The Subway

The sun had sunk behind the concrete skyline and the sky was deepening from yellow to blue. Xuan sat by the window, watching the streetlights blink on. She checked her phone again, dismayed by the minutes ticking by. It was too late.

“Xuan, are you listening?”

She startled. The other three were staring at her with a mix of exasperation and concern.

“I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go. It’s getting late,” Xuan said apologetically. “I’ll leave first.”

“No, wait,” Sang protested. “It’s still early! Please stay a little longer.”

“There are only a couple of trains left,” Xuan said unhappily.

Shubin looked up sharply. The ring of his chopsticks striking the bowl send a shiver of silence through the restaurant. “You don’t believe those stories, do you?”

The girl turned pink while the others looked from one to the other in confusion. “What stories?” Tiancheng asked. When neither party answered, he said again, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing,” Xuan protested, but Shubin smirked.

“Oh, haven’t you heard? The subways here in Beijing are haunted by the dead.” The atmosphere tightened. Xuan sat down uncomfortably, clutching her bag to her chest, but the other two leant forward. Now that he had everyone’s attention, the boy dropped his voice ominously. “When they started building the line in ‘65, there were loads of freak accidents. Workers kept being injured, equipment mysteriously broke, and the whole thing was months behind schedule. People said the workers were cursed. Then it was revealed that their digging had unearthed a huge number of human bones.”

Sang gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Tiancheng’s poker face needed work.

“Disturbing their resting place left the spirits without a home. Furious, they wreaked havoc on the workers. When a worker was killed in an accident, the managers became desperate and went to a group of monks to ask for help. The monks blessed the bones and begged the spirits to stop hurting people. They promised the spirits two things: that every night, the subway would shut down to allow the spirits to rest. And before the stations shut, the trains would run without passengers to allow the souls to return to their resting place.”

“This isn’t true,” Tiancheng interrupted scornfully. “They wouldn’t run the trains empty.”

“I’ve felt it,” Sang said, and the other girl nodded. “After the stations close, you can still feel the trains running beneath the ground. And they leave the station lights on for an hour.”

“That’s just so the cleaners can see,” Tiancheng insisted.

“If you take one of the last trains,” Xuan whispered, “You don’t know if the other passengers are living or dead.”

They sit in silence. Tiancheng fiddles nervously with his chopsticks.

“Maybe we should take the bus back to university,” Sang says uncertainly.

They all agree.

The Silver Birch and the Evergreen

I’m walking to my meeting with her and the wind is blowing and the noise the trees make is enormous. The storm is overwhelming. I walk fast, head down, hair a mess. When I’m nearly at her building I stop and look back at the path I’ve taken.

On either side of the path is a tree. A solid evergreen stands to the left; its branches are solid and unmoving, leaves barely swaying. On the right is a birch tree; bowed, buffeted, branches bending perilously and close to snapping. It shakes in the wind. Beside the steadfast evergreen, it looks so weak.

I go to my meeting.

“How are you?”

I lie. I tell her I am fine.

“Tell me about your day.”

There’s nothing to tell. But I think of the trees and that image of the two of them, side by side, separated by the path. I tell her about them: about how one stood firm while the other wavered. I tell her I am the tree on the right. I am emotional and buffeted and close to breaking. I tell her I will not survive the storm I’m living through.

She nods, takes a sip of tea, considering. She does not look directly at me; her eyes are silvered.

“In a storm, which tree do you think is more likely to survive?” she asks.

I think of the way the silver birch swayed. I tell her the evergreen would, obviously.

“But the solid and sturdy evergreen tree that can’t bend might end up snapping. A bendy, flexible tree could move with the storm and survive.”

But the strong tree provides shelter, I tell her. People could stand beneath it when it rained and stay dry. People could climb in the branches during summer. Nobody wanted the silver birch; nobody chose the silver birch over the evergreen.

She is blind, but she sees more than I do. “Being affected by things around you is not a weakness. You can come alongside people when they’re sad and cry with them. You can understand people better because you’re moved by them. The silver birch might look delicate, but it’s still standing. And think about the roots of the tree: in evergreens, they’re close to the surface. You can see them coming up through the grass. You never see the roots of a silver birch – they go deeper than you think.

“You are stronger than you think.”

Maybe I’m like the silver birch.

And maybe that’s okay.

Penny

The penny was beautiful. The copper shone just right in the sunshine, the bronze gleam looking like treasure. He’d stuck it in vinegar and scrubbed it ’til it shone. It was the perfect offering.

Clove climbed the steps to the shrine, panting a little as he got to the top. They didn’t design the giant stone steps for little legs. He rested a second at the top, feeling the wind muss up his hair and the cool tingle of sweat evaporating. He’d learned all about sweat and glands in biology. He loved it.

The bubbly bubble of the fountain was magnificent and his jaw fell open in delight. The penny gleamed as he flicked it, sending it twirling end over end until it landed in the water with a very satisfying ploink.

I wish…

Clove sighed. He knew what his biology teacher would say about wishing – that it was all made up. He was a boy on the cusp of something, a balancing act between belief and knowledge, between imagination and facts. He felt too old for wishing fountains but too young to give up on miracles. People at school were beginning to get cynical and spend too much time building reputations and not enough time day-dreaming. Clove felt just a little bit torn in two.

“I’ll tell you what, kid – that’s the best penny I’ve had all year.”

He thought he’d been alone. Clove wiped snot on his shirt and sniffed three times in quick succession.

“It’s just so shiny!” the voice continued. “I appreciate the effort, kid, I really truly do. I’m so fed up of people tossing in their loose change. It can make a fountain feel kind of worthless. But that – that was a penny worth wishing over.”

Clove’s eyes widened to the size of tennis balls.

The girl sat by the fountain had hair the colour of his penny, and skin like the rippling water of the fountain, and the smile of sunshine breaking over clouds.

“So,” she grinned from ear to ear, “What did you wish for? I can tell it was an important one. I felt it in my stones.”

“Who,” Clove asked, completely breathless, “are you?”

The little girl grinned. “You can call me Penny. But stop changing the subject! Your wish, now – what did you wish for?”

He twiddled his fingers. “I wanna tell you… But what about that thing? That people say? If you share your wish it’ll never come true?”

The girl snorted like a pig. “That’s froth! People tell me their wishes all the time. I’m the one that makes them come true!” Her eyebrows did a little nervous dance on her forehead. “Well, okay, not just me. I help the family. I pass it on to mother Oak, and she gives it to brother South Wind, who takes it to – hey!” She stamped a foot, and the sound was like two rocks cracking together. “Stop changing the subject!”

“Um. What was the subject?” Clove asked cluelessly. His jaw was hanging loose again.

“Your wish!”

“Oh.” He shuffled. “Well.” He coughed into his hand, rubbed his head, scratched his nose. “I wished that I would always be me.”

The girl from the fountain looked at him with understanding, her voice soft like the patter of rain when you’re warm in bed. “I hear you. Everything is changing, right? And you’re worried that the best time of your life has already happened, and that you don’t like the way things are going now.”

Clove nodded. He couldn’t have said it nearly so well, but she just took all the difficult feelings he’d been wrestling with and made them easy. “Yeah.”

“Sometimes, we go through hard times. The sun sets and everything is cold. But you’ve got to look back and look forward, and know that things won’t always stay this dark. You’ll get through this night.”

Everything went a bit misty. Clove blinked, the front of his t-shirt getting increasingly wet. “I don’t want to grow older.”

“Me neither. But saying ‘no’ to growing older means saying ‘no’ to a lot of lovely things that haven’t happened yet. It means friends you’ll never meet, music you’ll never hear, birthdays you’ll never celebrate. You have an adventure ahead of you, Five-Leaf Clover. Be brave. Get ready for it!”

Clove hugged her tightly. “Thank you, Penny!” He turned and struck a heroic pose, his hometown speed below him like a map. With his hair mussed by the breeze, he bellowed “I’m ready to do this! I can handle it!”

There was no reply from Penny: the girl had disappeared as suddenly as the sun on a cloud-studded day. But as Clove ran down the shrine steps whooping loud enough to startle the birds, the water in the fountain bubbled and laughed.

Harry’s Birthday

I wake early and with a sense of excitement, my blood singing in my ears.

What, what day is it? I can’t find myself. Is it Christmas? The first day of the holidays? My birthday?

I feverishly run through a list of dates in my head, searching for the puzzle piece.

Valentines Day, Thanksgiving, New Years Eve…

Then I remember, and my excitement fades away to nothing.

Today is Harry’s birthday.

Memories float to the surface of my mind. This day, repeated back through my life; of cake and candles, of parties and presents. Of his choppy blonde hair, of his obsession with tractors. His swing set in the garden. The love I saw in his eyes when he looked at me.

Of him, toddling around the house, creating wonderful chaos. Without him everything is so cold and echoing.

When will this pain heal? When will this hurt fade? Not yet – it’s still too fresh a wound.

But, one year, I want to be able to wake up on this day and only see the loveliest of lives… and not the hole he left behind.

We Were Together

You were five and I was six, and we were together.
You were a princess and I was your prince. Swashbuckling pirates, the fearless captain and mate. A crime fighting duo, superman and catwoman.
We were always together, two halves of a whole. Joined at the hip.
But then your mum began to get anxious. She said that it was time for me to leave. She wanted her daughter to make new friends, better friends than me.
You were loyal. You stood by my side. We weathered the storms, as we always have.
We were together.
_
You were nine and I was ten, and we were together.
We created our own world and made ourselves Queen and King. Our people adored us, and we had mighty battles against dragons and witches and goblin armies that threatened our rule.
We were closer than siblings, closer than spouses. Two peas in a pod. One person in two bodies.
But then your mum realised I was still around and she was angry. She threatened to stop your ballet classes. She made you go round to other little girls houses, girls that liked pink and ponies and parties.
You were loyal. You stood by me. We survived, as we always have.
We were together.
_
You were thirteen and I was fourteen, and we were together.
You were my first girlfriend; I was your first kiss. We went to the cinema together, to school together, shopping together. You laughed at the funny things I said and I told you that you were beautiful.
We were two halves of a whole, joined at the hip, inseparable.
But then your mum found out I was still around, she was terrified. She dragged her daughter to hospital, doctors, shrinks. “You’re thirteen! You shouldn’t still be doing this!” I was labelled as a bad influence.
You began to waver.
We were together less. You kept giving me strange looks and asking questions that were too near to the truth. As you got further away, I got sicker. I was weak, pale, as though I was wasting away. I felt invisible. I was sure I was dying.
I pleaded with you, I begged you, I kissed you, I told you I loved you, but you had stopped listening. I was a ghost, someone you wanted to forget.
I drifted around in the corner of your vision, watching you erase me from your life. But I was never completely gone. You kept me alive, kept believing in me just enough. I was still alive in your memories of me, but barely. Every day it was harder.
_
You were twenty and I was twenty-one. You were strong and healthy and I was nearly dead.
Your mum approached you and asked nervously, “That… boy. Is he still around?”
You turn and glance at me, the translucent ghost in the corner.
“No, mother, I’ve followed your advice. He’s not my friend any longer.” My heart is shattered into so many pieces that it can’t be broken any more.
Your mum nods, relieved. She motions for you to sit down.
“Well… the thing is, dear… he was not a real boy. When you were five, it was okay to have an imaginary friend. But when you were thirteen…” She shudders delicately, reaching out to pat her daughter’s hand in what she probably thinks is a reassuring way. “I hope you understand now. I did it for your own good!”
You pause. I can see your thoughts churning, but you’re too old now for childhood games.
“I know, mother.”
You turn and stare at me. For a moment, the intensity of your gaze brings me to life. For the first time in months I am solid, human, breathing.
But your expression is flint, and I know that it’s all over.
“We were together,” You inform me, your icy voice echoing through your head. “But I have no need for you now.”
I’ve been on the brink of this for seven years, but the finality shocks me to the core. “No! Don’t!” I cry, running to you. I reach for your hand, thinking that if you felt me, you wouldn’t be able to kill me.
But you draw away with a look of pure loathing and turn your back on me.
I know now that I am dead.
Sinking to my knees, I look down at my see-through fingers. A sharp searing pain tears through me as you rip me out of your head. Tears are flooding from my eyes; everything is a watery blur. I can feel myself being undone by you, my seams being torn apart, the colours under my skin merging with the air.
For a brief moment I am suspended in the air. I am everywhere; and then… I am nowhere at all.

Dreaming Adam

I’m at the beach.

The sea is slurping at the sand, toying with small pebbles, pushing them back and forth. The smell of salt is in the cold wind coming off the sea. Children dressed in bright clothes, the only colour in sight, dig and play in the sand. I feel like I’ve been here before, like this has happened before: but I can’t remember when.

“You came.”

I turn.

Behind me stands a young man, his chestnut hair wet from swimming. He’s barefoot, his jeans rolled up to his knees. I know him. He’s Adam. I’ve definitely been here before, I remember this! My sense of deja’vu is making this whole thing feel a little surreal.

“Of course I did,” I tell him, smiling. “You know I can’t refuse you anything!”

He smiles back, but his eyes are worried. He looks like he’s about to say something; but nothing comes, and he closes his mouth.

I feel as though I’m in a play, reading out my lines. This has been said before, done before. “Are you okay?”

He stares at me, his eyes intense and so deep I feel like I’m at the bottom of the ocean.

I feel like I know what should happen next. He’s going to smile, shrug. His line is, ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing’. And then he will take my hand, pull me into the shallows, and we paddle and laugh and get soaked.

I’m so sure what will happen that when he blurts out, “Jenny, you’re in trouble,” I freeze.

Why isn’t he following the script? An odd feeling of fear slides into my heart; by breaking away from the script, he’s broken a rule.

The words jump from my throat without permission. “Don’t say that!” I cry. “Don’t!” If he does, if he does, something terrible will happen, this world will break down…

He speaks over my frantic pleas.

“You thought you’d escaped Dan after New York, but he’s close. He’s right on your tail and closing in. You’ve got to get out of there, now!”

This is wrong. The Adam from this memory couldn’t possibly know these things. This was Adam before any of this started, this was Adam from before New York…

The world feels like it’s spinning. The sound of the seagulls, of the lapping of the sea, children screaming; everything seems to mute. My vision tunnels so I can only see Adam.

“How can you possibly know that? You don’t even know where I am!”

He smiles sadly. “No, I don’t. And I never will. Wake up now, get up and get out! I don’t want you to end up the same as me.”

I’m so dizzy, the world is flying away from me. The bright clothes of the children are so colourful they make my head ache. Adam’s face blurs. The world is pulsing to my heartbeat.

“What are you talking about?” I cry, feeling suddenly alone. My voice echoes in the emptiness of the void.

I can’t see Adam anymore, but his voice is as clear as if he’s talking in my ear.

“I’m dead, Jenny.” He whispers. He speaks haltingly, emotion snapping and splintering his voice. “Daniel killed me. Now stop dreaming and wake up before they get you too!”

The beach disappears; I’m falling through black space, tumbling in empty air, my fingers raking through nothingness for something to hold…

I wake up with a start and tears on my cheeks. Adam’s voice echoes through the emptiness of my head.

Get out… before he kills you too.

Merry Christmas

Christmas Day.

At lunch, the little boy squirms, impatient to escape from the dinner table. He pesters and pleads with his father until at last, worn down by the endless complaining, his father sets him free.

His gleaming new toys beckon him from underneath the Christmas tree, and the TV guide lies open, slyly showing all the marvellous movies that are currently on. The boy ignores them both.

He sprints upstairs, switches on the clunky computer and goes on Skype.

As promised, she is online, waiting for him. He double clicks on her name and her face fills the screen, smiling at him from the other side of the world. He hasn’t seen her for seven months.

Her khaki uniform is covered in dust. She smiles like a star in a distant galaxy, distant but warm.

“Merry Christmas, Mommy!”

Driftwood

She has been dislocated in time.

Her bones are made of stone and anchor her in place. Without them, she would have escaped long ago. She is the eye of the storm and everyone else is frantically busy with their own lives, all around her, but she cannot leave.

She’s been washed up on the sea of humanity and lies abandoned on the tideline, like driftwood.

Rules

Jade glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder, then leant towards me.

“Rules are made to be broken, are they not?” She said, her low voice not disguising her sly grin.

Alarm shot through me like adrenaline. “No!” I exclaimed. A couple of heads flicked in our direction. I swallowed, lowered my voice and spoke firmly, “No, Jade, not this one. They’ll find out, and then they’ll never let you return.”

She raised her eyebrows and leant back.

“Jade, I mean it! Can’t you see they’re just longing to get rid of you? Any excuse and-”

Cutting me off with a dismissive wave of her hand, she said lazily,

“Stop your fussing, they’ll never know. Trust me. I’ll be back before lock-up so nobody will even notice I’m gone. And if they do…” Her words ran off significantly.

“Don’t get me involved!” I blurt hastily. Her expression makes my heart shrivel up, but I take a deep breath and say, with as much confidence as I can muster, “I’ve helped you in the past but this is beyond anything you’ve done before. It’s not going to work and I’m not going to end up in prison with you.”

Jade stood up and looked down at me. Half of me wanted to shrink into a tiny ball. The other half was screaming at me to stand up for myself.

“Fine,” She said, her voice oozing contempt. “If you’re going to be a coward, I can manage perfectly well without you.”

She turned on her heel and walked briskly away, her long hair swishing from side to side like a swinging blade.

I squirmed where I sat. My mind buzzed with worries. Worries that she would be caught; worries that she wouldn’t. She might be overstepping the line, but she’s my only friend…

“Jade?” I called hesitantly.

She turned around with raised eyebrows and a question in her eyes.

I bit my lip. “Just… be careful.”

Her smile didn’t hide the malice in her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry – I will!”

And with those words she marched away, leaving me with a twisted stomach and horrible decision to make.

Refugee

I sip the hot drink and feel the skin on my tongue tingle from the burn. It’s heavenly; so rich and strong, the consistency of syrup or melted chocolate. I clasp my hands around the mug and shiver as the warmth rushes up my arms. Raising the mug to my burnt lips, I take another sip.

I close my eyes, and allow myself to think about the others. How cruel this world is, that luck decides who lives and who dies. If one of a million things had happened differently, Randy would be sat in this refugee camp drinking too hot, too strong hot chocolate and I would be the one buried beneath our high school.

If I look back now, I can trace back the cause and effect.

My sister was two years older than me and amazing at everything. My parents adored her and I grew up in her shadow, doing exactly the same things that she had done two years previously; but I could never do anything to her standard.

When she moved up to high school, she joined the school gymnastics club. Soon she was being entered into county, and then regional, and then national competitions and winning everything she tried. She was amazing. When she came home with all her medals and trophies my parents would turn to me and tell me that “if I worked hard that could be me”.

When I moved up to high school, I didn’t join the gymnastics club. I joined the basketball club.

I was the only girl on an entirely male team. At first, I was terrible. I knew nothing about the rules and the boys teased me mercilessly, but every time I felt like giving up I thought what my parents would say. They would compare me to my sister and wonder why I had turned out so badly. So I put my head down and worked like hell. I improved slowly, but a time came when I was officially a member of the team, and we would go and play games against the other schools, and gradually we began to win them.

I wasn’t at school on that day because of a game. It was huge; if we won, we would be entered into the South West tournament, further than we’d ever got. We’d been training for months. I more was terrified than I’d ever been in my life, but somehow, when I stepped into the court, everything fell away. The match was infinitesimally close but we won, and were in the coach on the way home when our coach driver turned up the radio and we heard the news report.

I am alive because I didn’t want to be my older sister. Is that fair? I decided to rebel and my reward is that I get to survive, while my sister, who never did anything wrong, is dead.

Or maybe it’s not my fault at all. Maybe it’s not my fault but pure luck. Maybe an earthquake on the seabed a thousand miles away caused a small disturbance out at sea that became a giant wave that came and swept away our city. Maybe the world is just randomly evil and cares not for who it destroys.

Or maybe we did something wrong. Maybe our city was evil and didn’t deserve to exist, and some God somewhere decided to sweep it off the face of the earth, like a spring cleaner carelessly ripping through the delicate cobwebs of spiders.

Or maybe this was going to happen anyway. Maybe nothing we could have done would have changed the changed the pattern of events. Maybe, in the future, people will look back on this day and say that this was when everything changed, the pivot point on which everything rests. Maybe this was necessary. Maybe all this death and destruction has some ultimate purpose. Maybe there’s some lesson to be found from this mess.

If there is, I can’t see it from here.

 

 

Fog

I remember, when I was little, my Mamma sitting me down by the fire and telling me stories before I went to bed. They were stories with reasons behind them, like “Don’t be cruel to children younger than you,” and, “Always eat what you given.” But I remember, one night, my Mamma telling me a different kinda story. She sat me down on a stool in front of the fire and began brushing out my hair gentle and real slow. Even now, I still remember the feeling of it tugging lightly at my scalp.

“Once there was a valley and in the valley everything was perfect. The grass was green; the soil was rich; and the weather warm and wet. But not many people lived in this valley. Despite it being so nice, people were afeared of it. Because the valley is surrounded by dark, gloomy mountains. And the mountains are cursed.”

Mamma had my full attention now. I stared into the golden fire, my eyes unfocused, focusing on her words.

“The mountains would spew fog that would drag itself down to the valley and swallow the town whole, till everything was grey. Then the fog would play tricks on people, showing them their dead loved ones and whispering words into their ears what turned their minds to soup. If you listen, then you gone for. It take hold of you, the whisper sickness, and you go mad; you try an fight your way out, into the fog, and the fog would swallow you whole. The next morning… they never find any bodies. And then next time the fog come, it got one extra loved one trapped in its belly, whispering lies.”

I was shivering by now, despite the hot fire flickering at my feet. Mamma turned me round to face her, and her face was so serious I was scared. Her voice was low and urgent.

“This is why you can’t go out at night, you understand? This is why you’ve got to hurry home from school. Because I don’t ever want to lose you and see your face in the fog.”

I nodded, partly out of fear for the fog, partly out of love for my Mamma.

She smiled and sighed with relief. She turned me back round again and carried on brushing out my hair.

“You’re a good girl,” She said softly. “Such a good girl.”

Hungry

The meal had been cooked to perfection.

For hours now I’ve been slaving away in the kitchen, washing, chopping, steaming, cooking and roasting. Now, at last, it’s ready. The table is laid and the drinks poured. The joint of beef sits proudly in the center of the table, glistening with herbs. The smell is delicious. I scan the table for anything I’ve missed, then call up the stairs;

“It’s lunchtime!”

By the time I’ve walked round the table and taken my seat, I can hear the thunderous footsteps of the twins racing down the stairs. Charlie bursts in first, with Dan hot on his heels. They laugh breathlessly and throw themselves into their seats, talking and joking raucously.

Those boys, I think, partly in amusement and partly in bewilderment. Where do they find all their energy?

The heavy tred of my husband comes down the hallway from his study. As he enters, he sniffs appreciatingly and smiles.

“This looks wonderful, Mary.”

A smile springs to my lips. “Thanks.”

He takes his place, pulls the joint towards him and carefully begins carving the meat. The twins begin to bicker about who was going to get the biggest piece.

The last seat at the table remains empty.

“Where’s Andria?” I ask over the twins argument.

My husband raises his head from his carving, and pulls a ‘I don’t know,’ face. The twins shrug. “In her room?” Dan suggests.

“I’ll go get her!” Charlie exclaims.

“No, I will!”

“I said first!”

I interject before it turns into another argument.

“Charlie, you go.”

He jumps up triumphantly and rushes from the room and up the stairs.

Dan turns his puppy eyes on me. “Awww, Mum!”

I smile inwardly and give him the plate with the largest slice of meat to shut him up. It works.

Moments later, Charlie charges down the stairs and sits back down. Andria follows more sedately, sitting down noiselessly. I notice she’s wearing a large knitted jumper despite the temperature. I pass over her plate and fill my own with potatoes, carrots and peas.

Soon everyone is piling their plates, passing round the gravy dish and digging in. Charlie begins talking about some football game he and Dan are in next weekend, with my husband occasionally interjecting with questions.

I turn to Andria and watch as she cuts her meat into smaller and smaller pieces.

“Hey, aren’t you hungry?”

She glances up, then continues to stare at her place. “Not really.”

“But Sunday roast is your favourite!”

Her voice has an edge to it I don’t understand. She sounds… defensive. Almost angry. “Yeah, well, not today.”

I watch her in silence, my brow creased. What’s wrong? Why is she upset?

“Are feeling okay?” I ask quietly.

“Yes,  Mum, I’m fine!” She says, and now the anger in her voice is unmistakable.

I raise my eyebrows. “Don’t bite my head off, I was just wondering why you aren’t eating your favourite meal-”

“For goodness sake!” She says loudly, standing up.  “I’m just not hungry! Why do you have to make such a big deal out of everything?”

The conversation grounds to a halt and four pairs of eyes stare at Andria. I look closer at her, and my thoughts start travelling on a path I don’t like.

Baggy jumpers. Cutting up her food. “I’m not hungry.” And other things as well… changing from packed lunch to school dinners. Going to other friends houses for tea. Going out running every night, on top of Gymnastic training. Weighing herself. Looking in the mirror all the time. And how quiet she’s become…

How can I have missed this? How can I have been so blind?

I stand up slowly and look her in the eye. I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time. Her cheeks are concave,  slightly hollow, making her look gaunt and a little skull-like. Her hands, in fists by her sides, are so bony I can count her tendons and her wrists are worryingly thin. The silence in the room is ringing in my ears. I hold onto my chair to keep upright.

“Honey… Are you eating normally?”

For a moment I think I’m wrong and my heart flutters with relief.

Then I see the anxiety flood into her eyes. Her face creases like a paper bag left in the rain and she begins to cry. I go to her and hold her in my arms, sorrow like an undigested meal lying heavy in my stomach. I stroke her hair as she sobs, wishing that now we had found out it would all be over… but knowing that this was only the beginning.

Midnight Train Station

The train station is as brightly lit up as a shop display and running like clockwork. An announcement drifts across the platforms and, minuites later, a trains sweeps in and hisses to a halt. Everything is running perfectly.

But there isn’t a soul there.

The empty trains arrive and the exausted doors wheeze open then stand, for minuites on end, waiting for passengers that will never climb on. A rusty ‘way out’ sign creaks very slowly back and forth. The vending machines stand like sentry guards, their tired rows of unwanted chocolates illuminated for no-one to see. A disembodied voice echoes forlornly in the silence, reminding passengers not to leave their baggage unattended. Litter scrapes across the concrete, swirling in mini cyclones, propelled by wind from a passing train; a train with row upon row of empty seats.

It’s a ghost town, with trains full of nothing but air.

Ghost

The worst thing is, I can’t tell them. I’ve become a ghost. I’m watching them, all of them, and even though it breaks my heart I can’t stop. And every time I see their faces, hear the terrible sadness in the words, I want to tell them everything. I want them to see me and know.

Is this selfish, or very selfless? If I’ve saved their lives but at the cost of terrible pain, was it worth it? I just don’t know anymore. I wish I could find that perfect certainty again; but ever since I chose this path, I’ve done nothing but doubt.

I feel like I’m underwater; I can’t tell which way is up and which is down. I’m living off them but their pain is killing me. I can’t cope with much more of this.

Soon, perhaps, I will stop haunting them and let them live the best way they can. More than anything else, I just wish I could tell them how sorry I am.

Her Final Dance

The bullet hit her directly between her shoulder blades.

She arched her back, her head thrown back and her mouth open in a soundless scream.

Her shoulders snapped back unnaturally, her arms bent the wrong way and her fingers splayed.

She tried to walk but her knees were buckling. She rose up on tiptoe, silhouetted against the bright city, standing tall and proud for the last time.

Her vision blurred. The yellow streetlights turned into floating circles, swimming in her foggy vision.

She fell slowly, her knees hitting the ground first, and then her stomach and her arms. Her head bounced once, and then was still.

A dark stain was spreading across her t-shirt. The cars roared by, their headlights flashing on her body. The noise of a thousand vehicles was deafening.

But not a single car stopped.