Milestone

I got to his room as the light was fading. I was scared. I hadn't been out after dark for many months. Getting to the right building was like navigating a bad dream. Tripping off curbs. Running from people trying to stop me. Hitting dead ends. But I knew I had to reach him. If I were to survive. If I were to find some conclusion. I saw his silhouette first in the back window. There were curtains but his outline was strong, like a beacon. I tried the glass doors. Of course they were open. He said he would leave them open for me. That I could trust him. I don't remember my words as I fell into his room. I don't remember if there were any words. He looked at me. There was blood on my face. My hands shook. It surprised me that they did. They had never done before. And the pain. I felt the pain. All those years when it wasn't real suddenly retracted and here I was. Hurt. In such a heavy body. I remember his fingers were soft. His face open. Still. I believed in him. He laid out a bed on the floor. He was going to stay awake. I climbed in and fell asleep. I felt him moving around. He had his shoes on and they clicked on the tiles. As I relaxed I let my arms rest. I looked down on them. They were tanned and free on the tops of the cover. My fingers were clean. Eyes gently opening with the rise and fall of his words that became the rhythm of my breathing. I never thought I would reach this milestone. This place of comfort. It felt so good to finally rest.

Yes - Sunday Scribblings 24/1/10

She put down the phone. Her hand trembled around the curve of the handset. She brushed her fingers over her lips. Trying to put back the word she had spilled. She leant back into the noises of the house. The hum of the fridge. The click of the electriciy meter. The birds walking over the roof kicking off moss onto the path outside. Scuffle. Scuffle. Plop. Her stomach turned over. She felt enormous inside. As if the emptiness of the past four years had suddenly been replaced by optimism. Hope. Excitement. Flavours she didn't recognise and which made her feel sick. She looked around. Who could she tell? Who could she let into the secret? She put on her boots. She knew where to go. It was a short walk from her house. The air outside was cold and bit at her cheeks and ears. It pinched her. Like a friend would pinch your arm. Are you awake it asked? She was. For the first time in a long while. That made her scared. She looked down at her hurried feet. She could barely keep going in a straight line. She tripped off the pavement. Tried to follow the yellow line. She did it sometimes as a test. If it was a good day her feet faultlessly followed the line. On a bad day she wobbled. Feet all over the place. It made her angry and she swore under her breath. Walked in the road. Scowled at the car drivers waving her out of their path. Today she didn't even notice any cars drive by. She opened the creaking gate and walked upto the porchway. There were flowers in the alcove. Purple and yellow this month. She sat on the stone seat. Looked at the words and pictures on the wall. Sometimes that was all she needed to find out where she was. She leant her head back. Rested it on the rough cobbles. She wished she could stay here forever. Not moving. But they locked the door at five. She daren't breathe. She daren't let any time pass. All this time spent waiting and with one word tomorrow would change. She didn't feel ready. She didn't want it. She spoke it quietly to herself. Yes. Yes. Yes.

The Good Old Days

She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her hands down the small of her back. Everything seemed to ache these days. Her kidneys gave a small protest every time she rose slowly to her feet. Her legs creaked and her wrists snicked like dry sticks when she reached for her pencil. It didn't bothered her much. She quite liked the percussive noises her body produced. It gave weight to her existence. It provided some comfort just to know it was still grinding away underneath the coats and skin. Sometimes she forgot what she was now. Small children looked at her face and stopped, mouths hung open. She smiled at them. Then remembered. But they soon picked up their steps and carried on. Everybody just carries on in the end. What is there to say? What is there to look at after the first startling glance. It used to be that she let her hair hang over her face. Tried to hide. All she saw were her own feet. Flat, tired feet that had been ground down by running. Now she strides as if she has some place to go. She is not sure of what that place is or where it is but she knows it is there and that is enough. She feels light. Not quite herself but on the way. She thinks to herself, the old days were not good. But these new days may be brilliant.

Extreme

She heard the crunch of boots on the ice at 6 this morning and flinched. Another day. This weather seems to be relentless. They say on the radio that is set to last for another week. She looks at her supplies. Enough for ten days or so if she is careful. But the tins provide no comfort. It is not food that she needs. She needs to get out of this building. Remind herself of what it is like out there. It makes her head hurt thinking of the risks she used to take and how she now cannot fight off her instinct to survive. The word deadly when not applied to her actions makes her sick. Afraid. She has to be in control of it. How and when it happens.

It is so cold. She is wearing everything in the house. Her arms can barely bend to make the hot water that is keeping her body running. As the light comes up she sits just below the window sill and peers out on the street. Careful that no one can see her. She doesn't want to be caught. There are the regulars. She knows their footfalls. Knows the time they march up and down. Knows when to avoid them. It is silent out there. More silent than usual. It's like this white dust falling has squashed the world up like a wet cotton wool ball. Suffocating. Deadly. The noises she can hear become alarmingly loud and her hands tremble slightly around the mug. Her luck might run out soon. It disappoints her that she will fight that fact. In a way it would be a relief.

What to do. So much time to kill. She looks around the desolate rooms. She has used up nearly all the paper. Her pens are running low and the batteries in the radio are dying their last death. Soon she won't be able to hear her voice at all. At midday she sees a policeman carrying a loaf of bread from the shop opposite. He must be carrying it to someone who needs help. She looks at him walking. Long, capable strides and feels like calling out. 'I need help too'. But she bites her tongue. Bides her time. You only ask for help at the last. If you say it too many times no one will ever help you again. She learnt that. Last year. When she was taken away. When she gave up hiding. When things were more extreme.

New Leaf

Resolution

I resolve
to dissolve
quietly.
Like acid melting on his lips,
I wish to disappear without
warning.
Without
you seeing me
melt to nothing
with each passing breath
you take.
With each thought you have of me.
I wish to absolve you,
free you.
I wish for rest to lie between us.
I wish for colour to return to your being
and the pain of this life to be forgotten.

I resolve that at the end of these days
I will be blown away.
Quietly, quietly
flying like a new leaf in the breeze.