Black

 by Dawn Rose

cider

 The bank here is undercut enough to be able to sit on its edge, feet immersed, toes stirring stones. To my left the arc of the iconic bridge that spans the deeper dredged waterway. To my right the broadening estuary. It’s a beautiful view with the tide high at that still moment of turn. The sun setting behind me, etching lengthening shadows in a shifting gold and orange mirror.

I try to drink it in.

Looking down at my reflection, I appear misshapen, black eyes askew, black scarf almost covering black lipsticked mouth that smiles or grimaces as ripples distort. Glimpses of black painted nails stark against pale flesh. I make myself disappear in a flurry of silt and stone. I wonder how others perceive me.

I lean further forward for a closer look as the water settles.

Observing.

What does the world know of me?

Only what it sees.

That I’m on the edge?

Mortitia today.

Tomorrow?

Mortitia.

Was she ever any more than a one-dimensional woman? Totally eccentric but trapped in a single image. One she portrayed unremittingly. Is that what she wanted to be? The lace on her dress was exquisite, and the length, strength and shine of her hair divine.

Unlike mine.

Was she really only like that? Or did she simply wish to be seen like that, hiding a strange darkness in her soul? A smoke screen. Of fire smothered. Of smouldering frustration. Of burning deep desire.

Life is so busy, so full, that sometimes you don’t stop till you’ve already begun to fall. Tripped up by your own momentum.

I feel the overwhelming rush of utter worthlessness.

Straightening suddenly, seeking to dispel the panicky feeling in my stomach, my nose ring catches on a thread of scarf and tugs, making me wince, and then it’s free. I check carefully. For once I haven’t lost yet another stud. I’ve never forgotten how painful that was. Nose piercing wasn’t the norm back then. I wanted to make a point. Just ask my mum. In a way the pain of it was easier to bear than the tongue-lashing I had from her.

My nose is fleshy. A really thick stud, designed for ears, was shot through with a regular ear gun. A tear welled up and bathed the stab wound. My right eye remained impartial. The whole side of my nose took on a rosy swell. The stud felt at least four feet thick. I had to keep it in for a month. And if I knocked my nose accidentally, the sharp end, the end inside my nose, made a meal of trying to pierce the central septum.

I knew a man once who could put a pencil through his, via each nostril, so it looked like a tight-rope balance. He said he’d been born with a large hole in his septum. I had no reason to doubt him. In my mind it transported him to a place far distant, to tribal beginnings. Hennaed skin and earthen beads and all that. A time concerned only with ultimate realities of survival. He told me of a man who had committed suicide by placing a pencil up each nostril, then falling sharply forward onto a solid surface so that they shattered the base of his skull and entered his brain.

Which is hideous.

If it was true.

And part of me thinks that if it was, that the man may more likely have merely disabled himself. Merely? But then there are some pretty major blood vessels in that area, aren’t there? I can’t remember. Biology wasn’t my strongest subject. I got in a pickle with anatomy. Because each organ was taught to us individually I just couldn’t grasp that they overlaid each other in the small cavity which is the abdomen.

So stupid.

I should have realised that my linear layout would have meant I needed to have been at least twelve feet tall, and very skinny. Which I’m not! Not at all. Never have been. Quite the opposite. No-one was as fat as me at school. Thunder thighs they called me. Made me a strong swimmer, helped by the broad shoulders and builder’s biceps as well.

I couldn’t do it the pencil-up-the-nostril way.

So many things can drive a person to the extremes of sadness and solitude.

Twilight is approaching and it won’t do to dwell.

My feet are shrivelled and cold and so I wrap them in the folds of my long black scarf and hold them in my hands, hunched like a little Buddha on the shore.

Black boots back on. Heavy black boots, my fuck-you black boots, comfy as hell and I’m on my way. I’ve walked this path many times before, in all seasons, and this evening it is beautiful and still.

At odds with my sadness.

There’s a misty glow in the air as I wander through a field of crackling black sunflower heads hanging in brittle shame after their former glory as pure bright yellow orbs. A whole field undulating in unison, bowing and turning reverential heads toward their goddess in the sky as she beckons, beguiling, fantastic, her power to draw attention and adulation unable to be denied.

The flowers in perfect emulation. Yet the fruit of these copycats are black.

Carbon copies of the purest, hottest most radiant role model.

Golden children should surely issue forth from the gods.

Black seeds.

Black sun.

An anachronism if ever there was one.

I am reminded of my feathered friend. A robin. She arrived in the spring with every feather immaculate and in place. Sleek and coiffured, her breast was the clear bright red of fresh blood. She nested feet away from the back door in an old pot that had belonged to my Nan. It has no intrinsic value, only priceless memories. My memories, especially of being allowed to be my own person whenever I went to stay.

I had a little den at my Nan’s. It was grandad’s old shed. In it was an old oak trunk full of discarded and mildewed satin dresses. The pot sat next to it. Every year it would gradually fill up with grasses collected on our weekend walks to tend grandad’s grave. I don’t remember him. She nurtured her memories of him. He took more than a little of her with him. But he left enough for me and she gave willingly. Each spring the dusty seed heads were scattered to the wind, the pot dusted and fresh stalks gathered as time moved on. Just a piece of junk to everyone else, it was put out as rubbish. It’s practically all I have left to remind me of how I miss her. I swear she took part of me with her. So close. She taught me about the birds in the garden, and those of the fields. How to recognise them and their songs. They had resilience in common, those birds and my Nan. For a while I thought I was resilient enough for the world.

My poor wee robin could hardly cope when her brood hatched. I think she tended them alone. I’ve no idea what happened to the cock. The demands of the four frenzied gaping golden beaks put her under severe strain. She learned quickly to trust my outstretched palm laden with crumbs and seeds.

Black seeds.

Easy, energy efficient pickings. Her breast dulled and she lost control of her downy underskirt. Little tufts protruded from her mantle but her eye remained bright. Every so often I would curl my fingers around her, knowing to crush her featherweight frame would require little force. There have been times that temptation to kill her, to put her trials at an end, almost overwhelmed, but I didn’t have the will.

The nest is empty now. All chicks fledged, sent out to cope alone. At first their song is of hope. It will change. My ragged robin rarely sings now her work is done. When she does it is with a plaintive tone. Maybe too, she senses that next year, or even tomorrow, may not come. Ignoring her plight, I’ve seen the fledglings scattered among the golden leaves of the orchard, singing their hearts out to the sun. Around them, huge juicy red orbs gleamed in the setting rays. Winter Pearman. Fancy having ‘pear’ in the name of an apple tree… The apple fruits beckon like beacons to lost ships in the dark, waiting for the right moment to let go, to plummet down, completely free and at the mercy of decay. The lifeline broken forever. Not quite yet.

Timing is everything.

Even as they hang the apples attract a host of humming winged things intent on devouring the flesh. They munch ever deeper and create great caverns under the skin. In a hole in gleaming glossy gorgeous peel, the thick hide conceals wasps gorging themselves to drunkenness. Their strong brittle little bodies boozing away on natural fermentation. Wings folded neatly, the torpid torpedoes lurch when finally roused to come out, not capable of recalling the potency and pleasure of the chase and the sting, only drunken oblivion.

The unmistakable whiff of cider in the air tempted me likewise to numb my despair. I’m feeling it now, the pleasure of the golden nectar turned to thumping pain behind my eyes. It hurts like hell just like a black-banded sting.

My bottle is drained and empty.

How I wish Nan was here to hear me out.

I turn my brooding thoughts toward the sun, the bright, bright sun, so hot it must surely explode. I wonder at its power to hold the broiling mass within itself in check. The sun, which is slowly setting for everyone.

The very thought releases pent up anguish. It’s as if I want to vomit, to vent all these hideous parts of me. The sensation rushes up my gut and I clamp my hand over my mouth. A pointless thing to do. I swallow deep, and deep again. Gulping air, I choke, and huge balls of air go down the wrong way painfully.

Eyes burn shut, forced to look only inward. Probing deep recesses too unseemly to be seen. I try to avoid the gaping hole in my core. A black hole bored through the very essence of me so my life juice drips away. It may cling but its grip is weak. As the droplets grow heavier they abandon any will that could bind them. Down, down into the chasm toward and into the black sun. My memories hold a concept of what once was fun. Now I’m no-one. A dried and drooping stem, seed-head intact, sterile and withering in a darkened space I’ve made my own.

My head feels heavy and hurting. I am consumed by the hurting.

The air chills and I open my eyes. Holding myself together, I trudge on into the cold shadows beneath the bridge and head up the steep steps to the top.

From high up, the water sparkles and it’s tempting to lose myself in the millions of twinkling diamonds beckoning me from the depths of the running tide far below. Behind me, cars speed by, oblivious to my black thoughts, in a rush to be where they have to be. The sun is slanting across the water from my right and as I look down river, I see it lit as a shimmering golden, silken ribbon blowing in the wind.

Truly stunning.

Looking directly below, the dappled twinkles are extinguished and drowned by the deep encroaching shadow which turns the water to a bottomless black hole, sucking me in.

My phone beeps the alarm I have set. It tells me I’ve taken sixteen thousand, three hundred and forty-two steps to reach this point. How many, I wonder, have I taken in my lifetime? I turn off the phone and take a long look at the blank screen before letting go. I watch it drop silently into the dark water below. No splash as it slides through the surface and is gone.

I have reached my destination. 

Momentarily free.

Fear, I feel none.

 

About the author

dawn rose has written many short pieces, scripts and two novels, probably categorised as literary fiction; contributed to two published compendia, one each prose and poetry; collaborated and developed scripts with published writers; devised many solo pieces of performance art; life skills in professional and voluntary sectors. 

 

Fingered

 

by Dawn Rose

Carlsberg Extra 

He stares at the ring.

It sparkles and taunts him, this last piece of who he was once.

Before.

He wiggles his finger. He knows how much he could use the money. It’s not enough. Not by far. All the same… His dilemma is whether he can bring himself to part with the one, the only thing, that has more than material value to him. Without it, he would be setting himself completely adrift, with no anchor, paddle or sail to guide him.

Yet it is the only thing he possesses which can buy him time.

To get clean.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,’ says The Voice.

‘What?’ he says indignantly. ‘You’ve heard what before?’

The Broker rolls his eyes and makes no answer. He looks at The Man muttering away to God knows who or what and wonders whether anything he has said has sunk in.

Probably not.

Wasted breath.

He is not inclined to repeat himself. He’d like to get his hands on that stone, but the bloody drunken fool is dithering. However, he knows it won’t be long before The Man will have no choice. If not today, soon. All The Broker really wants at the moment, is that The Man get his stinking hulk out of his shop so he can shut up for half an hour for a fag.

The Man is staring up at him, expectantly.

The Broker, staring back without expression, challenges, not too nicely with ‘What?’

The Man hesitates, seems to start to speak, then falters to look down again down at the ring.

His father’s ring.

He twirls it round, feeling the thickness of the band, round and round, the diamond glinting as it arcs. He half eases it over his knuckle, reckoning on the money The Broker has offered, and what he could do with it. In reality it is far less than the ring’s real worth and wouldn’t stretch to covering the immediate problem of rent arrears, but it would go some way to getting The Landlord off his back, and the threat of living on the street again in this festive-season weather.

The Voice reminds him how many Carlsberg Extra or plastic bottles of Vodka the money would buy. The Man’s gut contracts with the need for a quick fix. With supreme effort, the feeling of disgust with himself wins and he shoves the ring back onto his finger, making sure he keeps the setting towards his palm. Keeping it safe. His mind made up.

‘You’ll see. I’ll prove it,’ he mutters as he starts to leave. He heaves at the heavy door with its many locks, and half way through, he turns back and defiantly repeats the promise, ‘I’ll prove it.’

Stumbling slightly, and fumbling in his pocket for his gloves, he doesn’t see the gleam of ice on the lip of the step and twists badly. His left hand scrabbles for some purchase. He manages to catch the jamb as his feet slip and slide and he feels the ring catch on the metal lip at exactly the same time as a cold blast of wind slams the door shut. He lands hard on his arse on the sharp edge of concrete and feels nothing for a split second.

But he hears the scream.

He finds himself confused by the meeting of two points of pain. His backside is throbbing but it’s nothing compared to the hand he’s hugging instinctively to himself. Half lying on the frozen ground, he struggles to sit up. Without thinking he pushes his whole body weight through his knuckles. The pain is blinding. Immediately he buckles backwards as he lifts his left hand clear, feeling relief from the bitter cold of the winter air as it wafts across the startling red rawness. Bright red drops splodge and stain the snow. His cuff is sticky and wet.

He is aware of The Broker rushing in slow motion from behind his counter. The reinforced glass of the door makes him appear distorted. Then two and two add up. Another wave of pain crashes into The Man’s reality and bursts out of him in a spume of clear liquid vomit. The fumes of his beer breakfast are unmistakable and momentarily satisfying. He barely notices the taste of bile.

The Voice is laughing his worst rasping little laugh.

The Man squirms to escape the pool of steaming regurgitation.

The Broker is ashen. He looks back and forth, first at the crumpled Man on the pavement, then at the thing on the ground. He is at the moment of indecision when all possible actions become apparent but where to start?

Should he pick up the finger?

Should he pick up the drunk?

Should he call an ambulance?

He chooses to cover the digit with his dirty hanky, probably because weirdly it is pointing directly up at him. Grasping the crinkled, stiffened grey linen at its centre between his thumb and forefinger, he makes a tent which he drops over the offending object. As does, he sees the glint of gold and diamond a little off to its right, furthest away from The Man. He checks The Man isn’t watching and pockets the ring. Then he goes in to call for an ambulance.

Meanwhile, The Man shuffles himself to slump against the wall, looking, but trying no to, at his bloody stump. His body convulses and The Voice says, ’You need a drink.’ Before he realises what he is doing, he is reaching into his inside pocket with his damaged hand. The fabric of his coarse coat rubs against the raw cut.

‘You bastard,’ he cries out to The Voice, and he hugs his poor hand close again.

The Broker hears and bristles, indignant, and yells through the glass ‘You’re the stupid bastard Mate.’ Yet, as soon as he’s said it he feels ashamed. He needs a fag and lights up. All The Man sees is The Broker’s mouth moving, then the flare of a match. He understands the malice in the expression, but he doesn’t hear the words through the roaring in his head. It drowns him and as he drifts under its weight, he thinks he hears a siren singing ‘The Ring, The Ring, The Ring’, over and over and over.

The Broker watches the screaming ambulance skid to a halt. Two men emerge in their green overalls. They lean over the huddled reeking trench coat, look at each other, raise their eyebrows and turn up their noses. Both pull vivid blue, thin, disposable gloves from their pockets before they touch the grubby creature.

‘Alright chum, let’s have a look see.’

The Paramedic crouches and gently eases the damaged hand from the safety of a sweaty armpit and sucks in his cheeks. First in response to the stench of everything dirty a human body can smell of, and second because he knows this must hurt The Man, and not just a little.

‘Ouch, you didn’t do this by halves then,’ he says. ‘I hope you are right handed’.

The Man’s eyes roll upward. He feels sick, and swallows hard. One Paramedic notices and moves to the side, but his colleague is concentrating on the damaged limb and is splattered by a second wave of beery broth.

Both uniforms swear.

The Man feels his body shudder and the pain in his left arm gets worse and worse, crushing him, forcing him into the hard of the concrete paving. He hears a feeble little voice, his voice, plead with the Paramedic to not press on him so tightly, but he takes no notice. Instead, the man in green is yelling something, something so far away, and hitting him, hard, thumping him hard, again and again and again.

 

The Man feels his body lighten as he is pulled up by his good hand. A pleasant coolness is spreading through his broken hand, and sends little shivers of cold up his arm. He allows himself to be carried, sack-like, with the hurt hand dangling freely. He can’t summon enough energy to open his eyes, but he senses the one carrying him can be trusted and he gives himself over to his care. He is laid down gently and then The Voice, very close to the Man’s ear says, ‘How are you feeling?’ The Man isn’t sure. He can’t quite remember where he is or how long he’s been here. It’s a hot sunny day. That he is sure of as he feels the sweat running down his sides, making his shirt stick all over, and his old suit trousers uncomfortable around his crotch. He can’t seem to sit upright so he can’t reach down to scratch the sweaty itch. Worn out with trying, he gives in to simply savour the pleasant sensation of the sun on his eyelids, and the rosy colour he can see behind them. He can’t fathom why he is wearing his winter coat on such a lovely day, which gradually makes him far too hot and releases the familiar scent harboured in the filthy fabric. He wants to take off his coat. His feet are hot too and he wants to unlace his shoes. For what seems like forever, he struggles to do anything at all until finally he manages to open his gluey eyes. He becomes aware of his ever present companion hovering just out of reach and out of focus before he hears It say, ‘Come on old chum, let’s give you a hand.’ The Voice titters at its own joke. The Man feels light-headed and struggles to recall anything at all thinking only that this is one hell of a bender. Just then a robin appears on his nose. It asks him if his hand is feeling better. The Man thinks, ‘My hand? Ah yes, my hand.’ He holds it in front of his face and sees a claw made of a thumb and three tightly clenched fingers. There’s a strange sensation where another finger should be but where instead there is a bloodied little stump. Something else is missing too but he can’t quite grasp what. The stump is the brightest of red and dried to a scab. It reminds him of a miniature ice cream cone. The robin hops onto the stump and pecks at it. Flakes of dried blood float on the air before finding their way to the robin’s breast, inflaming its colour. The Man cries out, and shakes off the redbreast, crying out again with the sudden sharp pain. The robin cocks it head as only a robin can, then hops back to continue its task. The Voice flickers back into The Man’s awareness and he imagines he can see it confined within a doorway and he thinks, ‘Ah, yes, the door.’ The fleeting memory makes The Man feel calmer. He allows the robin to do its business and little by little the blood is chipped away. He blinks and the bird is nowhere to be seen, but the stump is clean and where there had been a raw wound, is now healed skin. The Man thinks that somehow this is strange, somehow wrong, but doesn’t quite know why and sucks at it, half expecting a fountain of blood. Nothing happens. He gnaws at it with his teeth. It remains intact. His action makes his tummy rumble and he feels a pang of hunger. He reaches for the bottle in his inside pocket. ‘It’s gone. We have none of that here,’ says The Voice. Befuddled, The Man accepts this statement. He feels the coolness of The Voice’s breath on his cheek as it recites over and over and over, ‘It’s gone, It’s gone, It’s gone’. The words weigh heavily on The Man. The Voice is bearing down on him, robbing him of breath and his chest contracts with alarming force. The Voice seems to be sitting on him and forcing him down with all its weight until The Man’s lungs are empty.

 

Beep

Beep

Beep

Beep

Beep

‘Hello. So you’re back. How are you feeling Mr Armstrong?’

It had been a long time since he’s been addressed so politely. He forces his eyelids open and squints into the glare of a dim overhead light. He finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, peels it off, and swallows dryness a couple of times before he manages to croak, ‘I need a drink.’

The effort and the movement hurt his chest, and he feels each breath painfully.

‘Oh, I think the time might have come that you gave up that nonsense,’ the Nurse says, and continues kindly but firmly, ‘If you’d had your wits about you, this might not have happened.’

He focuses and sees the sticky tape criss-crossing his chest, the crisp white of the sheet and the bandage making a stump of his left arm.

He holds up his arm and examines his tightly bandaged hand, reaches it further toward The Nurse and catches her eye, an unspoken question posed by his frowning eyebrows.

‘It’s healing nicely and you won’t really miss it after a while. It won’t ever be quite the same will it? No, I meant the coronary.’ She pauses, ‘You haven’t been looking after yourself have you? You’ve been here on critical for a week now. Heart attack.’

It takes a while for him to realise what she is telling him. Then the beeping, and the wires and the tubes make sense. A week. He is desperately thirsty, and he realises it is only thirst, not a hunger.

‘Water,’ he says.

She helps him to take a few sips from a straw and as he sucks weakly, she assures him that before he knows it he’ll forget he ever had it.

He wonders if she means his ring. 

About the author

Dawn Rose has written many short pieces, scripts and two novels, probably categorised as literary fiction; contributed to two published compendia, one each prose and poetry; collaborated and developed scripts with published writers; devised many solo pieces of performance art; life skills in professional and voluntary sectors. 

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