Hello. Looking around, I think I’ve got away with it – so far, anyway. I am sooo looking forward to Christmas dinner. Haven't been invited around for ages. Let me think now, last time must be easily ten years ago - the year they had a fresh goose. Beautiful it was. Went traditionally British. Bit of an experiment really. Not easy to cook, geese. Massive beast. The stuffing was a bit soggy because of the fat, but, beggars and all that... I must say, I am can almost taste that juice-dribbly turkey.
Ooh, we're off! Dad's picked up the carving knife. Look at everyone's eyes; all fixed on that poor old bird. Anyone would think we hadn't eaten for days. Take Jamie, back home after his first term of university. He probably hasn't eaten for days; pale and sort of fragile-looking. Mind you, he didn't get in from the pub until the wee small ones. If I'm any judge, he won't make it to the Queen's speech. He's still wearing his iPod - Mother'll rip his ear off if she spots it.
Let's see now, sitting next to brother Jamie is Catherine. God, she’s painfully thin. Am I the only one to notice? Must be bulimic. Spent ages in the loo just now; blamed the buck's fizz breakfast. Still, she's looking as keen as us about dinner. I might be wrong. For some reason, I can really relate to Catherine.
Next to her is Nana, looking a bit rosy for her own good. Everyone had a pre-dinner sherry, but the bottle's nearly empty. Just hark at Dad, saying how well she's looking and how her daily walks must be keeping her fit. I know different. She gets to the end of the road, nips into her friend's house and the pair of them have a right old tipple. Then she staggers home and scoots upstairs before anyone can smell her breath. Still, at her age, you have to get your jollies where you can.
Ah, what we have all been waiting for; Dad's dishing out the meat. He looks fagged out. Almost vulnerable. Works all hours. Bound to take its toll. Never gets thanked for all he does in the year. The table would be empty if it wasn't for him.
Which brings us to Mother. The sacred one. Martyrdom, nay, sainthood personified. I think she sneaked a few slivers of meat in the kitchen before triumphantly carrying in her 'ooh-haven't-you-cooked-that-beautifully-Mum' bird into the room. She's flustered and hot from getting up early, shopping yesterday, the defrosting... Oh, I will so enjoy giving her my special present. But for full effect, the timing must be right; I think around tea time would be good.
And me? Oh, didn't I tell you? Strictly speaking, I have gate-crashed. In a court of law, though, I would contend I was invited. Meat not quite defrosted long enough, you see. Does it every time. But how rude of me. Where are my manners? I didn't give you my full name did I? My surname is Monella, Sal Monella. I frequently get to Christenings and weddings but Christmases are my absolute favourites. So many innocents to meet; old people, babies and the teeny, weeny children; Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without the little ones would it? Soooo delicious!-----
© L.A.Rowe, 2008
1.12.08
27.10.08
Indefinity
The trees stand tall, terrible omnipotent beings with creaky limbs. Their branches are reaching out accusingly, scraping at my shoulders and legs, as I pound down the track.
The sky is bland and overcast, the unfinished watercolour of a student artist. The weather is neither hot nor cold, although sweat seeps through my hair, to trickle over my skin. As I run, my mind inevitably returns to the events that have led me to this point. It seems that all I have ever experienced has conspired to bring me here, where the green of nature infuses everything with layers of myriad shades, and the smell is of freshly dug earth.
The track heads off through the trees, forking occasionally. I take the left path every time, curious to find where it leads. I have heard that these paths are called desire lines, and are caused by the constant erosion of human feet on the forest floor; a desire to travel the path of least resistance. I can see her face in the rough bark of the trees, and pick out her silhouette in the bumps and hollows of moss. As I think of her, a discharge of pain and pleasure courses through my body, rushing through my sinews, to make my brain throb.
She had made everyone else fade away with that smile. Her eyes searched mine, and I was drawn to her like lips to chocolate. I remember feeling nervous as I asked her to dance. I had sneakily wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers, in an effort to get rid of my clammy fear. I could feel myself shrivel in the heat of her attention. In contrast, she seemed relaxed and at ease, like some magnificent feline, confident in its territory.
Later, she claimed she was as nervous as me. How I laughed when she told me that. I don’t think she realised the extent of my hormone fuelled emotions, or the power she had over me that night. I was bewitched.
She was a graceful mover, but I didn’t realise it at the time; I spent that first dance watching my own clumpy feet, and trying my best to ignore the warm-firm feel of her, beneath that slippery silk gown. She told me her name was Lillian, and from that moment, her name became the sound that seemed to encompass all the happiness I felt. In time, we became each other, trading our traits and idiosyncrasies in a game of faith and love. We tried each one on as if they were favourite old shirts, not the habits and pleasures that formed our personalities. We thought that we could make ourselves closer to each other by assimilating ourselves. So in love we became, that she was my universe, and I was hers. We orbited each other, held together by the gravity of our feelings. We lived happily ever onward.
My feet are aching with the metronomic thump. The stab of pain in my shins, that comes with each stride, provides a time frame to measure my thoughts against. The track is unchanging. I have no idea how long I have been running, or how far I have run.
I wonder where my watch is. It is one of my most treasured possessions. Engraved on the silver back plate is a message; ‘To Victor, with love, Lillian.’ I used to take the watch off, just to check the legend was still there, and hadn’t somehow worn away. I slog on, hungry and sore.
The trees are still towering over me, their crowns framed by the grey beyond. They don’t seem quite as menacing now, but I may have just developed a tolerance of them. They seem almost serene at times. I am settled in a steady rhythm, with the sting in my shins and ankles pulsing to my heartbeat. My thoughts are made from the memories she helped me create. I would feel tranquil but for the guilt that bubbles below the surface of me.
The thing I remember most is the expression on her face when she caught me. Her beauty was twisted, misshapen by betrayal, shock, and horror. It was as if my transgression had physically affected her appearance. She had come home from work, feeling unwell. My secretary was on her knees in our living room, her head in my lap.
I thought she would leave me, but after a while, the screaming and threats died away. I was amazed. It was as if my inability, or unwillingness, to say no, had knocked her vivacity right out of her. Over the weeks and months, her spark gradually fizzled out, as if I had strangled an essential part of her being.
As she faded, some part of my unconscious psyche recognised that she was wholly vulnerable, and I began to prey on her insecurities. I used insult and blame, to mould her, to be more receptive to my wants. It was not deliberate, but I somehow slowly, insinuatingly managed to lower her expectations of me and of life. In due course, she eventually distanced herself from her friends and family. I’m not sure if that was my doing, or if she simply stopped caring.
Over time, she became totally dependent on me. I’m not proud of what I did, but it’s just how it happened. I liked to drink, and maybe that was a contributing factor, but if I’m honest with myself, I became an ugly, nasty soul. Our sex life was pretty much whatever I demanded, and it included ritual humiliation. I also felt it was excusable for me to fuck every tart in a short skirt, within a hundred mile radius, just because I could. In the space of four years, I systematically destroyed her. I should have noticed she was depressed, but she had stopped being someone to me. She was a thing that existed for my use.
My calves burn with the steady torture. The forest floor is too sharp. I am naked; attempting to merge with the forest. Loping barefoot on pine needles and razor stone. The pain is bright white light. It is all encompassing. My feet and legs are pounded, punished. There is blood on my hands. Where did it come from? Trees are close on either side. I have lost my direction. I keep moving. Where am I going? When did I become so ignorant? Panic froths. Fear percolates. Sweat slicks my skin. My lungs smoulder. Not enough air. Suffocating. Asphyxiating. Too hot. Thoughts are drifting. Her face swims. Hard to focus. Where is Lillian? My eyes are closed. Still I run.
Our last night together, I had been out on the town. I had been a man on a mission, mixing my drinks, and downing them fast. My memories consist of loosely connected scenes in a selection of generic pubs. They are in no particular order, but the order has no relevance anyway. I know I had failed to pull some dizzy blonde, and I was angry she had seen through my patter. I had lurched home with a greasy kebab to keep me company.
By this time, we slept in separate rooms. She claimed I was a snorer. She still usually did what I wanted to in bed though; slipping away once I had finished. I staggered up the stairs, and headed straight for her room. I can remember the surprise when she told me no. I can also remember the horrible weeping and sobbing as I held her down and did it anyway. Towards the end she was snarling. Reduced to some weak and helpless animal, hating me. The look of sheer abhorrence that radiated from her actually scared me then, penetrating my drunkenness, and I left her to her tears.
My next memory is an odd sensation. I felt pain, but it took several seconds to realise what was happening. I choked and sputtered, but I could get no words out. The fear came as I recognised the knife in my throat. The handle she gripped with white knuckles was familiar. It was a steak knife I had used often. A strange detachment settled over me as she cut through my carotid artery, her hand sawing back and forth as the knife bit deeper still. I saw my own heartbeat reflected in the rhythmic spurt of blood that painted the bedclothes. There was an impression that I was being turned inside out, and I was briefly weightless.
I have yet to see heaven or hell.
© Richard Findlay, 2008
The sky is bland and overcast, the unfinished watercolour of a student artist. The weather is neither hot nor cold, although sweat seeps through my hair, to trickle over my skin. As I run, my mind inevitably returns to the events that have led me to this point. It seems that all I have ever experienced has conspired to bring me here, where the green of nature infuses everything with layers of myriad shades, and the smell is of freshly dug earth.
The track heads off through the trees, forking occasionally. I take the left path every time, curious to find where it leads. I have heard that these paths are called desire lines, and are caused by the constant erosion of human feet on the forest floor; a desire to travel the path of least resistance. I can see her face in the rough bark of the trees, and pick out her silhouette in the bumps and hollows of moss. As I think of her, a discharge of pain and pleasure courses through my body, rushing through my sinews, to make my brain throb.
She had made everyone else fade away with that smile. Her eyes searched mine, and I was drawn to her like lips to chocolate. I remember feeling nervous as I asked her to dance. I had sneakily wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers, in an effort to get rid of my clammy fear. I could feel myself shrivel in the heat of her attention. In contrast, she seemed relaxed and at ease, like some magnificent feline, confident in its territory.
Later, she claimed she was as nervous as me. How I laughed when she told me that. I don’t think she realised the extent of my hormone fuelled emotions, or the power she had over me that night. I was bewitched.
She was a graceful mover, but I didn’t realise it at the time; I spent that first dance watching my own clumpy feet, and trying my best to ignore the warm-firm feel of her, beneath that slippery silk gown. She told me her name was Lillian, and from that moment, her name became the sound that seemed to encompass all the happiness I felt. In time, we became each other, trading our traits and idiosyncrasies in a game of faith and love. We tried each one on as if they were favourite old shirts, not the habits and pleasures that formed our personalities. We thought that we could make ourselves closer to each other by assimilating ourselves. So in love we became, that she was my universe, and I was hers. We orbited each other, held together by the gravity of our feelings. We lived happily ever onward.
My feet are aching with the metronomic thump. The stab of pain in my shins, that comes with each stride, provides a time frame to measure my thoughts against. The track is unchanging. I have no idea how long I have been running, or how far I have run.
I wonder where my watch is. It is one of my most treasured possessions. Engraved on the silver back plate is a message; ‘To Victor, with love, Lillian.’ I used to take the watch off, just to check the legend was still there, and hadn’t somehow worn away. I slog on, hungry and sore.
The trees are still towering over me, their crowns framed by the grey beyond. They don’t seem quite as menacing now, but I may have just developed a tolerance of them. They seem almost serene at times. I am settled in a steady rhythm, with the sting in my shins and ankles pulsing to my heartbeat. My thoughts are made from the memories she helped me create. I would feel tranquil but for the guilt that bubbles below the surface of me.
The thing I remember most is the expression on her face when she caught me. Her beauty was twisted, misshapen by betrayal, shock, and horror. It was as if my transgression had physically affected her appearance. She had come home from work, feeling unwell. My secretary was on her knees in our living room, her head in my lap.
I thought she would leave me, but after a while, the screaming and threats died away. I was amazed. It was as if my inability, or unwillingness, to say no, had knocked her vivacity right out of her. Over the weeks and months, her spark gradually fizzled out, as if I had strangled an essential part of her being.
As she faded, some part of my unconscious psyche recognised that she was wholly vulnerable, and I began to prey on her insecurities. I used insult and blame, to mould her, to be more receptive to my wants. It was not deliberate, but I somehow slowly, insinuatingly managed to lower her expectations of me and of life. In due course, she eventually distanced herself from her friends and family. I’m not sure if that was my doing, or if she simply stopped caring.
Over time, she became totally dependent on me. I’m not proud of what I did, but it’s just how it happened. I liked to drink, and maybe that was a contributing factor, but if I’m honest with myself, I became an ugly, nasty soul. Our sex life was pretty much whatever I demanded, and it included ritual humiliation. I also felt it was excusable for me to fuck every tart in a short skirt, within a hundred mile radius, just because I could. In the space of four years, I systematically destroyed her. I should have noticed she was depressed, but she had stopped being someone to me. She was a thing that existed for my use.
My calves burn with the steady torture. The forest floor is too sharp. I am naked; attempting to merge with the forest. Loping barefoot on pine needles and razor stone. The pain is bright white light. It is all encompassing. My feet and legs are pounded, punished. There is blood on my hands. Where did it come from? Trees are close on either side. I have lost my direction. I keep moving. Where am I going? When did I become so ignorant? Panic froths. Fear percolates. Sweat slicks my skin. My lungs smoulder. Not enough air. Suffocating. Asphyxiating. Too hot. Thoughts are drifting. Her face swims. Hard to focus. Where is Lillian? My eyes are closed. Still I run.
Our last night together, I had been out on the town. I had been a man on a mission, mixing my drinks, and downing them fast. My memories consist of loosely connected scenes in a selection of generic pubs. They are in no particular order, but the order has no relevance anyway. I know I had failed to pull some dizzy blonde, and I was angry she had seen through my patter. I had lurched home with a greasy kebab to keep me company.
By this time, we slept in separate rooms. She claimed I was a snorer. She still usually did what I wanted to in bed though; slipping away once I had finished. I staggered up the stairs, and headed straight for her room. I can remember the surprise when she told me no. I can also remember the horrible weeping and sobbing as I held her down and did it anyway. Towards the end she was snarling. Reduced to some weak and helpless animal, hating me. The look of sheer abhorrence that radiated from her actually scared me then, penetrating my drunkenness, and I left her to her tears.
My next memory is an odd sensation. I felt pain, but it took several seconds to realise what was happening. I choked and sputtered, but I could get no words out. The fear came as I recognised the knife in my throat. The handle she gripped with white knuckles was familiar. It was a steak knife I had used often. A strange detachment settled over me as she cut through my carotid artery, her hand sawing back and forth as the knife bit deeper still. I saw my own heartbeat reflected in the rhythmic spurt of blood that painted the bedclothes. There was an impression that I was being turned inside out, and I was briefly weightless.
I have yet to see heaven or hell.
© Richard Findlay, 2008
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