short thing #6

washing

It was in the back room of the house that the ranting began. She’d been home from work for five minutes, probably less, but she had found a fault. She had found something wrong. I had turned down my music when I heard her come in. It couldn’t be that. She was ranting, though.

Seriously.

I could hear her tone even if I could not hear her words. My room was on the other side of the house. I can’t say I was surprised, honestly, but I guess a part of me had been hoping for a little more time. A little more quiet.

It was probably something to do with the washing. My sister and I had folded the laundry. We’d taken it off the line when we got home from school. I remembered on the way home. I knew if we’d forgotten about it, the ranting would have started earlier. We had taken it off the line. We had put the basket back on the hook above the washing machine. We had put our own clothes away. We had put them away neatly, in the right drawers, hanging our pants up. Our shirts. We’d put our parents’ clothes in a neat pile on their bed. Socks and underwear, folded neatly, alongside. We’d put the towels in the cupboard.

The towels.

I knew what the ranting was for. I knew why it had started so quickly. In less than five minutes. My mother had gotten a towel out of the cupboard to have her shower, straight after work. As she always did.

The towels.

We’d folded the towels wrong. I’d forgotten my mother had changed the way she liked the towels folded.

When I heard the pipes groan in the wall behind my bed, I got up and went to the back room. The laundry. The towels had already been pulled out of the cupboard. They were in a pile on top of the washing machine. With some fallen on the floor. I folded them quickly. Hurriedly, to make sure I’d finished before the pipes groaned again. I folded them right. I put them away.

My little sister had come out of her room. She was standing at the sink in the kitchen, having a drink of water. I went and stood next to her. She didn’t look at me. I drank some water from the tap, too.

Our mother wailed from the bathroom. I turned the tap off quickly. I’d forgotten about the taps. About the scalding hot water in the bathroom when the tap in the kitchen was turned on.

I’d forgotten something else.

At dinner, my sister and I didn’t talk. My father was doing the late shift at the psychiatric hospital. It was just me and my sister and my mother. My mother had said she’d seen our father when she left the nurse’s station. When he’d arrived at the nurse’s station. She said that he’d said he hadn’t slept a wink last night. She said he’d said that my ‘god awful’ music had been too loud. My father would never say that. My father could sleep through an air strike.

I rolled my eyes.

I didn’t mean to roll my eyes. I certainly didn’t mean for her to see me roll my eyes.

The ranting began again. Higher pitched than before. More screaming than ranting. More direct than before. The ranting from before was a mere mumbling compared to now. A harmless mumbly, grumbling.

This ranting was at me. Directly at me, into my recently rolled eyes. This ranting was terrifying. This time I could I hear it, perfectly and with clarity. I could hear the words about teenage boys. About worthless, ungrateful sons who failed to lift fingers to help. About listening to horrible music. Playing horrible music. Scratchy, loud, pointless music. About grades that weren’t going to be good enough. For any university. For any university, anywhere.

But this time I could see it, too. I could see her eyes, bulging, bursting from her head. I could see that vein standing out at the side of her right eye, dark blue in comparison to her light, coffee coloured skin. I could see the ligaments straining in her neck.

And I could see her hand. I could see the fork held firmly in her hand.

And then I could see the fork. I could see it sticking straight up out of my hand. And I could hear, perfectly, with clarity, my sister’s screaming sobs.

And my mother slamming the door behind her.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2011.

Short Thing #5

letter to the woman who used to work at the jeans shop

Hello,

You wouldn’t remember me but I remember you. I came into the shop that you were working in to buy a pair of jeans. I can’t remember if I did buy a pair of jeans but I do remember the skirt. I bought my denim skirt from you around ten years ago. It was a Levi’s skirt, but I’m not really a ‘label’ kinda person. I do like Levi’s jeans, but buying jeans is difficult for me. This Levi’s skirt was a great cut and fit for my body. It was a wonderful denim, not too light and not too dark, but strong. You said the skirt looked amazing on me. You had the same skirt on at the time, and you told me you ‘lived’ in it. You said that I would come to love this skirt and I’d never want to take it off. That I’d only ever want to wear this skirt. You laughed. You made me feel as though I was buying a member of the family. Which made me laugh. I’d bought some street shoes across the road before I came to see you. You said my new skirt would look great as a ‘casual’ look, with my new shoes.

It did.

I wore my skirt whenever I could for maybe four or five years. When I gained weight it didn’t quite fit but I’d force it on. When I lost weight I wore it with a scarf tied in as a belt.

I bought that skirt when I was with my husband. My skirt came with me after the divorce.

When I went travelling it was packed. My skirt travelled the world in my back-pack. Or on my body.

When I got pregnant, I wore my skirt until I was too big to do the buttons up. Then I wore it on with a string tied through the button-holes, keeping it up. When my son stretched my belly to its limits I hung my skirt up until after he was born and my belly was relatively normal again.

Then I put my skirt back on.

I took my skirt to an alterations shop, twice, because it began to fray and fall apart. The first time the repair lady had to re-sew a section of the back pocket back onto the main section of the skirt. The rivet had pulled away and my underwear could be seen through the hole that was left. The second time I needed to get the alterations lady to sew, with white cotton, a pattern over a spot that was stained by cooking oil. To match the sewed over pattern, the lady put a couple of other patterns sewed into other little spots on other sections of the skirt. To match.

When my son was nearly eighteen months old I found a replacement of that exact same skirt. It was the same brand and cut but possibly a darker shade of denim. Levi’s only made my skirt for a little while. It was a Levi’s seasonal release for a couple of years and my replacement skirt had been on the shelves of a tiny little shop for a while. It was discounted. It was my size.

I very rarely wash my replacement skirt. I try not to wear it when I’m cooking. I try not to wear my replacement skirt when any serious damage could come to harm it. But I wear my replacement skirt whenever I can. And when I’m feeling crap, I always feel as though I look fabulous in that skirt.

When you sold me my skirt you were the most incredibly warm and genuine sales person I’d ever come across. You told me I looked awesome. You told me that my skirt suited me perfectly. My height. My curves. My butt.

You were curvy but shorter than me. You were blonde and gorgeous and friendly.

I wanted to be like you. That funny, friendly, happy, gorgeous person. You might have sold a million skirts to a million customers in your time in retail but I will always cherish my skirt.

You made it feel as though I was buying another member of my family.

It’s still hanging in my wardrobe.

It only comes out on special occasions.

Thank you.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2011.

Short Thing #4

seven days

day one

You start taking anti depressant/anti anxiety medication tomorrow.

You haven’t been medicated for nearly ten years. Since you were twenty. Since they made you numb. For eighteen months. Since they took the tears away but they also took the laughs. Since you were so dependent on your partner, of the time, and your parents and your little brother, that being dependent on a drug didn’t seem to be too much of a stretch.

Eight and a half years since you stopped taking them. Since you started, slowly, crying again. Laughing again. Eight and a half years of who you are and getting used to that. And what you can do. What you can cope with. What you can achieve. And what you can’t. What you can lose.

Eight and a half years without prescription medication. And you start it all over again. Tomorrow.

Your GP has referred you to a psychologist. Not so much for the tears. They aren’t debilitating. Its more the constant fear, anxiety, heart racing panic. The fear that you are doing everything wrong. You are saying everything wrong. You are saying and doing all of the wrong things. All of the time. With everyone you know.

You feel out of place. And wrong.

This time, you have to fight the numb, to fight the wrong.

day two

You woke up with a headache.

You knew that you had to, were going to, take a pill that could change your world today. Although all accounts maintain that it won’t, in fact, even start to change your world for two to six weeks.

You’re not sure if you can last six days.

When you spoke to your mum about it, about your fear of the numb flowing back, she said not to think about it. To be aware that that could be an outcome but that you have to be proactive in not allowing it to take over. She had gone to the doctor’s with you and you were reassured by the things that he said. And your mum said. Although, your mum had said she thought you had bipolar.

This isn’t a small time thing.

You have had mental issues on and off since you were sixteen. Or thereabouts. Probably earlier. In fact, you can remember being a compulsive apologiser in primary school. A friend telling you to stop apologising for everything even when you were seven. You remember wanting everyone to like you and crying at camp when you were twelve because your ‘friends’ were going to cut your pony tail off. Because you were too nice. You got homesick when you stayed at your grandparent’s house. You got homesick and wanted your mum. Your dad.

This wasn’t a small time thing. You had been lonely. You had been sad. You had been teary. You had been anxious. You had been nervous. You had been apologetic. You had been mildly insane. For quite some time.

Most of your life.

day three

You woke up with another headache. This time you weren’t sure if it was from the meds or from your head thinking about it being the meds.

On the train you were looking at people but they were a bit blurry. Your head was a bit blurry. A bit fuzzy. The world was just a bit fuzzy this morning.

You looked on the website associated with the drug you are taking. You looked at the side effects and the ways that it works.

One little white pill is working towards changing the chemical make up and break down of your brain. You are taking a little white pill to change your brain.

There is no other brain in the world like yours. You are you because of your brain. You think the way that you think. You know the things that you know. You see the world the way that you see the world. Because of your brain. In your own brain. It’s yours.

It might not be the right way. To see. To know. To think. But it’s yours. And you are special. Unique. An individual.

Right?

It’s all just a bit fuzzy.

Your brain.

day four

You woke up today a bit tired. You read the side effects on the internet yesterday and fatigue was one of them. In fact, you believe you may be suffering from all of the listed side effects, drowsiness, dizziness, nausea, yawning, feeling unsteady. Although a couple of them are irrelevant to you. The inability to orgasm. And the lack of sex drive. They’re irrelevant because when you are not in a relationship, you try not to think about sex. Because you miss it too much. Love it too much. So the side effects related to such are not having an impact. But the confusion, the rest – you have in abundance.

Other than the side effects, you woke up in a pretty good mood. You read your son his favourite book. Then went about the business. Your son’s breakfast. Breakfast dishes. His nappy changed. Clothes on. Then your breakfast. Then your little white pill. Then your dishes.

Then an hour later.

The fuzz returned. And the need to finish folding yesterday’s washing became urgent. Compulsive. Fold the washing and put clothes away. Hang up jeans and skirt, not rolled into a ball and thrown on the top shelf with your pyjamas. Undies in the undies drawer. Socks in the socks drawer. Not like yesterday when socks ended up in the undies drawer.

What were you thinking?

Your headache is back. The fuzz makes you dizzy.

day four (continued)

You wonder if your head is in a bucket of water. You feel as though your head is in a bucket of water. The world is there. You can see it. It all looks in order. But you are looking at it from behind water. In a clear bucket. And it sounds as though you are under water. Too.

But you can stand up. And when you do you have to readjust.

And the bucket of water is upside down, of course, so that you can stand up.

You spoke to your best friend in the world on the phone. And you told her you’d started taking the pills. She said good. She was always the most blunt person you knew. That’s why you loved her. She loved you for the same reason. But you couldn’t concentrate on the story she was telling you. You couldn’t concentrate on the story and on making dinner. You loved cooking. Could do anything while you cooked. Cooking always, always, made you feel better. You couldn’t listen and cook and think about what she was saying and then laugh at what she was saying. You told her you didn’t feel really great. She told you it’d get better. She said she’d call you tomorrow.

A bucket of water that doesn’t spill out or anything.

day five

You nearly had a car accident on the way home from work.

You were driving behind a car and you thought it had taken off into the intersection but it hadn’t and you nearly ran up its arse. You nearly crashed your car and all you could think about was the fact that your son wasn’t in the car. And that you shouldn’t be driving. And that you were glad he wasn’t in the car. And that you shouldn’t be driving.

You went to the friend of the family’s house, the friend that looked after your son while you went to work, and you waited there. Until your parents finished work. Until your mum picked up your dad and they drove to get you and your son. And your car. And they drove you both home.

You were probably not safe to drive. Definitely not safe to drive.

day five (continued)

After you got home and your parents went home, your son started crying. And crying. And crying.

He never cried like that. Well, very rarely at least. And he only ever really cried like that when he was sick. Or really tired. And he had had a cold recently but you thought he was getting better.

But he wouldn’t stop crying.

He was supposed to be asleep. You needed him to go to sleep. It was after seven thirty and he went to bed at seven. Most nights. And he was such a good kid, he rarely cried. Maybe grizzled a bit. But went to sleep okay. He didn’t always stay asleep. He didn’t always stay in his bed. You woke up, nearly every morning, with his feet in your ribs because he had gotten into bed with you sometime in the middle of the night. But that was okay.

He was such a good kid.

But he wouldn’t stop crying and wouldn’t go to bed.

You called your mum. She had gotten home already. He had cried the entire time she was in the car and then some. She told you to burn some oils. Give him a drink. Maybe he had a temperature. Wind. He wasn’t little little anymore, he was nearly two, he generally dealt fine with his own wind. But you tried them all.

He kept crying. Crying.

Your mum said she didn’t know what else she could say to help. And you said it didn’t matter, that you’d prefer to talk to her than to listen to him crying.

You got him up and eventually he fell asleep in your arms while you sat on the couch. Eventually you could get him into his cot and walk away.

Eventually.

But you lost it for a while there.

day six

You went out tonight. You decided that you would be a good friend and attend a friend’s gig. Not that she would even know you were there.

You put make up on for nothing. Really.

There were so many people there and she smiled and said hello. But that was all. But you were a good friend.

You were just a dizzy, tired, nauseated, good friend.

Who could have been home in bed. Should have.

You decided to change the time that you took the little white pill. You wanted to take it at night instead of in the morning. You would then have most of the initial dizzy yuck fuzz while you were sleeping. If you could sleep. Dizzy. But you took it a couple of hours late yesterday. And again today. And by tomorrow you will be able to take it at dinner time.

Then you might feel a bit more like a normal person.

A normal human being.

day seven

You know you should do some writing. You know it will make you feel better. You will feel better about yourself if you did some writing. But you are just not any good at it. Turning the computer on. Opening the documents. Typing the words. Having something important to say.

Saying it in an intelligent way.

You know you should do the vacuuming. You know you should probably dust. And probably change the sheets. And probably bring the clothes in off the line. You know you should probably do some exercise. And take your son to the park. And visit friends. And bake muffins. And wash the dishes. And fold the clothes. And wash your hair. And play more with your son. And read more to your son. And be a better mother.

And not drink so much coffee.

But you feel too sick. Too dizzy. Too spinny.

It’s all just too hard.

Although you woke up fine today. You woke up feeling like a normal person. You decided to drive again today, you haven’t done that since the near accident day. How many days ago was that?

You drove to the market where they sell fresh fruit and vegetables at really cheap prices. But there were too many choices and you only bought a few things at each stall. And you got mixed up. And confused. And bewildered. And overwhelmed. And you bought too many things. And not enough things. And you spent too much money. And you just had to get out of there. Away from all the vegetables. And the people selling vegetables. And the people buying vegetables.

And you got you and your son back into the car and the vegetables you’d bought into the car. And you had to really concentrate on getting the car out of the car park. Out of between two planet destroying four wheel drives. You had to concentrate.

All the way home.

And you wished you were better.

At a lot of things.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2011

Short Thing #3

the comedian

He stared in the full-length mirror with his script in one hand and an HB pencil in the other. The eraser on the end of the pencil had long been bitten off, yet the tin casing that once had held it there, remained. He chewed at it now. It made his front teeth ache. It left a metal taste in his mouth.

The script he had written was not his best. Nothing had been in years. But he kept writing. Rehearsing his scripts in the mirror. Walking up the hallway, with hand gestures. Scribbling notes in the sides of the pages. Notes on things he struggled to get the timing on. Ideas for making his jokes better. Words that got confused in his mouth. Words he fumbled to say in time.

And things he wasn’t sure of anymore.

He was divorced. Essentially. He was a contemporary cliché. Married to a woman for near thirty seven years because that was the thing to do. She was still in the house. They were still married. That would never change. But they were divorced, too.

The irony of the times.

She hated it when he rehearsed in the hallway. She hated when he scribbled at the dinner table. She hated when he couldn’t sleep. She hated when he was writing and he wasn’t talking to her. She hated when he shut the door to the study and left her in the house alone.

He hated that he couldn’t make her laugh anymore.

When she went shopping with her girlfriends she would sit with them in the food court of the shopping centre close to her home. She and her girlfriends would drink coffee and eat a slice of cake. They would do this a couple of times a week. Or a few. Her girlfriends were in marriages similar to hers. They had similar problems. Similar discontent. No one really got along anymore. No one really made love. With words or bodies. No one really cared. No one was affected.

Something was missing.

She attributed it to youth. Youth and immaturity. Her own when she met him. That and the idea of love being something that only young people could believe in. That young people could see as lasting forever. She knew better now. That nothing lasts forever. Her body was testament to that. Her husband’s, too. And the feeling that her life was missing something grew more.

Her children no longer needed her. They certainly no longer needed her husband. They’d needed her for longer than they’d needed him, though. She used to feel guilty for that. That her children openly needed her more than him. When he was impossible, though, she felt vindicated for it. Felt that she had worked harder for those children and thus deserved to be needed for longer. Deserved to be loved more. But now they were grown.

And that was that.

She would talk to her best girlfriend sometimes. They would get into chats and cackle over cups of tea and coffee. At her best girlfriend’s kitchen table. Joking about sex and who would have to do it soon. Who would have to give it up for their husbands because it had been too long. Joking. Naughty jokes. Innuendo. Double entendre. Laughing about it.

She laughed with her girlfriends.

When she went out, he would wait for her to come home. He didn’t think she would come home and that they would be changed. That things would be better. That their divorced married life would be lifted from their consciences. But he waited all the same. It was empty with out her. As it was with her.

He would shower alone these days. His hair had changed. And, of course, his body. He wasn’t an old man, yet. But he was not the same either. As he once was. He no longer felt connected with the famous actors in the Hollywood movies. He no longer sympathised with their character’s plights. Movies were about young people. Or they were set in the past.

When they were young, they always showered together. Even when their children were around. Awake. They would talk in the shower. Discuss their days and thoughts and dreams and problems. They would never argue in the shower. Even when they were arguing. The shower was safe. They would solve the problems of the world in the shower. Not that their shower was luxurious or grand. He’d been successful, but not to the point of extravagance. But showering together, other than going to bed, other than making love, was their time. They could be and be cleaned. They could be held. They could talk without the rest of the world listening. They could be honest. Bare.

Now nearly every time he walked into a room, she had her back towards him. As though she were waiting for him to come up behind her. To turn her around to look at him. To look into her eyes. And he thought about it, too. Nearly every time he walked into a room. But he didn’t turn her around. He didn’t look into her eyes. He watched her back for a moment then carried on. He didn’t turn her around. He wouldn’t know what to do with her if he did. Wouldn’t know what to say to her. What to say into those eyes.

He had a gig soon. It was a gala night to promote the upcoming comedy festival. He knew he was invited for nostalgia’s sake. He knew his presence was more out of respect than out of popularity. He was ok with that. He’d conceded.

She never came to his gigs anymore. Her excuse was that she had heard him rehearsing his scripts for so long that she already knew the jokes. He felt it was because he embarrassed her. He told jokes about marriages. He told jokes about being married. He told jokes about her. Not her. But she knew they were. She hated him for that.

He hated her for not coming.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2011