Life Swap

I think about my life. When I am alone in front of the TV. Where I have been. What I have done. The 6am bus rides in a city half a world away from where I was comfortable. The burnt out buildings and the gun shots. The pink ski jacket. You. The person who died in the toilets several months after I crept away with two bags and a discharge letter.

I sent you letters. Photos of where I came from. I did not tell you that I was sleeping on the ground wrapped in a sleeping bag, bottle of cooking brandy in my hands. I tried calling your house as soon as I had a phone again. A man picked up. I knew you had gone but I needed to hear. He said ‘I hope you find your friend’. And I did. In the newspaper. Your age. Occupation. The place where you were being buried.

I am static now. Un-tuned. The TV running blue in the background. The days crossed off in the diary. Forcing my eyes shut in bed. Next year it will be different. Next year I will start living. But the years, decades, come and go. My body the only barometer of each passing day.

I populate my mind with people I encounter. As if they could measure up to you. I line them up and count them. Like a collection of dolls. I order them. But I do not get close. In some ways these people are perfect. They cannot hurt me by leaving. I cannot hurt them when I throw them away; when I become tired of watching myself play in the glass mirrors of their eyes. Their passing merits no line in a paper. They are forgotten as easily as last night’s beans.

But they are not quite enough. These dialogues and plays. I don’t like to think of you lying there behind that door. In the water and filth. Bitten lip. Blown eyes. Body slack as rags. I wonder if you know that I wished more for you. That I knew what you were thinking. I knew where you wanted to be as soon as you showed me your house and the perfect baby-pink bed with the turned down quilt and toys. The picture on the side table. You grinning with a rifle in your hand.

We are both soft in our destruction. Confused. Wishing that the concrete we fall on will in someway cherish us and love us as we deserve to be loved. I think of you as time passes. How your world was really not so different after all. That I could have chosen to live there. As much as I could choose to live here.

Unlike you, I do not have the courage to stop. There is some inexplicable courage to keep trying; as annoying and disturbing as this infernal transmission buzzing in my living room. It never ends. It is a persistent nudge in my ribs. The bony old elbow of life leaving its bruises. But I would not change things. I would not swap who I am. If I did, I would lose you forever.

Birth

The baby lies in the plastic crib. All jerky arms and purple feet. It is alive but not a person yet. A blank page on which to write the story. In the first moments of its life the baby can become anyone and anything. It is as yet unnamed. Unclaimed. Nothing more than bones and skin.

The people who made the baby carry it home. They have already begun to fill the page. They write in invisible ink so no-one else can see.

They think the baby needs nothing more than milk. But the baby yearns for more. So much more. The baby learns the things that other babies learn. It can walk and speak. They all think the baby is ok. They do not listen to the words that it has learnt. What it is trying to say. They do not see that is not walking but running. So many years trying to find the warmth of a blanket. The tenderness of a loving kiss.

The baby is alone. Untouched yet consumed by the hands that carried it home. All those invisible words scratched upon it.

The baby wants to repel its beginning but knows it will follow her until the end. The baby tries to grow. There are times when it feels proud and strong. But it is hard for the baby to find joy in its birth. To feel anything more than a heavy-weight of bones and skin.

The baby lies in the bed now. All jerky arms and purple feet. The story written on it. What they did not do. How it needed love. How it needed them.

Superhero

The sign by the side of the road says 'tiredness kills take a break.' I smile to myself. It sometimes feels as if the story is written around me. My head is so heavy that my chin keeps dropping to my chest. It has been such a long time since I have rested. The steady spin of the tyres lulls me into a half-sleep. I like the feeling of moving. It is not like being trapped in that bed. I felt so alone there. So dead. My head saw pictures. Whirling purple faces. Like a painting by Vincent. I remember my eyes were like lead weights impossible to keep open. The sleep was so thick I thought I was gone for hours. At some point my brain worked out I had only been gone for a minute at a time. But each minute felt like an hour. I knew from looking at the clock on the wall. It was the same standard-issue government clock that had been in my school - except there I wanted time to stand still. Back in that bed of traps the minutes even seemed to go backwards. Like I had to suffer them over and over again.

I lost almost two days like that. When I awoke I saw their looks. Disdain. Revulsion. You filthy girl. Lying on the pavement. Words scrawled on you. You are nothing. Nothing. I shook. My god what have I done. What happened to that little girl with the exercise books covered in rainbows and clouds. I couldn't hold the cup they placed in front of me. I couldn't reach for my things. I couldn't prove who I was. For two days I was the story they wrote for me.

I know I am more than the story. Somwhere in there is the light that brought me this far. I can be superman and wipe away the dust. Spark up the flame. Some moments I believe that. I did on the day I drove away. But then there are so many things I forget. The sign posts are cryptic. They give clues but they do not tell the whole story. How I crossed the road. How I took the pen in my hands and wrote upon myself. Some kind of prayer. Some kind of curse.

I look down at my dirty hands on the wheel. The dried blood. I am glad I had the courage to stop it. To see him one last time. Perhaps now I can close my eyes.

Mess

The tube of fine chocolate has remained un-opened in the cupboard for many months. I shake as I break the seal. This is my will folding. I peel open each individual chocolate disc and lay them on the counter. My mouth fills with saliva. How I have yearned for the silky fine cocoa to burst on my tongue. How I have praised myself for my resolve. Each night sitting in the chair looking at the little red clock, not touching them. Resisting. Repelling. Repressing. The first disc is like heaven. I am slow. Mindful. It melts. I sigh out loud. Look around the empty room guiltily. Someone will catch me being nice to myself. Eating more than bread and beans. I tell them I find no pleasure and here I am standing at the counter slipping chocolate in my mouth. Faster and faster. Time spins and I am holding the last piece of chocolate. Now I feel sick and remorseful. On the counter is an empty tube and a pile of silver foil. I hastily put them in the bin bag. Seal it up. Place it outside the kitchen door. That irks me and I have to lock it outside the front door. I have to get rid of it. Forget it. The light fades. The chocolate settles heavily in my stomach. I groan as I drop the curtains then settle myself back into my chair of waiting. Even there I find it hard to rest. To live with the empty tube and silver foil of life. I move constantly. Drum my fingers. Twitch my toes. Smack my lips. Yet I am as motionless as a headstone. Rigid. Stuck in the ground. But not secure. Just scarcely hiding buried bones of regret and wasted time.

I switch off the lights. Say goodnight to the house and feel ok. The bag is outside. There is mess in it. But at least I have marked my birthday with a fleeting amount of pleasure.