I write serious words for a living and make silly words before I go to bed. Follow along for nonsensical stories and ridiculous scenarios, heavily influenced by sleep deprivation and/or my nightly melatonin pill.
I write serious words for a living and make silly words before I go to bed. Follow along for nonsensical stories and ridiculous scenarios, heavily influenced by sleep deprivation and/or my nightly melatonin pill.
A throbbing, pounding, at my temples. A deep, muscular ache behind my eyes. The light burns and the sounds deafen. And yet, I am fine.
My collection of medications, all to manage the symptoms, grow as a concerning lack of professionals show any concern. This is fine.
It’s the medication, you say, as if my life should be less comfortable because of my brain. As if I can will myself to overcome. As if three decades of struggle can be defeated to alleviate the annoyance my experience is having on you. You’re fine.
But I sit on the floor of my bathroom in tears. Not because of the pain, but because of my fear.
The fear that this is it. This is all I will be. This is all I could be. A miserable wreck, dependant on drugs. Dependant on others. Dependant on love.
The fear that I’ve not done enough. Done enough in my life, done enough to improve it. Maybe you’re right. I should have gone on more runs or lived like you do. As if my bones didn’t ache and my stomach not spew.
The fear it’s either my head or in my head. They don’t sell replacement parts, they can’t cure the dead.
Because what is worse: an illusion of pain or a lack of a brain? Either way, it’s disfunctional. Illusions of delusions fog the eyes of my already blurred vision.
But beside the pain, a deep rage. Rage that no one heard my pleas. As if coming for help was done with such ease. As if feeling like shit was done with intent. As if you’d wish only my annoying begging could relent.
It’s been over a decade since this reared its head. I often wonder how much longer I have till I’m left for dead. So, for now, we keep going. Chugging through life without ever knowing. Only aware that because of the pain, everyday is the same.
Once distant, the clacking of the approaching train explodes in one almighty whoosh from the tunnel. It rattles the umbrellas of waiting commuters, a sea of quivering grey fabric wrapped around aluminium skeletons. A platform of freshly styled hair, lightly dampened by drizzle, is knocked out of place.
Nearer the back, a page is fluttered by the wind as a young woman stares deep beyond the small puzzle book. Her hair sodden and page covered in tiny circles of damp. She sits one leg over the other, the small book propped against her projected knee. Chewed pencil in hand, her focus is pulled back to this realm as the shuffling wave of weary workers pulls her from the thought. She jots down the remaining numbers in their boxes and springs to her feet in the direction of the closest carriage.
Expectedly, the train is uncomfortably cramped. Rows of seats filled with passengers and irritatingly placed backpacks. With ears plugged and eyes stuck to screens, the crowd was no closer to this moment than a wagon of ghosts. For all Sarah supposed, they were ghosts.
She awkwardly placed herself between two beige-draped men and once more looked towards her puzzle. 3, 6, 2… The tracks below clacked. Numbers melded and meshed together on the page. 4, 9… 8? A small jolt as the train hurtled towards the inner city, sending its cargo in a tiny apathetic lurch to one side. 7… 3?
The numbers weren’t doing what they were supposed to do. The walls of the train felt much tighter. The crowd of people suddenly felt a lot closer. Were there more now? Was the train smaller?
Sarah glanced up, to the window, and into the dark tunnel wall beyond. Looking back at her, a disheveled woman, maybe 30 years of age, with messy wet hair and a sodden sweater. The woman in the reflection had deep, sagging bags under her eyes and appeared deeply, distressingly, confused.
In disbelief, Sarah glanced around her at the sea of beige. A carriage of ghosts, indeed. Ensnared in their own lives, trapped by a routine, heavy bags of their own, Sarah was alone. No one to assist in solving this puzzle, nor anything the next one.
Writer’s note: a very tiny exploration of our culture of self-inflicted isolation. Written before bed on my phone. Please do leave your thoughts if you so wish but please also be considerate this is just a bit of fun. :) thank you!!
For my mom. The most badass woman I know. You took the stars and put them within my reach. You are my muse, my inspiration, my best friend.
*** standard unusual disclaimer that I write these while falling asleep so apologies if it falls apart ***
Bones trembling and skeleton cracked, she stood there as she always had. Her stature strong as hardened stone, Yet underneath she bore no bone. With nothing there to prop up her head, With no one there to fend off death, She found herself upon a throne, One more of thorns and bristles than of amore.
Despite it all, An impossible seedling would go on to grow, Into a woman so few could know. Her shield up not to protect, But to create a home. A place for me and her to grow, Despite our lack of bones.
For it was always in your arms, I found my home.
“Hi everyone. My name’s Lou.” The crowd mumbled a greeting. Lou took the moment to look up from his feet and around the room. He gulped. Thinking about what happened was hard enough. A sting along the thick scar across the back of his head would flair up. Screaming. Yelling. So to talk about the hazy memories, and in front of others – total strangers. That’s tough. Another gulp. A breath. Eyeline back to his tattered sneakers. “It was maybe five years ago now.” Flashing blue lights haunted his vision, forcing him to look back up. Around the room and at the blank faces surrounding him. Their bland clothes and appearance matched their bland faces. Eyes and noses and mouths pointed in his general direction but no one was truly there. Heads of hair perched on bodies with no person there. All but one in the circle. Her name tag read ‘Mary’. Her eyes affixed to him. She must have been maybe a third of his age. Late teens. He wondered how old his own daughter would have been. A sharp stab shot through his head. Stopping that train of throught and shoving his consciousness back to the school gym of flightless souls. “Five years since I got behind the wheel. Too many to drink. I shouldn’t have,’ he trailed off. His silly mumblings. The mumblings of a silly man. A man who should be over this. Well, maybe not over it, but certainly not still unable to even think about that night. “I shouldn’t have done a lot of things that night.” He continued. A sense of confidence arising from the lack of sentient beings in the room. The eyes pointed in his direction were glazed over. Glazed over with exhaustion from another hour long meeting, with annoyance of hearing yet another sob story, perhaps even with their own shame and guilt as they work up their own courage to speak. “I shouldn’t have drank. Maybe ever, but certainly not that much.“ God. He could deal with a drink right now. “And certainly not that night,” he added. “It was my daughter’s second birthday party. We had spent the morning decorating cupcakes and getting ready for her party.” Her bright brown eyes shone in his memory. Enormous eyes. Her mother’s. He’d give Jessica that, she had gifted their daughter with some adorable looks. Certainly better than anything she could have gotten from Lou. “I’ve spent these years blaming my ex wife. I had only been drinking to numb my brain from thinking about her new damn boyfriend.” The first time he’d met her it was as if she were a shining star. Something so beautiful and incredible. Something that felt as if it had always been there and always would be there. How silly he had been. “But I’ve realized no one but me is responsible. Not just for that night. But for all my actions.” He paused to sip his coffee. The beverage shook in the cup as if under attack from a caffeine-hating earthquake. Taking a sip, clearing his throat, and taking a breath. He needed grounding. He couldn’t cry in front of this group of losers. These inanimate people. Desperately, lou looked face to face to find an element of humanity to latch on to and get him to the other side of this meandering anecdote. Mary was transfixed. Almost on the edge of her seat, staring up at Lou with the enormous eyes of a child discovering fireworks. Comforted he wasn’t monologing for the sake of monologing he continued. “I lost my daughter that night.” He hoped the sounds his mouth had just made were words. They felt like words but they never sounded right to him. “I lost my daughter and it was my fault.” The shame was unbearable. The waters had risen. The tide was in. The car was upside down. And he was drowning. Drowning in the shame. Drowning in the hatred for the man who caused this. For himself. It was too much. He placed his trembling coffee cub on the ground and excused himself. Making his way to the door. As he did so he caught the faces of those in the room. The lack thereof. And the devastation on the face of Mary. Her eyes a watery mess. A deep redness shone from the back of the white of her eyes. A rich honey brown from her pupil. Such enormous eyes had produced more than their fair share of tears. He had been staring at her a beat too long. He was being weird. Lou apologised again and made his way out of the dark gym hall.
As she did every night, Mary began packing up the AA meeting. The coffee cups in the bin, the chairs stacked in the corner, the dressed up mannequins into the closet. They always freaked her out. After her father’s coma she’d taken on a lot more responsibility. Cooking, cleaning, etc. This was by far the hardest part of it. She flicked the hall light switches and headed into the entryway.
A knock at the main door. 9:10pm everyday. A knock at the main door. She walks to answer. It’s Lou. Her face makes a shocked expression. “Hi there! Can I help you?” The man was drenched by the rain. Only adding to the overwhelming sadness of his appearance. His hands shoved into his pockets as he pulled out a crumpled (and now wet) flyer. “This is the AA meeting, right? Oh, I didn’t miss it did I?” “Oh yes it is! And no worries, we were only getting started.” Mary pulled the exterior doors open and let her father in.
Edit: Writer’s note: my melatonin started kicking in about halfway through this so I’m deeply sorry it makes no sense. I can assure you I’m not mad. Just sedated.
“You know what? This was a bad idea.” He huffed, his hand lowering the fork back to his plate. Glancing around, almost desperate, as if on the hunt for backup. Eye contact with the waiter. A scribbling hand gesture. He was serious. “It was just a dumb question. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.” Now it was Cheryl’s turn to be desperate. He’d snapped at her a thousand times before but this felt different. Serious. She glanced down at her fresh manicure and carefully selected jewellery. His neatly trimmed eyebrows were furrowed. Cheryl wasn’t unused to this expression. That of a gravely disappointed father. Her boyfriend’s face said more in this one look than his curt text messages ever would. It was the look of someone who wanted her to be more. To be better than this. Whatever ‘this’ was. It was a scowl-down-the-nose with a deep sadness and a pinch of embarrassment that told her she was supposed to be someone else. Further in life, perhaps. More mature, probably. “We’ll go home, crack open a wine, and spend the rest of the night on the couch.” He muttered, arms folding on the table. “No.” Someone said. A voice she pinned down as her own only after it erupted from within. “I’m sorry?” He retorted, somehow only half as taken aback as she was at the sound that had made its way into the open air. With one syllable it was as if a spell had broken. No longer was the man opposite her a handsome realtor she had only hours before been wishing for a proposal from. He was a jackass. A snob who couldn’t hold a fun dinner conversation if he was in a thumb war with one. “No. I don’t think I will.” She paused to allow this new version of herself to learn to speak. An infant taking her first steps into the world. “I’ll go back to my place, I think it’s best you went back to your parents’.” The perks of being the only name on your lease. She stopped mindlessly picking at the edges of her new nails and looked up. Something else bubbled inside her. Up and up and- oh god was she going to barf? Her hand clasped to her mouth as stifled… a laugh. His face had fallen from disappointment and shame to broken child. He looked like a baby in a fish bowl. A cat in a three piece suit. So out of place you can’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. No one had ever told him no. Yet alone his well trained partner of ten years. He stuttered. Stumbling, looking for the words for a retort. The two of them, lost in an almost unbelievable topsy turvy world where Cheryl had a voice and an opinion, failed to notice the waiter making his way to the table. An gaggle of waitresses and other staff members following him diligently. They took a breath together, placed the cake on the table between the two, and began to sing.
Cheryl blew out the flame and said goodbye to the man she had thought she’d end up with.
Though the trek home without a car was tough, it wasn’t impossible. A bus or two later and she was crashing through her own apartment door. Greeted by the furry face of her daughter Elsie, a Scottish Short Hair. “Why hello, Princess! I bet you’re wondering where that awful man is! Well. I’m not.” She snuggled her face into Elsie’s cream coloured fur and tossed her keys in their usual bowl. The sound quieter than she was used to. Fewer keys. She knew exactly what she was going to do for the rest of her big day. “The big three-oh, Else. Who’d have thought we’d end up like this?” She popped open her finest wine. If ever there was an occasion to drink the good stuff it was today. “You know, Else, I really thought he’d propose today.” Cheryl recapped the wine, taking her glass to the couch and slumping into it. Elise jumping, purring, into her lap. If the cat could talk, she’d laugh. Anyone privy to that level of insight into the couple’s relationship would have. She’d probably snort something akin to “you silly bitch, you’re sharing a wine with your cat in a dead end job. Do you really think you’re in any position to be married off to some douche?” The cat had a point. Not that Cheryl could understand the true meaning of her purrs. And not that she’d appreciate the point if she could. But Cheryl was more than delusional to believe her 30th birthday would end in a proposal. Or was she? A knock at the door shook the small flat. A photo of Elise now crooked on the wall in the entryway. The booming fist against the wood of the door startled the two girls. Cheryl almost spilling her wine and Elise running to the relative safety of the bedroom. The initial shock over, Cheryl sighed. She’d never been angry with him for this long before. He was probably deserving of at least being heard out. Placing down the wine and hauling her suddenly incredibly heavy limbs from the couch, Cheryl’s shuffled towards the door. Another bang bang bang. Fist against wood. It wasn’t angry – she hoped – but certainly urgent. Yet again a laugh bubbled inside her threatening to ruin her stoic calm. 30-year-old Cheryl is stronger than laughing at her boyfriend’s desperate knocks. She’s her own damn woman and doesn’t make silly jokes at dinner or talks to her cat. She’s ready to settle down and lead a calm life with the realtor she met in college. Unlocking the latch and twisting the knob she steadied her cool and channeled her inner grown up “you ready for a night in, baby?” He burst in, pushing her aside. She was a little taken aback but appreciated the enthusiasm. “Oh. Okay. Straight to the bedroom I guess. But no skimping on the foreplay!” She may have said that a bit too loud considering the door was still open a crack. She reset the latch and made her way to the bed. What sort of man is this affectionate after she tells him to suck it over birthday dinner? Cheryl wondered if he should bring that up with a professional. Grabbing her wine from the coffee table and swinging open the bedroom door she found not her realtor boyfriend but a perculiar man. “Oh shi-“ she exclaimed, already running towards the kitchen. Armed with what she believed was a Gordon Ramsay pink edition knife, Cheryl inched towards her bedroom. “Who even are you?” She yelled from a little down the corridor. The man poked his head around the doorframe. Cheryl jumped. “Terribly sorry.” He said. “I was looking for someone. An inter dimensional criminal.” “A fucking what?” Cheryl replied. Infuriated the man had not only not answered her question but left her with about a billion more. Chiefly: ‘can you get the hell out now?’ “Oh yes. Inter dimensional law breakers. You guys have laws here, right? I can never remember. Anyway,” he dropped back into her room and emerged with Elise. “I think we’ve found the bugger.” Mom-mode activated, the knife flung to the side and in an instant Cheryl was holding Elise again. The man stood there bemused as to how that just happened, arms still outstretched as if the cat hadn’t moved. “I’m going to give you thirty fucking seconds to explain yourself, asshole, before I call my army police husband!” Who doesn’t exist. His hands shot up as if Cheryl was wielding a rifle and not a fuzzy bundle of joy. “Well.” He began “it seems I’ve made an oopsie.” Yeah. No shit. “This tiny hairy thing is not the wanted one here.” You think?! “It’s you. You’re the heir. And you’re under arrest.”
Say what?
