Read by Jennifer Aries
05:07
A rhombus of acid-yellow on the carpet. She watches the borders, concentrating on the shapes lying just beyond the light and names them.
Shoe.
Sock.
Bottle.
If she thinks hard enough, these shadow objects twist into new shapes. Deform. But a sense of responsibility holds her back. Why hurt your
05:59
Digits tumble. She holds her breath and only lets the air hiss out when the hour changes to six.
The radio explodes into noise – Radio 5 Live, his choice – and Nick moves next to her in the bed. No touching though, the middle of the bed is unrumpled. A pristine cotton barrier. He blinks awake like a lightbulb sparks into incandescence. She envies that ability, to switch from here to there in a heartbeat, wishes she could switch herself off.
In the time it takes for that notion to fight through her head, he has sat up and swung his legs to the floor. Should it take that long? Thoughts get trapped inside her skull and can’t escape, they flutter against her eyeballs and peck at
06:21
Nick comes out of the bathroom bringing an aroma of sodden lemons, that shower gel his mother bought him for Christmas. She hates his citrus optimism. The rasp of towel against skin as he dries his body then a pause whilst he attends to his cock and scrotum. A labour of love wasted on a glans. He dabs at his genitals and run the towel up and down his arse crack as if swiping a credit card.
She used to watch with a leer, enjoying the sight. Ask him to bend over and cackle.
Now she imagines skin sloughing onto the floor with every stroke. She thinks that she detests his enthusiasm but can’t be sure. Emotions are balloons - they collapse into nothing when pricked.
She cannot watch any more. It is unspoken, this revulsion. Nick would be amazed, truly shocked, at the depth of feeling over something so
07:15
He crouches beside the bed and speaks to her.
– Tired?
She groans and it seems to satisfy.
– Don’t forget your appointment at half past ten.
He pats her – once, twice, three times – but does not touch her skin. Not allowed. Only the duvet that drapes over her cheek and hair. A safe zone of one-inch depth.
– I’ll get the kids up.
It isn’t my appointment at half ten. You agreed a time and a date with the doctor, not me. I was just in the same room. Talking and talking and talking solves nothing. Don’t you know that by now, you stupid
08:13
The front door slams and footsteps drain away. A chitter-chatter of voices then nothing. Only Dinah and Tom going to school. Cutting it fine for the bus, might miss it. She smiles at the idea of this.
No chance.
That type of misfortune happens to other children. Her two are gilded. They slide through life with no scuff marks. Already lottery winners in life. Unlike the other one. Not him. Not her Sam. Wrong place, wrong time.
Sometimes imperfections are hidden. She ponders this, turns it upside down and scratches at the base. A line of white would distinguish spelter from brass. Authenticity of perception. Decides that she doesn’t care about the ills of others, visible or invisible, and closes her eyes for a
09:29
The radio phone-in is about wolf-whistles. One caller – a woman – says they are a compliment and should be received as such. The woman speaks with a refined voice but there is a rasp redolent of unfiltered cigarettes. A male caller agrees and calls it political correctness gone mad.
Bingo.
She wonders what a wolf-whistle means. Is it different if you are the whistler or the whistlee? We whistle at dogs, train them to obey. Do dogs enjoy it?
A young woman tries to make a point and the argument flares again. Voices clamber over each other, jabbing heels into cheeks, cracking teeth. The presenter closes the discussion smoothly, allowing the combatants to retire the field with honour. The next guest is a lawyer campaigning for improved driving legislation.
Train whistles. Danger, keep away. Do not approach for
10:14
A cascade of letters through the door, the postman whistles as he walks away. She tried to nail the letterbox shut last week but Nick found out. He pulled out the nails and told her it was crazy.
She didn’t try to explain, just watched his mouth as he spoke. He hurt too – the tightness of his lips was a betrayal – but hid it better. A single entry in the debit column of his narrow accountant soul. Assets equal liabilities plus equity. A balancing of all the good they possess over one little death.
She asked if she would die if she swallowed the nails. Each one over an inch long. Would leave a pretty trail of perforation in her guts. An X-ray for the family album. Would that make it all better. Nick took the nails from her and locked them in his
11:23
A doorbell rings, not the chime of a real bell but an electronic pastiche. Could be next door, they have the same model. Again. Twice in quick succession. There is a hint of irritation in the finger press, an anger in the abruption of noise.
They’ll go away. They always do.
A voice calls her name. Her first name. Not Mrs So-and-so. How presumptuous. I don’t even know you.
- Are you in there? You missed your appointment. I phoned earlier.
The absurdity makes her want to laugh her lungs hollow. She threw the mobile phone away the day it happened.
- Hello?
Does the caller expect a response?
Really?
Yes. She really does. Poor cow, you’re really not up to this job, are you? Empathy will suck you dry and spit out the
13:42
Her bladder is full and presses against her abdomen. She hasn’t moved for twelve hours.
Precisely. To the minute.
She noted the time when she woke and turned over, eyes wide in the dark. It will ache to move after so long in one position. Muscles will complain and joints will pop.
This is how bed sores are formed. She would like a bed sore, an ulcerous badge of honour. She could show it to friends and colleagues, pull down the waistband of her jeans and say look, you can poke your finger inside right up to the first joint. Go on, try it.
But she doesn’t have friends and colleagues. Not any more. Not since
14:12
It hurts now. Her bladder hurts. Should she just let go?
She doesn’t want to move, it seems sinful to disrupt the white sheets and duvet. The strip of unoccupied bed guarding her back.
A no man’s land. A damaged space filled with shell craters. They are still digging bomb fragments from the soil of Passchendaele over a hundred years later.
No mention of bodies. Those had long since broken into a million trillion atoms and mingled with the land. But some things can’t be separated; traumas conjoin. A hybrid of woe taints the water and
14:39
Decision time. Something must give. Flip a coin. What’ll it be?
Stay in bed or get up.
If she gets up, then a different future. She will pee in the toilet and enjoy the relief and feel surprise at the enjoyment of a trivial act. Then a shower – tea tree oil shower gel to kill the contamination, the poison lingering after another sleepless night.
Get dressed. Something casual. Jeans and a tee shirt. Urban camouflage.
Go downstairs. Tidy the kitchen, stack the breakfast plates in the dishwasher. Plan dinner.
Vodka tonic reward about three-ish for being a good little woman. A trouper.
Peel veg. Peel potatoes.
Another liquid reward because the first one slipped down way too easily.
Put a towel wash on. Set the table.
Arrange a smile for school home time and hold it so the pain cannot escape.
Choices, choices. Which is the easiest? Not this, not this indeterminate purgatory.
She climbs out of bed. In the wardrobe mirror, her body is pale and sun-starved. The bruise died weeks ago, the long black and blue and yellow sash running from right shoulder to left hip, but injury lingers beneath the surface.
The tomography of guilt.
The taste of airbag and a sudden sense of something being irrevocably wrong in the world. She pinches her left breast until the nail breaks the skin and relief comes and she can follow the script for the day.
By five o’clock, pots bubble on the hob and the smell of cooking meat fills the kitchen. The kids are doing their homework.
Bless.
She drinks from her glass, a long pull, but when she holds her hand up to the daylight spilling through the window, bones shine dark through the translucent flesh.
(c) Susan Smith, 2017
Susan Smith was born in Scotland and is a recent convert to writing following many years working in the pharmaceutical industry. An MA graduate in Creative Writing from Manchester Metropolitan University, she is working on her first novel, The Brazen Calyx. Susan lives in Macclesfield.
Having recently completed filming on Sky Atlantic’s The Tunnel, with her most recent role as Mary Cox in Ripper Street, Jennifer Aries has enjoyed some great jobs in popular TV shows. She enjoys collaboration and new writing and is currently in post-production for her own co-written short film, Forever Young.
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