GREY ROCK

Bellflower was the most beautiful in the garden with soft pink flowers and delicate leaves.  People who passed her stopped to take close ups of her to post on Instagram.

The Goldthread vine that grew nearby wasn’t admired, so no-one noticed when he crawled ever closer to Bellflower until he was in whispering distance.  “You look beautiful today.  But don’t you get tired of all those people sniffing your flowers and pressing their phone cameras against them?  It’s so intrusive.”

“I don’t know how to stop them,” said Bellflower.

Goldthread touched Bellflower gently with one of his vines, she didn’t protest, so he stayed, telling her how amazing she looked, how stunning her flowers were and how awful it was that she had to endure all this attention.

Bellflower became dependent on the daily compliments of Goldthread, she felt comforted by his cool vines that gently wrapped themselves around her branches, hiding her flowers from sight so the people didn’t come with their cameras.  Soon Goldthread became her world, everywhere she looked there he was, always smiling, protecting her.

Gradually Goldthread opened up to Bellflower, telling her of the problems he was facing.  He was ugly, no-one looked at him, he couldn’t get sufficient nutrients from the soil, it was easier to get his supply from other plants.  Could Bellflower help?  Gladly she gave him a share of the nutrients she sucked from the soil and Goldthread told her how kind she was.

The summer wore on and Bellflower dug deep for water; she’d been all right last summer, but this summer she was constantly thirsty.

“Goldthread, how much water are you taking?” she asked.

“Oh loads,” he responded glibly, “I’m growing another vine.  You don’t mind do you?”

“I’m very thirsty …”

“What?” cried Goldthread, “how can you be so selfish?  I’m here every day for you, shielding you from the people …”

“I didn’t ask you to …”

“Don’t interrupt me!” Goldthread tightened his hold on Bellflower, squeezing her with his vines until she begged for mercy.  Afterwards Bellflower sobbed, but Goldthread behaved as if nothing had happened.  He continued to drink and feast from her until she grew weak and ill.

“Please Goldthread,” she’d mutter, realising her flowers were dull and her leaves were shrivelling, “is this fair?”

But Goldthread always had excuses and worse was the drip of insults he now fed her; “You used to be so generous, you used to be beautiful, but now you’re mean and sad all the time.”

The gardener returned from her holiday and was shocked to find her most prized plant nearly suffocated by Goldthread’s vines.

“I don’t know what happened,” the under-gardener said.

“That pesky Goldthread!” sighed the gardener.  She dug Bellflower up and with great patience and gentleness removed every one of Goldthread’s vines.

The under-gardener took Bellflower to the south patio and put her in a tub, where she could be intensely fed and watered.

The gardener looked thoughtfully at Goldthread and placed beside him a dull grey rock.  

When she had gone, Goldthread said; “I can’t believe they’ve taken away Bellflower, the love of my life!  All I did was care for her!”

“Indeed,” said the rock.

“Will you comfort me?” wept Goldthread and tried to put his vines on the rock, but the rock felt cold and he couldn’t get a grip on it.

“I’m sure you’re very upset,” said the rock.

Goldthread complained endlessly about his injuries, he tried his hardest to entangle the rock, but got no supply from it; not even when it rained, the water just seemed to fall off the rock, like Goldthread’s vines.  On the south patio, Goldthread could see Bellflower flourishing in her tub and he became sick with envy and loss.  The dull grey rock was no help; it just went right on being there, soaking up the sun, shrugging off the rain.

OUR JOURNEY

The sun shone from a blue sky, the birds sang and the ground was firm beneath our feet.  Confidently, our arms around each other we began our journey.  I told you that it would be easy because it’s us and there’s nothing we can’t cope with.  You believed me and stepped forward full of hope.

You complained when it started to rain, but I reassured you it was just a shower.  It kept coming though.  You set your mouth in a firm line and carried on quietly.  I told you how much I admired your stoicism and my praise helped you continue.  We decided it would be easier just to hold hands and carry our luggage which was starting to feel a bit heavy.

After the rain cleared, we found ourselves in a different place.  The way ahead was flat, the ground boggy and the sky grey.  No birds sang and there was nothing to look at.  Every day was the same.  I became tired of it and complained.  You sympathised and would listen to me saying the same things over and over each day with great patience.  I recall now that you never told me how you were feeling; I guess I didn’t give you the chance.  Sometimes we’d go for days without holding hands.  It was on one of these days that the fog came down and I lost sight of you.

I was furious, how could you leave me to carry everything?  Somehow our baggage had increased.  I think it was something to do with the heavy days of dragging through the mud, we seemed to have more equipment, but it was a burden rather than a help.  I shouted your name, but couldn’t see you anywhere.  I became scared, especially when a sudden gust of wind blew the fog apart and for one second I thought I saw you.  You were not alone out there.  You were walking with someone else, arms round each other like we used to.

The mist closed in again before I could make a positive identification and I carried on down the road until I found you, waiting for me at a junction, your eyes red from crying.  We walked on in silence, sharing the load again, but you weren’t as talkative as you used to be.  I got the impression you resented something.

We’ve reached the bottom of the hill now and we can’t see the top of it.  For the first time we have stopped, uncertain of our way.  I’ve consulted the map, we have to climb.  I remember the time I told you what a lovely journey we’d have together.  What a lie.  You glare at me and turn your back, leading the way up, I can’t see your face, but I can guess it has that grim little expression you’ve been wearing for days.  God I’m sick of it.  I carry on after you sullenly, wondering what the point of this is - a silent journey, up an endless hill with no end in sight.

DATE NIGHT

People in the office did a double take when I came in.

“Have you done something new?”

“There’s something different ...”

I was wearing make-up and had straightened my hair.  Normally I didn’t make such an effort.

At lunch Max smiled broadly; “Sally, you look hot.”

“You can’t say that,” I scolded.

His brown eyes were warm; “Why not?  We’ve worked together for years.  What gives?”

“Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh dear God!”

“I have a big date lined up, been preparing for weeks.  I went on a diet after Christmas, bought a Prada dress.  I’m going to look amazing and be amazing – I hope.”

“This is with your husband, John, right?”

“Of course!” I widened my eyes, shocked that he could think otherwise, “everything’s organised.  We’re going to that French place, Truffles, but first a dozen red roses are being delivered with some champagne and chocolates, pour moi!” I giggled, “I don’t know whether to have those before we go out or ...”

“After,” interrupted Max, “definitely after.  Where is Carrie going to be?”

“Staying with John’s Mum.  All night.”

“Sounds amazing,” his voice was as accommodating as his eyes, “I have to salute John, he’s gone to such an effort.”

“Oh no,” I said, “I did it all.”

“What?  Even the flowers?” Max sounded shocked.

“And we’re not allowed to talk about work.”

Later when I left Max I thought he looked sad, maybe he was on his own this Valentine’s Day.  I rushed home, John’s Mum was collecting Carrie straight from school, the house was mine.  I danced as I got ready, music blaring.  John and I hadn’t spent time in a restaurant alone together for ages.  I hoped he wouldn’t be late.  Five minutes after I’d finished dressing his key rattled in the lock and in he came.  We looked at each other, I started to smile, but he turned away and looked at his phone; “No talking about work.  Got it,” he was referring to my earlier text, “huh, the office has e-mailed.  Be right with you.”

I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought I looked good, my tight little dress, my hair all done.

The roses arrived with the champagne and chocolates.  I whooped with delight as I opened them.   

“Fucking hell!  How much did they cost?” John asked.

By this time the taxi had arrived to take us to our romantic destination.  John sat in the back, answering work e-mails; “I’ll be with you in a sec love,” he said at five minute intervals.

In the restaurant I had his full attention.  He muttered a compliment about my dress, then frowned at our surroundings; “It’s crowded.”

It was crowded.  Tables for two crammed next to each other so that it was impossible to have a private conversation.  It didn’t stop the determined couples though, they stared into each other’s eyes, giggled and whispered.  One couple were even kissing.  I flashed back to twenty years ago when I’d got on that train for a 400 mile journey that I didn’t come home from.  John was waiting at that cold northern station, his mouth had been hot and hungry, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other in the takeaway while we waited for our food.

I looked now at a stranger opposite me, clearly uncomfortable because he couldn’t look at his smart phone, unable to think of one thing to say to me because we couldn’t talk about work.  I didn’t know what to say either.  My phone bleeped.

“Excuse me,” I said.

It was a text from Max; ‘Hope you’re having a great night.  I bet you are being amazing x’.

I stared at it and thought of his warm brown eyes and deep voice.  I looked at the x at the end of the informal text and thought of Carrie.  My hands started to shake.

THE LIVING

I marvel at how well preserved my corpse is. I can feel it decaying from the inside, but when I look in the mirror my body hasn't changed, so I go on.

It's painful being a walking corpse. There are sores where my heart used to be and they open at the slightest criticism. The foul smelling pus that pours out disgusts the Living. I clean the wound, flush the dead flesh down the toilet and carry on. I try to pretend nothing has happened but the Living remember.

The Living are getting on with things - bargains on eBay, redecoration, paint, carpets and DIY. They talk about weddings they went to and restaurants, of holiday destinations and television. They see my lack of interest as rude, but I'm preoccupied with trying to hide the stink of corruption permeating from under my baggy clothes. How I envy the living, their thick skins and ability to concentrate on the most trifling of matters. I can't remember what that was like. It was such a long time ago

You occasionally look for signs of life and it frustrates you when you can't even detect a heartbeat. You demand unfairly that I do something about it, you say the smell is getting to you and nobody enjoys fucking a corpse. I don't blame you my darling. I can remember love and I can go through the motions, but it isn't enough. You have learned the truth about the empty vessel that once looked as though it housed life and you can't get away fast enough.

DISCONNECT

I’m where I should be, at the family party, pouring champagne for everyone when it happens.  I start to lose interest.  In panic I try desperately to involve myself in a conversation about the premier league with my brother, but he smiles indulgently, like his younger sister couldn’t possibly know a thing about football.  I then try and talk finance with my father, but he reminds me I have no savings to invest.  Careless of me.

My mother directs me to fill more glasses.  I look at all the faces and hear the same conversations spilling out of mouths.  The warmth is sucked from the room and the music dies in my ears.  I can feel the weight of the bottle in my hand, but that is all.  I put it down on the table because I’m afraid I’m going to drop it.  Desperately I try to make eye contact but everyone is in deep conversation – my parents, my brother, their friends and the man who got through to me for a season.  I feel nothing, no love, no sense of belonging and I want to scream for help.  I am receding.  I try to cling to the sound of the little girl playing in the garden, but it won’t save me.  If I feel no love for a child, then there is no hope for me.

The scene begins to roll back, the cream wall paper is replaced by a deep black night.  The people, table and chairs disappear and the carpet is replaced by a sea of litter.  I am alone in a midnight junk yard, standing amongst the grey rubble of my life, illuminated by floodlights.  Broken dolls, thrown away clothes, bottles, ancient furniture.  The scene is all too familiar to me.  A hand touches my shoulder, I spin round and he is there, face all confusion; “What is this place?”

I’m galvanised into action, no-one has come with me before and it’s dangerous here; “Quick!  We must find it before it’s too late!”
“What?” he asks.
“You’ll know it when you see it!”
I begin my search desperately through the crap built up over years.  It has to be buried here somewhere.  He asks me no more questions, but begins to hunt too, wrenching aside a rocking horse and feeling underneath.  We hear the sound in the background, the growing sound of engines, of junk being ground down under wheels.
“They’re coming!  Oh God!” I cry because they normally give me more time.  I can see them in the distance, great engines, ploughing everything inwards in front of them, crushing everything else.
He doesn’t panic like I do, he simply reassures me that we’re going to find it, that it’s definitely here.  I wonder how he can know.  I tear up a girls world doll head, nothing under it, I look inside an old cupboard, it’s empty.  The juggernauts are getting closer.  We can hear nothing now but the sound of bending metal, crunching glass and machinery as loud as freight trains in the night.
“Got it!” he yells and hands it to me, just as they close in.

I pick up the champagne bottle from the table and continue my rounds, I can feel my heart beating in my chest, feel its warmth at the sound of the child’s play and the voice of my mother.  I reach him and hold his shaking hand steady as I refill his glass, my eyes meet his; “That was close,” I murmur.

PEDESTAL

“Wow!  Look at ‘er, up there!”

“She’s so beautiful!”
“I love her dress.”
“She’s perfect.”

Yes, smile and wave at them, try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off.  It’s so hard to keep my balance on this wretched thing and if I do ... well, it wobbled the other day; I slipped and only just managed to stay on my feet.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.

The pedestal is shaking, people are gasping and pointing, but I can’t see what they’re looking at, it’s directly under me, I’m slipping this way and that.  Oh my God!  My heart is in my throat, finally I’m falling.  Oh it feels so free to fall, I love this part ...  Someone catches me and it’s almost disappointing.  However, here he is handsome, smiling and full of self confidence.

“You looked kind of sad all the way up there,” he said, “I wanted to see you close up.”
We walk together arm in arm, through the dispersing crowd.

The six months of bliss begin, when I can be truly myself.  I laugh at rude jokes, sometimes I even tell them.  I drink alcohol and smoke a cigarette or two.  My rescuer and I make love at night in satin sheets, the taste of champagne in our mouths.  I have never been happier.  Then one day a frown appears on his face; “You’re so perfect, I don’t deserve you.”

“Of course you do.”
We walk through the town that evening and my rescuer becomes all the more gloomy as I strut along the pavement, smiling at everyone, small children, women, other men.  They all smile back.
“Everyone looks at you!” he suddenly exclaimed, “and then they see me and think what the hell is she doing with that idiot!  I can’t bear it.  Come on!”  He is guiding me towards the park.
A horrible feeling of dread descends on me.  I stop smiling; “Please!” I beg him, “I can’t help being this way, but please don’t ...!”
The pedestal is rearing up before us in the dying light.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I love you, but you’re safer up there where no-one can touch you!”

 

Smile and wave at them – when I’ve jumped one of them has always caught me.  Try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off - a fall from the pedestal always ends with my return to it.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.

 

WAR CRIMES

Serena arrived at the party, step light, carefree and effervescent.  The eyes of men followed her and her stories caused laughter.  I stood in her shadow as she discussed art, academia and politics; I was trying to forget the danger.
Our mother touched my arm; “Amelia, check outside will you?”
I slipped out the back door and swore.  Birdsong had stopped, I could see the dark clouds rushing in and great black shadows falling across the summer garden.  One by one the fairy lights went out and the air turned icy.

I rushed indoors, but it was too late.  The band ceased, the dancing stopped and people fell silent.  The Occupiers were among us.  Their Leader pounced on the bar, sticking his head into the punch bowl, slurping up the liquid and spilling the rest, another smashed the buffet table over with his tail and the last trod birthday cake into the carpet with his paws.  The Leader raised his head; his red eyes had fallen on Serena.  She faced him in her white party dress, the polite smile a mask to hide her anger.  I reached her before he did and ushered her into the bathroom.  I helped her out of the dress and into sack-cloth, I daubed ashes on her face and tied her long hair back.

“It’s not your fault,” I repeated.
“But it is,” she said, a grey drab thing now, fit for the Leader’s eyes.
In he stalked, sneering at us; “Did you think I’d miss the party?  Was there talk of rebellion?  Are they taking my Serena away?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” she replied boldly.
“They couldn’t!” I added hastily, “Serena will never leave you.”
The Leader looked at me suspiciously; “Bring her to the Adjustment Room,” he ordered and returned to the bar to stick his head into the basin of wine that had no doubt been poured for him, in the hope it would improve his mood.
“Amelia, please try and persuade him to come with us now,” Serena begged, “do not let him drink!”
My efforts were rejected with vicious irritation.  He was with the other Occupiers and they were surrounded by an ingratiating crowd of reassurers.  He wanted to hear them.  Serena and I walked alone down the dark lane; at the end was the rusty railway line from older days.  On it was the disused carriage – the Adjustment Room.  We waited in the freezing night air until we heard him shambling along the lane towards us, then Serena went inside.

 

I sat outside listening to his raised voice, her placations and her cries.  I remembered the time before the Terrible Change when we had all been friends, before the sickness that had swept across the land and made them strong and us weak.  I thought of the innocence of our family celebration, about how the contrast between then and what Serena was going through now could break her mind.  I cried the tears of a collaborator.  I had to take my sister to him, she was the price we paid for food, wine and protection.

 

Eventually he crawled out, looking almost human – for he had been human once; “I hate this war,” he said, “I liked seeing her as she used to be, but I couldn’t ... I couldn’t allow it.”  He lay down to sleep beside the rusty rail.  I could hear Serena sobbing.  He didn’t stop me when I slipped past him to enter the Adjustment Room.  I lay next to Serena and held her tightly; “Each visit and I diminish more,” she whispered, but we did not discuss it.  We never thought, never questioned; we did what was necessary.

EVA

I first heard Eva’s low musical laugh as she passed by to pick up her kids from school.  I went to the window to see her sashaying down the road in her mini skirt - the image endured.  I asked about our new neighbour, but Eva’s private life was a mystery.  I started lying awake on Saturday nights, listening for the clip clop of her heels as she returned with some man, her laugh, her voice; my erection was pressed firmly into the bed, while my wife slept angelically beside me.

 

Eva needed help moving some furniture and my sweet darling wife sent me. The rest is history.  Over those summer lunch times, when Eva’s kids were at school, we’d meet and lie in sweat tangled sheets, gloriously fucking.  I dreamed of running away with her, but she wouldn’t introduce me to her children or even tell me what music she liked.  I knew as little about her at the start as I did at the end.

 

That dreadful day in September, I sought her in desperation; “My wife’s found out!”

“Well, it was always a risk wasn’t it?” Eva shrugged, her expression closed.
“What do I do?” I asked, tears springing to my eyes.
“I don’t know,” she replied dispassionately, as if we were talking about a financial dilemma or work problem.  Then she shut the door in my face.
 

Even when the summer had long gone, my wife’s health declined.  She told no-one about the affair and her silence weighed heavy.  That capable, bustling darling who ran my life became a shadow, because of Eva.  Eva who walked away like it meant nothing, who took no responsibility for the suffering she caused.  I began to ask myself what possible use to society was Eva?  The grapevine told me how she’d cast aside men that had fallen in love with her because she didn’t want anyone to get too close, how she’d deliberately target married men because they would return to their wives. Also, how did she make her money?  There was lots of speculation.

 

I still heard her laugh Saturday nights as she returned with some man.   I kept recalling those summer lunch breaks and the feel of her flesh against mine.  I called her and asked to meet.  I did not do this for my sake, but my wife’s and the neighbourhood’s.  Eva was a parasite living off the misery of others.  I drove her to the fields I’d played in as a boy.  I led her out of the car and into a copse of trees.  I kissed her passionately, then put my hands around her neck and squeezed.  I didn’t expect to feel anything but a sense of grim duty, but as her struggles became desperate, I kept flashing back to those moments we had shared.  When she was dead, I placed her in a shallow grave and drove home, happy in the knowledge I would not see or hear from her again.

 

Eva appeared everywhere, her face on neighbourhood posters and CCTV images of her sashaying through the shopping centre on local television.  If not seen, she was heard - the emotive press conference the father of her children gave, talking about the wonderful hard working mum who’d let him take the kids every Saturday.  The neighbours spoke of the charity she’d set up and run from home and how she’d visited her sick mother every day.  Then on the day they found Eva buried in my boyhood fields, my wife finally broke her silence and that’s when I heard it again, the low musical laugh.

INTO THE STORM

Caroline came hurtling down the corridor; “Ali!  You can’t go!  I won’t let you!”

I said nothing, but she talked on.
“The storm’s coming and the route you’re taking is heading right into it!  They say don’t travel unless absolutely necessary!”
“It’s necessary.”
“Don’t go on your own.  Let me come or Gina.  Have you spoken to Gina?”
Gina had said don’t go.
“You can’t manage on your own,” insisted Caroline, “you can’t do it.”
“I’ll be fine,” I stated, “look outside, the sun is shining!”

There was a low growl of thunder as I walked past the grim office buildings to the car park.  I could see the black clouds piling in stark contrast to the blue sky.  People always exaggerated, they’d forecast an immense storm, but nothing major would happen.  I drove to the motorway.  It was busy at first, but as the day darkened, the clouds packed in and the fat rain pelted windscreens, the cars peeled off.  They took this junction or that, heading to the comfort of home, family, food and wine.  I continued, windscreen wipers at highest setting, taking comfort from the presence of a BMW ahead.  As I crossed the bridge, a huge gust of wind nearly tore the wheel from my hands; I fought for a few seconds to right the car, to get it in a straight line.  The BMW slowed right down, hazard lights on.

It became difficult to see through evermore relentless rain.  Now and then the thunder would drown out the warning voices on my radio.   The BMW was slowing, we were being flagged down.  I opened my window, the cop looked in; “Where you going?”

I told him.
“The river’s about to burst its banks, you can’t ...”
I just drove off.  All week I’d been hearing ‘you can’t’, ‘it’s impossible’, ‘you’ll never make it’, ‘you can’t do it alone’. I was sick of it.

No more BMW and the Police hadn’t followed ... Suddenly I wished they were here, Gina was always calm in emergencies and Caroline would be joking by now.  I had to prove to them that I was strong though, because they’d never believed in me.  I had to face the storm.

Suddenly I became aware that it wasn’t puddles anymore, I was driving through deepening water.  I couldn’t turn back, it was only five miles to my destination junction.  The cop had said the river had burst its banks.  Well, how bad could it flood on a motorway?  I kept in a low gear, but after three miles the engine just choked and died.  Out of the window, I could see the water had risen up past the tyres; it was seeping through the floor.  My feet were wet.

I sat there for some time, thinking about how weak I’d been and how strong I’d have to be now.  It didn’t occur to me to go back.  I thought of how you’d be waiting for me at the other side, just as I remembered you, the man I fell in love with and it was only two miles to my destination ...

I opened the door; the water was thigh high and freezing.  I plunged through it, the rain on my face, the sky all dark, not a chink of light or a hint of the storm easing off anywhere.  I held my bag with my phone, my keys my purse aloft.  I felt the strength of the current, trying to drag me in another direction.  I continued on my way, into the dark and cold.

FOREVER

She had been looking forward to this day all week and now it was finally here.  It took her two hours and fifteen minutes to get ready and yet she was still ten minutes early for the train.  He met her at the station, she was pleased to see he’d made an effort too.  His skin was lightly scented with cologne, his strategically tousled hair softened his features.  She ran to him and they kissed passionately.

 

At the restaurant they talked about everything that had ever meant anything to them, they had so much in common.  She loved the fact that he tipped generously and he opened the door for her on the way out.  It was a foregone conclusion that she’d end up back at his place.  There was soft lighting, music and champagne waiting.  He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

“Oh!” she gasped, “I never want this night to end.”
He smiled and guided her to the bedroom.  Never had she been loved like this, he took the lead
and seemed to know what she wanted.  There was no time to get tired or even to drink the champagne, she was lost and immersed in him.  The night stretched on with whispered confessions of love, moment after moment of pleasure, orgasm followed by orgasm.

It was only when she went to get a glass of water that she noticed the time.  The kitchen clock must have stopped, she checked her own watch, then her smart phone.  It could not be midnight, they had left the restaurant at half past 11 and that had been ages ago.  She turned on the television in the living room, the clock on the rolling news said midnight.  The newscasters were frozen in mid sentence.  She started to go to the window, but his arms encircling her waist from behind stopped her; “You OK?” he said gently.

For some reason, she shuddered at his touch; “It’s – it’s still midnight,” she replied.
“Ah yes,” he breathed, “you wanted this night to never end.”
“But ...”
“Come back to bed, honey.  There’s still lots of things to do, lots of games to play.”

DOPPELGANGER

I’ve been waiting for you to come back.  I’ve waited in other houses, for a car to pull up outside, for a man to return for his dinner.  I’m used to it.  I will wait and hope your death is not permanent and that the other who has taken your place leaves soon, because I don’t like him as much.

Who knows where you went.  You were there for a season - a genius, an artist and a mystery.  You made me so happy.  I saw your death beginning and I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t be told.  The blackness swallowed you up little by little and all those things I loved about you disappeared.  I am left with the other now; I tiptoe around his growing irritation at my questioning presence, obsequiously fulfilling his needs, in the hope that I might entice you back.  Occasionally there are glimpses and I have the comfort of hope.

If I could take my love tinted glasses off, I would be clear sighted enough to see that the transformation is complete.  You are dead and gone.  I have made a commitment to an illusion and it has slipped away, leaving me with what is real and forever.  I am left with the memories, last year’s journal and the stories you once wrote.  I read them in these early hours of January.  I deny disappointment.  Life will go on, a new beginning based on what never was.

THAT DRESS

We come into the bedroom and find it has escaped from its box.  We shut it in the room with us, but it still wreaks havoc, racing around and trashing the furniture.  It tears through your suits with its claws and rips apart my favourite dress with its bony hands.  We are well drilled with what to do.  We sit on our bed with our fingers stuffed in our ears and our eyes firmly shut, waiting for it to exhaust itself.

Eventually, you nudge me; “I think it’s tiring.  Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I whisper, “we mustn’t look at it.”  I recall the last time I glimpsed its green flesh and emerald eyes.  It took us days to recover.
“It’s behind us,” you murmur.
I feel its rank breath on the back of my neck and cry; “Now!” We turn; eyes shut and grab its slippery body, holding on tight.  It puts up one hell of a struggle.  We stagger, holding it between us to the box.  We are well versed in the techniques of putting it back in, but it seems to take forever.  It’s so hard to work with your eyes shut, but we stick to the routine.  You hold it, I force down the lid and you remove yourself at the last possible second ... Finally after four failed attempts, we trap it and can open our eyes again.  We sit on the box while it howls obscenities from within and reminds us of the past - of every argument that we ever had.  It feeds on attention, being listened to, looked at and fought with.  We’re aware that even our tussle with it has given it strength.  It can never die; being put in a box and ignored is the only thing that can weaken it.  We hold each other, kiss, reaffirm our love and it finally shuts up.

You glance at me wearily, get up and leave the room.  I remain sitting, racking my brains as to how it could have got out.  You went out last night and I heard it moving in the box, whispering maliciously to me, but I let the words wash over me as trained and you came back, didn’t you?  Albeit two hours after you said you would, a little drunk, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Maybe it was something I did.  There are verbal and non verbal signals that allow it to escape and it seems to me that these days the slightest little thing can release it.  I didn’t mean what I said this morning though, before I put my little dress on and went to the office ... Well, that dress is torn up in pieces in the corner now and I can never wear it again.

FOR A SEASON

The office was doing his head in.  James took a walk in the park, choosing the path leading into the woods.  After a while, he stopped and stared into a clearing.  The wind was playing games with the leaves, picking them up, spiralling them and letting them fall.  Somehow the dancing woman seemed part of woods, wind and leaves; they whirled all around her as she spun and pirouetted.  He cleared his throat and she turned.  There was power in her steady gaze.  Her colours were autumn, auburn hair, green eyes, warm complexion.  She wore muted reds and browns.  She smiled.  James looked her up and down, nodded approvingly and said; “What’s your name, love?”

James’ world was one of profits, pensions and portfolios - the people occupying it were image conscious and shallow.  Katy’s conversation was of nature and change.  He did his best to follow it and asked if he could date her.

“For a season,” she said.
Over the following days, he persuaded her into the pub and then into his flat.  She looked beautiful, naked in his bed, but she asked such irritating questions; “Why are you never outside?  Why do you waste your time doing a job you hate?”  He hadn’t thought of these things before.  He’d gone to office, pub and home, existing without living, moving without aim.  Sometimes he wished she’d shut up.  She made him restless.

The nights drew in and the air became bitter.  In the park, he noticed how in tune with her surroundings she was, hair almost white blonde now, like the frost that was still heavy on the ground.  She wore a combination of blues and blacks, her eyes were icy and her pale skin cold.

“You’ve got thinner,” he remarked.
Katy seemed distracted; “Time is running out.”
James agreed; “I’ve only got half hour’s break today.  The wheels of industry keep turnin’.”
“Things shouldn’t stay the same,” she said.
“I don’t know.  I think you and me, we’ve been seein’ each other for a little while, we could keep on seein’ each other; there might be a future.  What do you say?”
She laughed, the sound was brittle, like branches snapping in a storm; “The season’s ending, James.  We will end with it.”
“Enough of this shit!” he snapped, “what’s happened to you anyway?  You look different, not half so pretty.  I don’t like you like this.”
She kissed him with dry lips, her cold, hard hands circled his face and she stared deeply into his eyes; “Remember, time runs away.  It disappears.”
He watched her walk away and shouted after her; “I’m sorry!  Tomorrow, yeah?”
She made no sign that she’d heard.

The next day he called her mobile only to hear a weird crackling over the line.  He walked into the woods, the trees were stripped bare, the clearing empty.  There was no Katy, no dancing leaves, just the cold and lingering frost.  He realised what had happened, sank to his knees on the petrified ground and wept.  Then slowly, he wiped his eyes, got to his feet and returned to the office.

IN YOUR SHADOW

My life suddenly lost direction.  I was left uncertain and over-whelmed by a hundred possibilities.  I could not choose.  You offered me shelter and took the pain of decision away.  I've always sought to hide and you are a big tall man, there was room for me in your shadow.  It became my refuge and you made it so easy, happily making my choices for me after courteously asking for my opinion and kindly accepting that I had none.

Obviously I needed camouflage, so I wore charcoal greys by day and midnight blue or black at night.  I was happy when people stopped noticing me.  Waitresses deferred to you for food orders and bills; barmen who used to give me the briefest of smiles were now dead eyed and disinterested as they took your money and provided drinks.  The world carried on without noticing that I was gradually slipping away.

I couldn't have chosen a more charismatic protector.  Even my friends, who had previously been eager for my views, now cared only for yours.  At the dinner party, they spoke to you, while I played with my food and watched myself disappear inside your big grey shadow, in my grey dress, free to pass the time thinking my own thoughts.

These deliberations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of my name.  It was my long time friend Sarah speaking; “So, where’s Jane tonight?” she asked you.

Right here, I thought, but I didn't speak because that would mean stepping out and standing out.
You stared at her; “I – I thought she was here.”
You looked over my head, then in the opposite direction and became confused; “She was here!”
“I didn't see her,” Sarah's husband John stated.
“She didn't come in with you,” Sarah added.
You stood, distress evident on your face; “I'm sure I … look, I should go home!”
I smiled, happy in the knowledge that what I had always wanted had happened.  I had disappeared, I no longer existed.

BREATHE

At first I didn’t feel anything and I didn’t guard my heart because I didn’t consider you a threat.  It happened during that stroll, when the sun was in your hair and you were kicking autumn leaves, laughing at my jokes.  Suddenly I loved you, just like that.  You paused, gasping for breath and looked up.

“You OK?” I asked.
“A bit breathless.”
“Me too,” I smiled tenderly.

I cried when I went home.  You have to understand, I hadn’t loved for years and the intensity of it tortured me.  I had to be near you.  So I knocked on your door, fell into your arms and told you everything.

“I must move in,” I insisted, “we can’t be apart.”
“I’m sorry,” you replied, “you see, I can’t breathe when I’m with you.”
This was a ridiculous claim, made in order to dodge commitment.  I lost my temper, it was your fault I was in love; you’d have to accept the consequences.

You did your best to make your home mine, but you became listless and complained of headaches.  You were drowsy by day and restless at night.  It worried me and I told you to rest.  Despite my constant attention, your skin darkened and I was aware that you were always struggling to breathe.

One night I woke to an empty bed and found you asleep in the living room.  I hoped you were better because you were breathing more easily, but as soon as I came in, you woke and began that horrible rasping again.  I told you that your condition required comfort, not a cold couch.  “I can’t breathe when I lie beside you,” you complained.

“You want to be in any other room except the one I’m in!  You don’t love me!” I snapped.
“It’s not that!  I just ... can’t ... breathe!”

I had to carry you into the bedroom; then I lay next to you, telling you I’d never go from your side and all would be well.

“Please ...” you whispered, your breath coming in labored gasps, “please ...”
I couldn’t leave you like you wanted, you needed care and I loved you too much.  I put everything required in the one room and remained beside you.  As time passed, I cried and begged and pleaded you to fight.
“If you could just ... go ...” you said faintly.
I shook my head.
You shut your eyes in defeat.  My heart beat quickened and a lump rose in my throat.  “No!” I cried in anguish.

I hugged your unconscious body, told you I loved you and begged you to wake.  As my feelings reached their peak, you drew your last breath.  My hand was on your heart when it ceased to beat and my arms were around you when your flesh turned cold.  I held on and on.