Dinner

Her packed lunch was the smallest container in the hall. She liked the symmetry of the square sandwiches in one corner and the chocolate biscuit in the other. There were no words passed in the house but the sandwiches screamed.

Cucumber sandwiches. Things were tight but could have been worse.

Jam. That sick feeling before she left school at 3pm.

Out of date crisps and a banana and the best thing to do was to curl up on top of the shoe box in the hall and wrap the coats over her body.

She screamed at the table. She hated to see her father eat. Hated the sounds he made with his mouth. He screamed back. I should eat in the shed. The girl thought yes you should. But instead she was removed from the table and sat in the lounge on her own for ten years. Watching TV and eating mushroom omelettes and packet rice.

The father left the house. The mother stopped eating. Gave the girl sickly cakes which she flushed down the toilet in the dark empty house. The girl knew they were not given in love. They were the things the mother refused to eat because they would make her fat. She gave them to the girl instead. To make her fat and unlovable. The girl no longer had a lunch box. She carried a small amount of food in a plastic bag. Up and down the hill to school.

The mother got cross when the girl tried to make herself dinner. Old lasagne from the freezer which she put in the microwave. The mother didn’t like the smell. Didn’t like the mess. The girl tried to eat it hidden behind the end of her bed. She was so nervous it fell off her fork and onto the floor. The mother shouted. You shouldn’t have food in your bedroom. Think about the starving children. The mother’s shouting made no sense. The girl couldn’t swallow and threw away the food. She doesn’t remember what she ate instead.

The girl left the house and demanded expensive food. A full fridge. It made her upset if there was nothing to eat. She ate everything in the cupboard when no one was looking. First she took it to the new school and ate it in the toilets. Then she stayed in the new house all day with the curtains drawn. It made her sweat to buy food. Everybody will think I am greedy. So she waited for the food to be bought for her. Chocolate spread. Marshmallow. Fruit juice.

The girl went very far away. Every place she went dinner was hard to understand. She lives in a house near the first house now. Many things have happened. She is old. As old as the mother who shouted at her for eating.

The girl does her own shopping. She looks at the food. It makes her dizzy to choose. All the colours on the shelf. Sometimes she chooses disgusting foods because she believes they are what she deserves. She imagines how things will taste. She can enjoy the melt of ice cream on her tongue in the summer and the warmth of hot chocolate in her throat in the winter. She still sits alone. Five o’clock in front of the TV. No ugly noises of other people eating to distract her. But, to forget the mother, she serves herself dinner every day.

Wonder

It sits on the shelf screaming quietly. Drink me. Drink me. The label peeled off. The expiry date long since passed. No traces left of what was there before. In this small plastic pot. I can see it from every spot in the room. When she speaks on the phone I look at it. My mouth smiles but my eyes are hypnotised by this tiny wonder I have created. My little mixture of fool’s gold. Those small curves of frailty and strength.

It is not the first pot. The first pot was taken away. ‘I believe you have something in your bag,’ she said. I handed it over dumbly. If I didn’t she would have asked the men outside to take it from me. I would rather hand over what I know I will lose. Stay in control. Smile. Grin. Look at your shoes. Give willingly. You can make another pot. Keep it at home on the shelf. Full to the brim with Tyler’s potion.

They took my shoes off and watched me hit my head on the floor. Up and down. Smile. Wave. Drown. Think of the pot. Count down the days. Go home. Fill it gently. Love it. Look at it. Caress it. Know that it is there. Just in case. It calls out in the night. When it is quiet. When the absolute strain of being bursts your ears and you have to force your limbs to stay still on the bed. You cannot trust what you do at night when there is no one to empty your bag or shake away the dust. It sings from the shelf. You can make it a reality. You can. You can. Just reach out. Just change what is. What will be. But you wait. Open eyed until morning. Eat toast with the pot on the table. Hold the bread in one hand and chew. Shake the tiny beads with the other and swallow. Imagine no more need for language. Words. Questions.

The pot rests on the shelf. It is always there. In the back of my mind. In my bag. In my hand. It never allows me to be still. This is the container that holds my future. Which has drawn the outline of my body. It is the filth that defines me. A seething blackness which has brought wonder to my world.

The Dead Line

The body lies still
in this blue place.
The ebb and flow of breath
has gone.

The body lays disconnected.
All faded bruises and echoes.
Words left on pages,
Torn from books.

The body is granite.
It is at once leaden and weightless,
barely leaving a mark on the white cotton.

The body thinks to itself that this
is heaven and smiles inside.
It no longer has to fight electric pulse.
For once there is silence. Stillness.

The body has vague memories of being moved.
The weight of strange hands on
hips and thighs.
Blankets being squared around it,
Parcelled in.

People outside the body wait for the blackness to lift.
The head to lift.
The lungs to fill.

The body wants to remain
deep blue and sunken.
It tries to fight the current.
It pretends to be static
but they prise open its eyes
like reluctant hinges.

Wake up. Wake up.

The body hates this.
Returning to the main grid.
Joining the line that picks up the pulse.

The body beats again.
The body fights.

The body turns pink and fades from blue.

Mentor

He held the sleeve in the air. A shadow of her broken arms. So small. His fingers held them softly. As if he was holding her up. Like a puppet.

You can’t stay here.

I know she said, looking at her feet. It was the only place she wanted to be. It was the only place she felt safe. He saw her falling. Turning grey. His voice turned softer. Imploring.

If I could come to your house and take it away I would.

Then why don’t you.

You know why.

She knew it was absolute that he could never see her. Where she was. That all of this was false and already spoken. But she couldn’t stop.

Please. Just come. She said it over and over. Tiny little words she hoped would eat into him.

I’m not the right one. You can’t trust me.

But you are. You don’t see but it all led to this. This time. This place. It is the next evolution. I saw the sign. In the shop. And I saw the people on their knees in the rain. They were saying the words. The right words and they had a sign beside them too. It said healing. I knew then I had to find you. I knew where I had to go.

There are no signs. You came to me because you need an answer. Any answer. But I can’t help you.

Then why did you let me in? Why did you open your door?

I couldn’t leave you in the dark. In the rain. You’re clothes are wet.

Yes you could. You have done.

What do you mean?

I’ve been here before. Many times. It’s just that I knocked last night.

He swallowed. He looked at her. Perhaps she was capable of more than he’d imagined. Perhaps she was not as easy to acquiesce as the others who came to his door in the night. The one’s he led there and turned away. She was different. She was trying to get him to follow her. Bend to her will. He didn’t like it that she never cried. That she found him first.

He handed back her shirt and she lifted it over her head with a defiant little smile revelling in the discomfort of the wet. She went back out on the road alone. He was not the guide she had expected him to be.