She kept a bowl of flowers on the sideboard I never once saw wilt. Regardless of the time of year, weather, or the close attentions of her ginger cat named — unsurprisingly — Ginger, the flowers thrived. They were pink, pretty even, but never worth more than a cursory glance.
I passed those flowers every day for the three years we lived together. Not once did I water or maintain them, and to my knowledge, neither did she. I prayed they’d keel over just to prove they weren’t plastic, or, at least, not as false as me. Once, I even tugged their petals, but we’ll keep that to ourselves. Obstinate flowers still didn’t fall.
The day I left, I paused at the door. “At least tell me their bloody name, I’ve looked at them all this time and still have no idea what they’re called!”
“Same name as me,” she replied, her eyes wet and weeping.
The road coughed up dust like a cat a hairball, neither pleasant and both lasting too long. I'd traveled the same baked mud for ten days on an incline that wore at the soul. When the horizon fell away, however, a new land unrolling like a tapestry, I remembered why.
I tear at my hair with the savage intent of a hungry tiger. This is not how it is meant to be. This is not… not… but I cannot find the words, they are lost in a mist of tumbling red where glaring eyes fire and vicious disassemblers of dreams lurk. I have lost myself. I am lost.
Breathe, I say. Write just write. Lose yourself to worlds and places others do not know. Throw yourself upon midnight dreams and cloak yourself in darkness. Cast yourself upon swords of your own creation and lick away the blood with false relish. They will not find you, I insist. They will never know I’m here, I try to convince myself. But, they do. I am always found.
Frustrations abound in this cacophony of me, this unsettling of self. I shake my head and scream, but nobody hears, not even me. Fingers clench until my fists turn white shaking with something… something, but I’m unsure what?
This world is a strange and wonderful place. There is so much potential, so much scope to make marvels of all that we know and all that we see. This world is a place for all people, all minds and bodies, but not mine. Like a jigsaw with an extra piece, I am surplus to this place. I find it… frustrating!
Author’s Note: I recently shared this story on the wonderful Nicola Auckland‘s blog and have also just published it on Medium. I wouldn’t want anyone having to read it who already has. However, I wanted to showcase this on my own site because I don’t often publish stories that I would say are very me; this is. As a shy Gemini (not a good combination where split personalities are concerned) who has lots of dark thoughts, work like this flows easily. When my mind is that way out and I just allow the words to flow, I often venture into darker realms than normal. You can read into that whatever you like, but nonetheless, it is me.
I hope you enjoy
Ghostlike the city’s inhabitants roam the streets. The metropolis has sucked them dry. A procession of timorous deer frightened and waiting to bolt, they make their way to wherever it is one goes during the day in a wide-eyed trance. I watch them with sadness, and I hope compassion. I hate to think someone would not extend me the same small civility.
The cityscape rises skyward in undulating waves of concrete and steel; the ghosts don’t see it. What they do see is questionable? Glass eyes, unblinking, roam everywhere but where they wish. The city’s full sidewalks suffer them to present a weak delusion of sanity. That’s all it is. The city is dead, it just doesn’t know it yet.
Old school, my mother would say, and I suppose I am. When a pretty girl slides by, her feet unseen in the city’s oppressive smog, I raise my hat and smile politely. Sometimes, they even respond. Most times, they don’t. On the rare occasion when one looks my way starry-eyed and shell-shocked, a rabbit in the headlights, it makes my heart beat. I like to feel my heart beat as it reassures me I am not like they. I am alive. Yes, I am alive. I must be, mustn’t I?
My perambulations conform to the city’s expectations: I stick to the main streets, ignore the side streets, and never ever enter the backstreets. There are weird creatures in those inhospitable dark spots, strange and un-wonderful beings. I fear them as they fear life.
The waterfront offers the greatest relief from my waking nightmare. Looking out upon a sea comprising trillions of raindrops, the very same that’ve run down my face and tickled my nose and will one day become an ocean of even greater values, makes me dream. Imagining the recycling atoms, what they must have seen on their journeys through every stage of the earth’s awakening and impending departure, gets the old grey matter churning. I hope that’s the case, anyway, as I’d hate to think it’s old memories relived. I’ve already forgotten too much to bear, having lost even more.
Vitreous, I think to myself, as the harbour stands like a millpond, not a ripple, not a blemish in sight, glasslike. It is almost the exact same consistency as the skins of the urbanites who roam the disconsolate streets. And I wonder, has fate dipped them in the ocean and sent them on their way? Should I? Will it help to blend in with the other poor, unfortunate souls?
I must stop thinking such rubbish if I am to remain apart. Uniqueness is a gift one should embrace and take pride in, not disparage. Some call it mutation, but not I, for is it not uniqueness that has transformed us from one thing to another, bettered ourselves, not abnormality. But it takes two unique individuals to proliferate the theory and I am only one. Still, one of the blank faces may one day smile back and I’ll know a fellow human exists, not a translucent fake as is the case.
Sometimes on clear nights when the moon is full and the city sleeps, I sit out on my balcony and take in the vista. I enjoy it. The sheen of celestial splendour enlivens the soul if you have one. There is a certain freedom in gazing out upon a world that no other appreciates. I’ll wink to the moon and he’ll wink back, our secret safe in the midnight, our pact still operating. Like a spectral spotlight picking out the ghosts of suburbia, I’ll watch the moon highlight passers by and shake my head: no, not that one, she’s lost; no, not that one, she’s smiling too much, etcetera, etcetera. One day, I’ll see a smooth-skinned beauty with tears in her eyes and I’ll know she too cries for the world, as do I. One day. Yes, one day.
For now, I’ll keep walking, collecting the welfare checks when I can, and perusing the city’s glassless shop window. She’ll come. I’m sure of it. She’ll come as a pellucid ghost made real, and we’ll live out a happy ever after like in a fairytale. Or we won’t, who can say?