What did I do wrong?
What did I do wrong?
I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it.
I just need to know.
Ignore the punch,
the pin,
the pain.
Think.
It’ll be better,
when you know.
Can’t feel it.
Don’t have to.
You’re okay out here;
Don’t look below.
Pain’s easy,
File it away,
with the rest.
Like their death.
It was sad.
Store the funeral too.
Just a day. Just one day.
Like the crash.
That was bad,
But, the pain,
was okay.
The pain was okay.
Now everyone’s watching.
They’re talking; expecting.
You have to escape.
Emotions erupting.
The punch.
The pin.
The pain.
Shove them down.
Press them down.
Keep on smiling.
Keep smiling.
You’re not going to make it.
There’s no room. No room.
You should run.
You should hide.
This is awful; you’ll die.
They’re all watching and waiting for you to trip over,
The pain is erupting, the tears are in motion, from your gut to your throat,
try to gulp, but you choke. Still. Silent, but choking.
Provoking their movement and now they’re on fire.
They burn in your skull, behind eyes. Here they come.
Gotta run. Just keep running. To the quiet of alone. To the kitchen.
Alone now, they run. Run the tap, boil the kettle, hide the noise of your breath.
Of your breathing. The heaving of heavy hearts laborious beating. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. It won't stop. It won’t stop. You look to the kettle to the boiling and steaming. It won’t stop. It won’t stop. You’re reeling. You’re dying. It won’t stop. It wo—
Pour it over your hand.
It is burning—soothing.
Keep on pouring,
for as long as you dare.
The emotions are leaving.
Retreating. Defeated.
You've regained control.
Your breathing slows.
Nothing is wrong, now.
You’ve fixed it. Fix yourself.
Feel the jolt of the cold tap.
You’re back in control.
He snatches the map from my hands.
“Mine!”
We quarry.
“It’s mine!”
I snatch it back and glare at him.
“I’ll walk.”
“No, lets drive. It’s Miles.”
“Oh, hay Miles!”
“Hay? Oh, in the field. Hey.”
“Did you box?”
“Nah, I bottled it.”
“Where?”
“It’s on the rocks.”
He hands me the glasses.
I put them on and read the sign.
“Leo.”
“That’s me. It looks like we’re all here!”
“We’re going to mine.”
“Ore?”
“Copper!”
“...Plain clothes?”
“No. They're quite colourful.”
Someone Else’s Mess.
The woman in the doorway wears herself the way I wear my worst days—poorly. Her fingers clench and splay in spasms; her knuckles whiten and return to pink. With flushed cheeks, she clings to the cold antiseptic frame, unsure if she wants to enter the waiting room. Her eyes dart anywhere but at me—the only other person around.
My eyes scan the space. Light floods in through a wall of windows to my left overlooking grassy fields and a long, pebbled driveway. Agoraphobic chairs line the edges of the square room, keeping their distance from the social circle of seats gathered in the centre of the space.
A loud squeak comes from the woman as her well-polished shoe scuffs the well-polished floor. One of her feet betrays her, trying to enter the room, but she pulls it back across the threshold to safety. In a panic of self-conscious behaviour, she almost makes eye contact with me but looks away, brushing a bedraggled strand of hair in front of her face.
She is coiled tight, and her eyes seem to jump from spot to spot around the room. Her lips work in micro-mannerisms, silent but verbal, as if she is assessing each space, weighing the pros and cons, then coming to her conclusions with a tiny shake of the head and then on to the next evaluation.
I stand up from my seat.
“It can’t be the centre chairs.”
Her ears prick.
“Sitting there, people could surround us. Whenever someone walks behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t like feeling vulnerable like that.”
She glances to the chairs.
“Not the chairs on the far side of the room either."
Another glance.
“No exits.” I pause and look back at the chair I had been sitting in. “Looks like I chose right the first time. It’s halfway between the door and the window, back against the wall, and you can see the whole room. It’s—well, it’s perfect.”
In my periphery, I can tell that she watches me; both of her feet have crossed back into the room now and she has wrapped herself up in thin arms. Her eyes flit to the seat.
“If you like, I will move over one and, ya know, you can have it. That way, I can open the window if we need to get out quick. Unless there is another seat you would like?”
She flings herself across the room, head down, staring at the floor, and almost crashes into the seat next to me.
“Would you like me to sit somewhere else?”
I turn as if to leave.
She reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my wool cardigan. I turn to look at the sleeve and she slams her hand down into her lap and looks at the floor.
I sit in the seat next to her.
She positions herself in the half of her seat closest to me. Her fingers relax, becoming still and she sits them in her lap. We sit for a few minutes in silence, until I notice that she is shivering, shoulders trembling against the thin fabric of her clothes. I sit forward and take off the cardigan.
“I’m so hot in this thing.”
She watches me lay the thing in my lap.
“I only really wear it because… well, it’s so soft and cozy. I can’t handle being too warm. Would you mind holding on to it for me?”
She freezes for a beat, and I think I see the barest nod.
I lay it over as much of her lap as I feel I can get away with.
A few more minutes pass, and her hands shift under the cardigan. She inches it up until she is all but wearing it. I sit back in the chair and stretch my arms out, resting them on the frame of a large heater behind us. It doesn’t hum or give any heat. She almost leans her head into me as she pulls the wool up to her chin, hiding in it.
Two women with lanyards appear in the doorway.
“There you are!”
“We’ve been looking all over for you, sweetheart.”
“You’ll have to come back with us, okay.”
It wasn’t really a question.
She stands, and the cardigan falls slack in her hands.
I try for my most disarming smile and begin to reach for the cardigan.
She makes brief eye contact with me, then locks her eyes onto the cardigan, wide with fear.
I pull my hand away.
She watches me and slowly slides one arm into the sleeve. One nurse helps her with the other arm and they both stand on either side of her, smile perfunctorily at me, then guide her out.
I watch her leave, confused, and listen to them squeak away, heels echoing down the hallway, until the room falls silent, save for a growing ring in my ears.
I stand.
“But…my cardigan.”
Deep down into the urban warren where I perch, a pair of alleyway shadows join hands, passing a small baggie between them. Money soon follows. I shake my head and step out from my resting spot. A plague of people scuttle past my side street, and I slip out, falling into step with the rabble as we scratch our way across the filthy pavement. None of us care about the others, unless they get in our way, and even then, it lasts only as long as an angry spark, before being snuffed out and forgotten—we are vermin, fighting for scraps.
Though I see no one person talking, the serrated edge of constant, cutting voices rips through the traffic and crowd, bleeding into my periphery. Ahead, a straw-haired teenage girl collides with a man and his suit. As the suit turns to face her, another girl, hood up, shadow falling across her face like a visor, rolls past his other side, dipping her hand into his pocket, and palming a wallet and phone, without being noticed.
Hoodie comes within reach. I grasp her wrist, squeezing it. Then, with a calculated twist, I wrench her arm free of her front pocket and jerk it upward. The pain forces her to drop the wallet and phone into my waiting hands. I shove her to the floor. She looks up, teeth bared, with fury burning in her glare. My empty black eyes and too-welcoming smile dare her to try something. She shrinks back. Without a word, she shuffles back into the pack.
I look at the phone; garbage. I chuck it to the floor and stamp down on it, relishing the destructive crunch beneath my boot. As I twist my heel, I root through the wallet and am surprised to find actual cash. In this day and age. Straw-hair, Hoodie, and Suit have evaporated into the throng and I am left alone with my spoils.
Further along, the stench of burning onions, warm bread, and dodgy meat drags me to a fat, grubby man at a free-standing cart.
“I’ll take a large.”
“Mustard? Onions?”
“Both. Lots.”
The vendor drops the meat into a bun, then wipes dripping tongs onto his grease-stained apron. He tosses on onions and douses it with grey-yellow sauce. As he wraps it up, I clock a guy further down the street. He is sitting in a torn sleeping bag, wearing a hardy coat with hood raised against the cold. He is a scraggly man with dirty cheeks.
“Better make it two.”
I slip a twenty back into the wallet and drop it, and a wrapped bun into his lap, disappearing before the wretch sees me. It’s not that I like him, or the homeless; I hate how people treat him more. Every day, the putrid nature of mankind solidifies my resolve. A pregnant woman takes a long drag, burning her cigarette to its end. My hand brushes hers, sending a hollow darkness through it into her heart. She drops dead.
Haibun - There are Storms and There are Storms.
Only seconds into the storm, and the rain has soaked through my heavy brown shirt, my vest, and now streams down my spine. A rivulet traces my thick, neanderthal brow before drip-drip-dripping into my eye. I dash under the thick canopy of a nearby oak, to protect myself from the downpour. The constant roll of drumbeat-rain dampens from a forte, down to mezzo-forte as the oak mutes the sound.
I shake the water out of my hair and wipe my eyes with an ineffective wet sleeve. My phone slips out of my pocket into the dirt. I pick it up and wipe it off. It lights up. The lockscreen reads ‘5 missed calls’. I tuck it deeper into the pocket and roll my neck trying to stretch away the sudden strain. It’s work calling. I do love a storm, but there are storms… and there are storms. I am happier out in this.
Under ancient oak,
I listen close—to ignore,
The first storm of spring.
A fat droplet smacks my head, dripping from the branches above and knocking me out of my stupor. I move inside, to the trunk of the tree, and lean back against its weathered, wrinkled bark, slumping into a squat at the base. Not comfortable but cradled by it.
The light dims; I crane my neck to see the cloud overhead, a warning shade of almost-black. In seconds, the storm doubles in intensity. A raucous thundering applause of rain batters the forest floor, cutting me away from anything but this moment. A smile warms onto my face and grows in mirth until I can’t help but release an awed laugh.
I spend several minutes watching the path meander its way up a steep slope to its summit, where water pools, spills over, and runs down towards me, lapping up leaves, twigs, and other debris along the way. The forest floor is overwhelmed by the sheer volume of rain, falling apart.
The cold man’s stupor,
Dumbstruck by a fat droplet,
shifts to mirth—springs warmth.
The cold has me shivering. My wet clothes cling to my skin in the least flattering way, tucking into every fold until I look like a sopping wild mushroom sprouting from the side of the gnarled oak. I like the sensation. Besides, there is no one here to see.
The applause dies down and the lights go up; The black curtain of cloud parts, revealing the sun. I watch it retreat to the horizon, taking with it the last of the rain. I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I stand, take a deep breath, then my head drops, and the breath falls out in a hard sigh.
A ray of light breaches a gap in the forest’s defences, shining a beacon on the outskirts of my canopy. My feet are reluctant to trudge towards the edge, and I hesitate before stepping out into the light. The intense heat chases away my shivers as I bathe in it. It shines through me, revealing the veiled corners of my consciousness, and in doing so, exposes me to the fears that reside there. I eye the black clouds waiting for me on the horizon. I can go back, now. This storm is over.
A bud in sunlight,
Dark storm on the horizon,
Growth—in sun and rain.
“It's that little souvenir, of a terrible year, which makes my eyes feel sore.”
I am so suggestable, singing The Sundays, on a Sunday, and feeling that soreness in my eyes because, as usual, they picked up my daughter, and took her away for another week.
“Here’s where…” I run the water over my face to ease the sting, then spit the water away from my mouth. “…the story ends.”
There’s blood in the shower tray again. I must remember to rinse it down after. The poor, dilapidated thing could do with a scrub. Knowing I should put on gloves, and get going is one thing, but trying to perform the mental gymnastics just to start that damned process is exhausting.
The black mold is back. The closet sized room doesn’t have enough ventilation to keep it at bay for long, and my landlord has found fifteen different ways to avoid paying for it to be painted with decent, water-resistant paint. Its current coat is desiccating; cracked and peeling away from the wall, dry, yet dripping with sweat.
The cabinet needs replacing. Its hinges creak and wobble, threatening to drop the mirrored door. Excess water has scratched and marred the mirror, de-silvering it with dull marks that sketch a grim scene of wirey brambles overgrowing a sharp, iron, graveyard fence. A sketch of a man folds his arms and forever throws his head back laughing at me, wide mouthed.
The old shower tray had rotten away the supporting plywood until a big man like me should have fallen through to the dog groomers below. When I step near the new shower, the floorboards and plastic façade sinks down when I step near it. The replacement tray was smaller but never filled the gap.
I often wonder if I could slip through the crack and die in the floorboards. My flight of fancy never lasts long, before I remember my allergy to the dander of dogs, and as much as I would enjoy the puppy watching portion of my haunt, I would be put off by the irritation of rats scratching and gnawing at my bones. What a terrible racket.
I turn off the water.
The clutter of broken things gathering in the corner needs to be cleared away, and the sealant around the tray redone; sealant was never applied around the shower dial. A steady heartbeat of water still falls from the dial down to the shower tray for a time, after. The beat slows.
Reaching down to the floor reveals an odour, infecting the plush shower mat that covers the gap. I stroke the tousled ends to ease the mat, but feel the grime of the room seeping into me. I pat the carpet down and move to leave, instead I retreat to the shower. Three frantic attempts to close the stubborn door.
Turning the temperature to max and nozzle to high pressure, I wait for the comforting knife-jabs of heat that follow.
“Ohhh, here’s where, the story ends.”
Flashback
“Well?!” Her eyes bulge as if they’d grown fists to plant on hips. “Say something!”
What can I say? I’m not sure what she wants me to do. Is this a real issue, or does she just need food? If so, do I just start making stuff? Say something, man. I peel my eyes away from her glare and focus on the lines of our tiled floor. It’s been too long. I can feel my head making minute motions, darting as I calculate at break-neck speeds.
“I—” No, that’s a bad idea.
“THIS! This is what I mean!” I don’t think she realises she is shouting. “You just stand there. Just say what you are thinking. Gah, just say something. Christ!”
“I didn’t realise the water was getting cold.”
“How can you no— Eugh! How hard is it to just say that, then? Why do you freeze up like you’re being told off?”
Because I am. How do you explain this to someone who fell for my strength, my confidence. Someone who wants a man, not a collection of old scars using feeble words to placate them. What does a man do when the woman he loves is so angry and unpredictable? Why does this feel so familiar?
My thoughts are interrupted by her sudden movement as she swipes the pans from the draining board, hurling them into a clatter on the hard tiles. I don’t startle, but I feel the anger boil up in me, then the fear that I might use it shoves it back down to safety, and I hear a ringing in my ears.
My chest tightens, and the kitchen leaves me. I flop to the cold tile and twenty-two years swirl down the drain as I pry my six-year-old hands from the cold porcelain sink to grip my sister, as I curl into her arms, hiding in the darkness of our downstairs toilet; more a closet. It is dark and we don’t dare make a sound. I flinch before I realise what has happened.
A broom handle spears itself through the door, its shaft piercing the wood and letting light bleed in through tiny cracks and splinters. The wood hovers an inch in front of me. We sit, stunned to a still silence. A violent tussle begins to shake the broom, and it catches on the splintered wood.
There is a feral roar as the door rips open. The broom follows it silent and obedient as it is shoved aside. My sister curls around me but is pulled away and thrashed. She is thrown into the wall, punched, kicked, and then sent scurrying. When she is done, my mom turns to me.
“Well?” There is spittle as she barks the question. I don’t know what she wants me to say. I don’t even know why she is mad. I am wracking my brain trying to think of the right words to fix this, but there are no words. I am six. Just a kid. “WELL?!”
When my brother died, the Oxford University flew its flag at half-mast. My ex-wife refused to visit the chapel of rest, not for a cruel reason, but because she held her last memory of him, as a beautiful image of us: shirtless and smiling, after a long day of working in the sun.
The day before he was found, he’d been to a house party. Going by the trace amounts of narcotics they found in the autopsy report, I imagine it was a banger. At his funeral, a young girl told me how they met that night.
As she was leaving the party, he was leaving too. There was a heavy rain, and she stood under the porch, hoping to wait it out. One eccentricity of his was that he tried to always carry an umbrella with him. Honestly, I think he wanted a cane but needed a practical reason to justify having one; thus, umbrella.
The girl told me he asked her which way she was heading, and told her he was going that way, so they could share the umbrella, and keep dry. She said he was kind, funny, and a complete gentleman. He left the umbrella with her at her gate, watched her until she was indoors, and to her surprise, he walked back the way they came.
At the funeral, I told her he lived on the other side of town. She didn’t say a word or cry; she touched my arm and smiled. Every year, his friends hold a free music and poetry festival, and they all have stories like this. They all laugh and smile when they talk about him. They all have these stories that speak of his character.
While they remember him this way, my own memories are less perfect. Our childhood was difficult, and I wasn’t the best of brothers. I wish I had been. I tried harder in adulthood but still fell short of the mark. He was smarter than me. He was a better man than me, and it pains me to be the one who survived instead of him.
But it warms me that people still hold these memories of him. I believe that this life is it. It’s all we get. So, I am thankful that they each keep these fond memories of him. That they keep his memory alive and well in this fleeting world of ours is all I can ask.
Gone, but not forgotten.