Writing From The Margins

waking up at midday; half the day has disappeared before me, unaware and disillusioned to the world outside my own front door.

I get up and stumble through my well-lit corridor, like an animal caught in the headlights and tediously begin my morning routine as I enter the family kitchen. Daylight is pouring in from all angles, life outside is bright and so alive. I put the kettle on and routinely look out of my kitchen window into the back garden. outside my four cats and two dogs are playing happily together, blissfully unaware and uncaring to the harsh reality in which they exist. The kettle pops and so my day begins. once my coffee is made is stumble back through to my dimly lit room. I don’t see a point in eating breakfast as I don’t need much energy for my daily routine. I sit down, sip my coffee and try to figure out how to escape these four walls, without actually having to leave them.

- Don’t touch that. Stop it.

- Why?

- It’s dirty.

I was stroking a dead bird with one extended forefinger. The forefinger of my right hand. My left hand was tucked between my legs as I crouched down, careful not to let the knees of my lilac leggings with yellow flowers touch the damp, brown mulch of the forest floor.

- Isn’t. He’s clean – he feels clean. And soft.

- No, birds are very dirty. Especially dead ones you’ve found on the ground. Leave it alone.

- Why are they, Mum? Why are they dirty?

She sighed a deep sigh that shook her scarf and her earrings amongst all her hair.

- Birds go places we would never go. We don’t know the places they go. That’s why.

I withdrew my finger but continued to peer. And marvel. The dead bird was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I had ever encountered. My mother had begun to walk away from me; I bit my lip as I watched her but I remained where I was. I wanted to open up his wings, turn him over to see his tail. Rooted like a tree amongst so many other trees, I could and would not move, could and would not tear myself away from the soft stillness, the thin curled feet, the closed eyes. Which would be black beneath, and shining.

They are coming again tonight. I can hear them sneaking up on me in the dark. It is that time of the day again. They know I am weak…I could not numb myself with alcohol in time. And here they are: whispering into my ears, laughing at me, blaming me. You were the one, who kept them away from me for years. But since you are gone they are twice, three times as strong and loud. Everything gets blurry at times like this and I do not know what is real and what is just the twisted  horror of my mind. The bottle of whiskey did not help tonight. They arrived and will be staying with me until I pass out. The thoughts and ‘what if’ questions…they are here again. And you are not.