muffled silence before. Tension slips off my shoulders. Tawny fur is soft in my bare hands. In the corner of my eye, Jenna collects a base from the shelves and a storage box of greenery. 

I ignore her setting up close beside me and take my scalpel in hand. The thrum tingles at my wrist. It would be so easy to remove it. A clean, surgical cut. Glide the sharp edge against my skin, only a little bit of pressure required. Just like cutting into an animal, only there would be more blood. 

…A lot more blood. 

‘When did you get back?’ Jenna asks, her gloves snapping as she slips them on. Her smile meets her eyes now, the way it usually does when we work together. A fiery crackle behind hazel. 

‘Last night.’ 

‘Eager beaver.’ She bumps her hip against mine. ‘Want me to make the first cut?’ 

My hands are trembling. The scalpel shivers in my grasp. I hadn’t even noticed. 

‘No. I’ve got it.’ 

I take a breath and turn my hand into stone. Two fingers below the base of the skull, between her shoulder blades, and then I slice into her back. Gently peeling back the skin, I start to slide my hands inside, between her skin and the neat sack of organs. The methodical process, one I’ve done a million times before, washing over me like a warm shower. As my hand comes around to her stomach to wear her like a bracelet, my fingernail catches. 

Pop! 

A sudden dampness. The smell of faeces. My hands are red when I pull them out. 

There wasn’t as much blood as I was expecting. As she lay there in the hospital bed, it felt like she should have looked different somehow. Blue-ish white skin or the etched outline of bones or horrible disfigurement with puddles of blood coating the floor which we’d have to wade through just to get a look only to see she was beyond recognition. There was none of that. Some needles in her arm and a tube in her face. The doctor said something. I’m not sure what. I think my stepdad was listening because he nodded and the next thing I knew they unplugged her. 

Time of death, 02:26. 

I don’t remember saying goodbye. I don’t remember leaving her room. I don’t remember going to the maternity ward. There were only five babies in the nursery that day. On an average day there’d be anywhere between ten to fifteen newborns. The room looked so empty. It made sense, I thought. Mum was a midwife. How could new life come into the world when she’s gone? 

‘Harri!’

Jenna grabs my bloody wrist and tosses me away, quickly using cotton balls to sap up the mess. I watch as she takes over. Cleaning and sanitising. Removing the skin from the body. Rubbing in our tanning mixture. Peeling her gloves off and turning to me. 

Looking up at her from the floor with the light dancing through her locks, I feel every bit the penniless beggar. Pleading for a morsel of comfort. Hating the benevolence with which she answers my prayers. The Angel Jenna cups my cheek and I pull away. 

‘Fuck off,’ I choke out. A traitorous tear sneaks past my defences as snot blocks my nose and my throat constricts. It’s a coup. Another tear slips down my cheek and I scurry away from her sad eyes. Blood smears across my cheek as I try to stop the revolution, wiping tears from my face. It’s a losing battle. There’s nowhere to run from Jenna’s tender gaze. 

Don’t look at me…

And she doesn’t. Turning away, Jenna disappears from the room. 

Everything feels cold. As my hand tremors, I pull at my hair and try to breathe. It comes in stiff, stilted huffs. The more I try to control it, the less I can catch it. Panic clutches at my chest. Lost and overwhelmed, just a child crying in their bed. 

‘Look at me, baby,’ Mum said as she lifted my chin. ‘Take a deep breath. Together, okay?’ 

In through her nose, her chest rose slow and controlled. Her face was resolute as her hand swept up in time with her breath. I tried to copy, my own chest jittering as it swelled. Then she let go with an even exhale through her mouth, lips shaped like an ‘O’, hand pushing down. Wheezing, I followed. 

‘Good job, and again.’ 

She took it slower, breathed in for longer, as her lungs expanded deeper. Her hand continued to conduct the symphony of our breath. I found it easier though a few hiccups caught as new tears fell. Mum’s soft hands wiped them away as we breathed out. 

‘One last one. Ready? In…’ 

My hand copied hers as we inhaled. Like a cacophony of music finally coming together to play the same part, my breath followed hers in…

‘And out.’ 

Fsshhhhh…

‘AH!’ I scream when fingers wrap themselves around my wrists and tear my hands from my hair. Now-loose strands tangle through my fingers in a ratty net. The way they worm in my grasp, mixing with half-dried blood, makes me feel sick. A moist tea towel and then Jenna’s hand slips into mine. Calmly rubbing circles, dislodging the disgust from my hands, cleaning the rough edge of my life just like always. She crouches in front of me, mumbling apologies. 

‘Sorry for calling so late,’ Mum apologised, voice crackled through the receiver. 

‘Nah, you’re all good. What’s up?’ 

‘I had a shitty day at work.’ 

‘Oh yeah?’ I only half paid attention as she told me about her day, occasionally offering a grunt of acknowledgement or ‘that sucks’ of empathy. I was busy finishing up a quail. Honestly, I hadn’t realised how late it was until Mum called. Jenna passing out beside me should have been all the hint I needed that it was time to put the tools down an hour ago. 

‘So when are you coming back to Perth?’ Mum asked. I couldn’t help but giggle. She always did this. Slicking the last feather into place, I picked my phone up off the table. 

‘Mmm, I could use some Perth summer. Melbourne sucks for it.’ 

‘November then?’ She was being more insistent than usual. 

‘Yeah, towards the beginning. So I don’t miss out on any of the Melbourne warmth.’ I couldn’t tell her the truth. That we’d booked a stall at an oddities exhibition in the second half of November and Jenna would need me around to get through it together. The whole taxidermy thing icked Mum. She got weird around death. 

‘Sounds good. I’ll book you a flight.’ I could hear her tapping away on her computer. 

‘I can buy my own ticket,’ I chuckled, waiting for Mum’s rebuttal. 

‘It’s okay,’ Jenna whispers. Blood stains the cloth but when she pulls it away my hands are clean. She reaches up to my face next. The gentle baptism of her touch is too much. Cotton coarse against my skin. Every damp stroke stinging to my bones. Tension holding tight to my limbs. Everything hurts. 

My legs ached. Dragging my feet up the mountain, I couldn’t wait for us to get to the top. We walked along a thin path with leaves and branches encroaching on our space, Pop in front, Mum in back. I could hear her breathing rasp at my neck. She’d been falling behind on these walks lately. It must have worried her because she ended up going to the doctor about it. When she came back, she was quiet. I tried to ask her what the doctor said but she insisted she was fine, just tired. She’d been tired a lot. 

The sunset was blinding when we reached the top. A beautiful plateau for us to enjoy the view from. High above the valley, the landscape was drenched in rich greens and yellows. A rainbow of nature. We stared in awe, the trek proved its worth. 

While Pop and I shared water bottles and snacks, Mum wandered near the edge of the cliff. As she stood, I wondered what she was thinking. A hair’s breadth from oblivion, tempting death. Pop didn’t notice but I saw her. The tension in her limbs, the slight forward lean, her halted breath.

‘Mum!’ I called out to her and she jolted. For a moment I thought she’d go over the edge. She took a second before she turned, stepped back from the brink, but when her eyes met mine she failed to hide it. Despair. Fear. Loss. 

Jenna’s earthen eyes stare back at me. Warm, deep, golden. Giving in to the safety in there, I let go. Falling freely, I can’t stop the wails pouring out. It comes from my gut. Clenching painfully. Shaking my whole body. Tearing open my throat. I might be sick. The sound of my cries reverberates through the workshop. 

Though the corridors were winding, I knew them well. Following the stream of people, every white wall was somehow intimately familiar. Even the air itself. It was all home. Passing through the security doors and heading towards the baggage claim, the air conditioner worked overtime to keep out the heat. Once my bag came through the carousel, I stepped out into the warm to wait for Mum. Even in the late evening Perth managed to warm my bones. God, I’d missed this. 

Jenna gently takes me in her arms. Circling tight as snot runs down my nose and into her sleeve. I can feel her breath hitch with my head against her chest. A few tears of her own wet the top of my head. She rakes her fingers through my hair and massages at my scalp, breathing hushed assurances. 

‘I’m here, you’re not alone.’

Barbie drove by in her Star Vette, Mum’s hand at the wheel. It had been bad news from the doctor. Melanoma growths on Barbie’s skin, a result of too much tanning. Stage IV. No way of treatment. Barbie would be dead in a week. Melodramatic, just how I liked my play. I giggled as Mum gave a dramatic speech of woe, bemoaning Barbie’s impossible dreams that would never come to pass. 

‘There’s nothing left for me. Goodbye cruel world!’ Mum announced as she crashed into Barbie’s Dream House. Barbie went flying over the dashboard through the window, she hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt. 

Sound was sucked from the room like a vacuum. I looked over at Mum. Her empty face held stormy eyes, something I couldn’t quite read. Maybe fear. Maybe envy. She looked like she needed a hug. 

I throw myself into Jenna’s embrace, thawing the coldness, my hand smacking against the workbench in the process. Metal rings in my ears as tools clatter on top. It’s too loud. I reach out and slam my hand on top to stop it. The cold handle of the scalpel digging into my palm. 

‘Just breathe.’

My plane had landed over an hour ago at that point. It was nearly midnight and I was freezing. Mum hadn’t answered any of my texts or calls. A shiver wracked through my body again as I considered going back inside for the third time. Sitting on a bench in the pick up zone, I watched a woman reunite with a man. Maybe they were husband and wife, but he seemed like he was too old for that. Too young to be her father though. Siblings? 

My phone rang in my pocket. 

Caller ID: Step-Dad. 

I take hold of the scalpel. Its familiar weight in my hand is a comfort. The tears stop falling. It stings when I run my thumb along the blade, blood pearling at the site. I take a deep breath, just like Mum taught me. The edge rests gently on my wrist. Slowly, I begin to cut. 

‘We’ll get through this together.’ 

Lights beam and a car pulls up to the curb in front of me. I tear my eyes away from my phone, hope dull in my stomach. It’s a black Hyundai i30. Out of the driver’s side, a young woman with blonde hair steps out of the car. Much younger than I’ve seen her in years. She smiles when she sees me. 

‘Sorry I’m late, baby. Traffic was terrible,’ she says. Midnight turns into the breaking dawn and she seems to glow in that light like she was made for it. My phone falls to the ground and shatters. I run up to her, a child being picked up from their first day at school. Mum swings me around when she picks me up to hug me. 

Call rejected. 

‘Mummy!’