Written by Jack

At The Table is a fascinating look into the impact of later life divorce can have on a family. Claire Powell brings to life the Maguire family as she regales us with the fallout of the divorce over its first year. Linda and Gerry Maguire’s breakdown trickles down to the mental breakdown of their eldest son, Jamie, and the existential breakdown of their daughter, Nicole.

Powell uses the seasons to mark the passage of time within the book and centres the action within each chapter around a meal. Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter provide wonderful backdrops to the drama, as you find yourself questioning how Christmas is going to work for this family, and how the upcoming nuptials of Jamie are going to be affected by the separation.

The decision to have each chapter follow a different family member works especially well, allowing the reader to gauge the difference in adjustment for each. Whilst one character finds themselves yearning for the past and the opportunity to make mistakes, another is searching for the freedom within themselves to explore the newfound independence. It’s an excellent device for such a grand tale, told on such a relatable and relevant level although it did leave some chapters dragging as I longed for resolutions to the threads of other characters.

The book is certainly a part of the latest twenty-something-year old protagonist kick within the writing industry, and it is certainly a gem amongst the others. Feeling like a Sally Rooney novel with a kick of Fleabag and This Way Up, it has a feeling that Nicole is the central character as the drink loving, career focused woman who just hasn’t found her place to be happy. Her journey is the best part of the book and although she’s somewhat unlikeable, she’s totally loveable and relatable. She’s the type of character that you’d hate to meet in person, but reading about her is an absolute hoot.

I was absolutely blown away by Claire Powell’s writing and gripped to the page. I cannot wait to see what she follows this up with, and I can only wonder how she’ll outdo herself. 

Jamie 

I can still remember how the doorbell ripped through the silence at dinner that night. It had become somewhat of a tradition that we would all eat at Mum and Dad’s on Sunday nights, the only mandatory interaction required. I didn’t have any issues with going, I just had better things to be doing. I was glad I went that night, though.

“I’ll get it, don’t worry,” Dad said, pushing his chair from the table and limping toward the door. Dad was reluctant to admit that his hip had never fully recovered from his surgery. When he finally reached the door, I heard the clanging of the chain as he opened it but I couldn’t make out the muffled conversation afterwards. 

Dad popped his head around the doorway a few minutes later. “Irene, are you able to come to the door please?” Something was wrong. He had suddenly become very sombre and almost worrisome. Mum went to the door to see what was wrong and my siblings and I all stared at each other in silence.

Adam was sitting closest to the doorway, most likely to have heard anything that was happening. “Adam, who is it? What’s happening?” Claire whispered at him. She was demanding in tone, with a natural sense of elitism as the oldest. Adam waved his hand to silence her as he tried harder to listen to the conversation.

“Fuck this,” I said, swiftly pushing my chair out and making my way through the living room to the front door. A man was standing outside. He looked almost identical to me except for a few scars and a fuller beard. It was like looking in a mirror. 

“Jamie, go back inside now!” Dad raised his voice at me. Dad never raised his voice at me. 

“Jamie, please just listen to your father, please Jamie just go back inside,” my mum was begging me now. I knew that it must have been something serious if they both wanted to keep this from me, whatever it is. 

“Who are you?” I queried, stepping past my parents and closer to the door. The man looked frazzled. He was just as nervous and awkward as I.

His hand shot out toward me. “I’m Jonathan, you’re Jamie I suppose?” 

“Jonathan who? Who are you? Are you a friend of my parents? What are you doing here?” Jonathan’s name only left me with more questions. My parents didn’t know anyone called Jonathan, not as far as I was aware. 

“Look, you’ve interrupted a family dinner and I think we’d all appreciate it if you’d come back at another time. I’m sorry, you really must leave now,” my dad attempted to close the door before I pried it back open, determined to discover who this Jonathan was. 

Jonathan stood there just staring at me, and I at him. Both attempting to figure out what was going on.

Jonathan

When my mum gave me the papers, I didn’t believe her. What sort of parent tells their son that he’s adopted when he’s 26. I was sure that my whole world would fall apart, but it didn’t. It split right open.

I didn’t speak to them for a week after they had told me, I was still processing the news myself and to their credit, I got the space I needed.

When I went to see them after a week, we talked about the whole thing. “You’re a twin. Your birth mother wasn’t able to raise two boys,” she had said, tears welling in her eyes as she spoke. “You have to understand, she wasn’t in a good place. She could barely afford to live herself. She hadn’t a job. She couldn’t have done it with two of you.” 

My knee was shaking with anger, but I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my cheek. Mum placed her hand on my knee and looked me in the eyes. “You’re still my son.” Her words were sincere but at that moment, they meant little. I brushed her hand off of my knee and walked toward the back door.

I reached up to the cupboard above the sink, moving bottles of bleach and washing up liquid out of the way until my hand touched the cardboard packet of cigarettes that I had hidden in the back. I took out a single cigarette, placed it between my lips and lit it from the stove. I opened the back door and stood outside, taking long inhales and longer exhales. 

Mum went and stood by the back door, waiting for me to react in any way. She had always been like that though, she was always there to hear my side of the story whether it was good or bad or morally ambiguous. 

“I just don’t understand why you’d keep it from me. I deserve to be told, I have a right to know.” The cigarette was shaking between my fingers at this point, and my knees were struggling to keep me up. I knew that it was just a natural shock to the situation. I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the rage that she had kept from me. “You should have told me!” I screamed at her. I immediately regretted the tone, but not the words. She was crying silently now, and I felt terrible for both the way I was reacting but also the way my reaction was making her feel. “You should have told me,” I said again, softer now, whilst walking in and wrapping my arms around my mother as she holds me tight.

“I know, I’m sorry, I know,” she said calmly into my ear as I sobbed louder, all of the anger and shock flooding me in waves of tears.

Jamie

I knew that dad wouldn’t be happy when I invited him in, to this day I think that perhaps that’s why I did it. Jonathan sat on the sofa opposite me whilst Mum and Dad went to make teas, and no doubt gossiped about the situation and how my barging into the hallway was going to negatively affect their life. 

“So…” Jonathan said as we stared at each other in silence for days. He hunched over on his knees. I almost took pleasure in his discomfort. It mirrored mine but I hoped only that it exceeded it. If I had to be in shock, pain, and awkwardness, I was sure that whoever this man was deserved to feel it tenfold.

“Do you want money? Is that why you’re here? Are you running some sort of scam? Because they’re old but they’re not that old and they’re not going to fall for it. You won’t con them out of anything–”

“I don’t want your parent’s money, Jamie. I just want to know them.”

“Why would you want to know them? They’re strangers? As far as I know, they’ve never met you and don’t know who you are so unless you’re going to explain somehow who you are and what you are trying to do to my family, I suggest that you get up and leave right now because you are not welcome here!” I was screaming so loud that I didn’t notice that my siblings, who had been sitting at the table the whole time, had stood up and were ready to step in. I was never going to become physical with this stranger. I had an urge to hit him though, I had a fire that was ripping through my body and culminating in my fists to throw my whole force at his cheek. 

I didn’t though. I couldn’t. My parents ran in when I was shouting and started to fuss. “Jamie! Jamie! Jamie!” They made feeble attempts to calm me down but ultimately the room remained silent, I didn’t say anything more to him and he said nothing more to me.

I walked out of the room and out through the front door. The blood pulsing in my ears, I could only hear my heart. I shouldn’t have shouted. Thump. I should go back and apologise. Thump. They should have told me who he was. Thump. Why does he look like me? Thump. 

“Jamie!” I heard someone shout.

I turned around and without even a glance at who it was, I had balled my fist and punched the centre of their face, causing them to stumble and fall backwards with a groan and a thud.

It took me a minute, but then I realised that it had been my dad. I had punched my dad and he had fallen onto the pavement.

I looked at him at that moment, lying on the floor with his eyes closed and his blood collecting beside his head.

Jonathan

“Are you sure that you want to go? You could always write them a letter,” Mum said. “I don’t even know that they still live there. They might have moved.”

She wasn’t keen on the idea of me showing up at their house. She thought that it would seem invasive and rude. She had never been a fan of getting off on the wrong foot.

“Even if they haven’t moved, what if they’re busy? You might interrupt something really important. It’s going to be a shock any time, you should really try and make it easier on all of you and do it at the best time. Small steps, don’t you agree?” Mum was scared, I could tell. She somehow still had a fear after all of these years, that they were going to change their minds and take me back and steal her baby from her. I understood where she was coming from, I just didn’t like what she was saying.

“I get that it might inconvenience them, but it is a little inconvenient for me to find out that my whole life has been a lie, don’t you think?” I knew that it would hurt her, I shouldn’t have said it. 

In the days since she’d told me, I just couldn’t stop thinking about what my life might have been like. I had looked them all up on social media and tortured myself with thoughts of the life that I missed out on, all of the memories of having brothers and sisters and having a father. I could have avoided the grief and the trauma of losing him if my birth mother had just decided to keep me. 

“You’re a grown boy and it’s your choice Jonny, I just want you to make sure you’re doing this the right way,” she was holding my arm now, pleading with me to reconsider but by this point, my mind had been made.

I had written a letter to give to my birth parents, laying out my feelings about their abandoning me all of those years ago and how I wanted to reconnect with them. I was firm in the letter, they’d never be my parents. They had sacrificed that opportunity all those years ago.

I was ready to leave the house later that afternoon. I had dressed in my best clothes, wanting for some reason to impress these people who didn’t want me. My stomach was somersaulting as I waited for the taxi. I was so unsure of myself and my actions that I didn’t trust myself to drive over there, I knew I’d flake at the first service station and that I was too awkward to tell a taxi driver to turn around so I’d continue in the car until the journey was complete.

The taxi took well over two hours, driving at first through many rural parts of the country admiring fields and barns. I noticed a considerable amount of livestock. I’d never thought of it before, but most of these animals had been ripped from their parents and sold off to the highest bidder to be used for meat, milk, wool and whatever other commodities were needed.

I was no different to these animals.

Jamie

The ambulance had taken longer than I thought it would. I sat on the brick wall next to Dad for the whole time that we waited. I couldn’t say anything. Everyone came and checked on me but I still sat there, just staring at him. I was watching the blood spread, slowly filling the cracks between the slabs on the pavement. It wasn’t as red as it should have been. Whenever I thought of blood, I thought of a rich velvety crimson but this was darker, closer to a scarlet tinted maroon. I remember thinking it meant something about the state of Dad’s health and telling myself to make myself bleed later on to compare.

When the paramedics finally did arrive, they hoisted Dad up onto the stretcher and he started to regain some consciousness and my stomach started to unfurl itself. I will never forget the way that Mum looked at me as she got into the ambulance. It was as though she was looking at me and didn’t see her son but instead saw a stranger. 

The way she spoke to Jonathan before the ambulance departed angered me. I wished that it was him, not Dad, being driven away to the hospital. I found myself wishing I had punched harder. I found myself wishing I had punched him again and again again. 

He walked over to me as the ambulance drove away and he sat down next to me. 

“I probably shouldn’t have shown up the way I did tonight,” I didn’t like the way he spoke to me, as though we were friends. We had been nothing to each other before and I wanted it to stay that way.

“Smoke?” he said, pulling out a carton of cigarettes and holding it in front of me. I silently took one, placed it between his lips and took the lighter that he offered me.

We sat there for what must have been ten minutes, smoking in silence. My thoughts spun and spiralled to the thought of Dad lying in hospital and then straight back to the anger of this stranger sitting next to me.

At some point as we sat in silence, it all became too much and the faucet of tears opened and I started sobbing. Jonathan reached over and put his arm around me and I found myself comforted by the silent embrace of this man. 

“He’s going to be okay, you know?” he said as my sobs quieted. 

“I thought it was you,” I spoke finally, standing up on the pavement only a foot or two away from the spot where my Dad had laid. 

“I know,” Jonathan responded. “And I don’t blame you. I’d have done the same. I doubt I’d have been able to give that good of a punch thought, it seems as though I got the scrawny genes.”

I chuckled faintly then. My fears and worries and images of Dad in the hospital disappeared and finally, I was fully present in the moment.

Jonathan

I had been surprised that Jamie agreed to get a taxi with me to the hospital. I offered to order him one, not expecting to accompany him but his siblings had already gotten one up and his Mum travelled in the ambulance and it probably wasn’t a good idea to leave him alone. 

I thought that the taxi would be a journey of silence but Jamie was a fountain of questions. It was the first time that night that I had felt anything other than hatred and disdain from him. I knew it was the stress and panic and shock of what had happened to his Dad, but trauma response aside it felt good to finally lay some pre-foundations for bonding and actually getting to know each other.

Our conversation was interrupted about twenty minutes away from the hospital when his sister rang him, asking where he was. “We’re about ten to fifteen minutes out, can you meet us by the taxi rank?” he spoke in a hurried rush and then hung up the phone after a series of “Okay, yeah, sounds good, okay bye.”

When we arrived at the hospital I remained in the car initially, unsure as to whether or not it was appropriate for me to go up with Jamie or not. “Come on dude, we haven’t got all day,” he said through his open car door. The invitation was appreciated and so I stepped out of the vehicle.

The minute I caught the attention of Jamie’s sister, my presence invoked guilt within me. 

“What is he doing here?! Mum explained everything. They didn’t want him then, and after what’s happened tonight, I doubt they’re going to want him now!” she spoke in a deceptively calm manner but the words of this stranger/sibling stung like a wasp. 

“Stop it!” Jamie responded, his voice raised significantly louder than hers. “He’s our brother. That’s his dad in there too, we can sort out the arguments and the history later. We all need to be up there right now, by dad’s side. That’s the only thing that matters.” 

Jamie and his sister looked at me then, as though waiting for my input into this conversation as though I hadn’t appeared within their family within the last few hours.

“I agree,” I said, shrugging my shoulder. 

“Great, let’s go then,” Jamie took the lead, walking into the hospital.

“I’m Amber, by the way,” Jamie’s sister finally extended what had looked like the seed to an olive branch.

I can’t stop thinking about how he would feel inside me. It’s absurd. The very thought of it drifts way past the realms of possibility and potential and yet I catch momentary glimpses of a universe where not only is it a possibility but it’s a reality. It’s a universe where he’s acted on his desires and I’ve acted on mine and we rip each other’s clothes off and our bodies intertwine. It’s beautiful but it’s not loving. It’s grotesque. It’s raw. It’s animalistic. It’s all I’ve got on my mind.

I sit now, in a taxi on the way home. I haven’t seen him in just over twenty minutes and I can still feel the pressure he put into the hug as we parted. At the moment, I didn’t consider the absurdity of a hug between friends and the fact that I’d never hugged any of my other friends when we say goodbye but I’ve never wanted to. 

As we’re gliding past the clubs and the kebab shops, I’m trying to rationalize in my head whether or not it’s merely a physical desire or if there’s a want for more than that. Thinking back on previous infatuations, they’ve been temporary. A simple wank has, for the most part, sent them on their way. Yet this one is different. This one is him. 

The Next Day…

It’s a Thursday night. I suggested that we meet on a Friday but he had plans, and when I suggested the weekend he said that he was busy with his various hobbies. That’s when I opted for the week following but he said he wouldn’t be able to wait another week without taking me out and so we compromised and agreed to meet on Thursday night. 

Originally we were supposed to meet at six o’clock but I realised at about five o’clock that I was far behind schedule and that there is no way that I would be ready for six because the seismic meltdown about timings has just taken up half an hour and I have so much to do. He says that we can meet whenever I’m ready and I tell him to get here at seven and that worst-case scenario he can come up and have a beer whilst I finish getting ready. 

I’m ready at quarter to five, consistent in my incapability to judge timings. I message him and tell him that I’m an idiot and I’m ready now and ask if there’s any way that we’d be able to meet before seven o’clock and that I’ll buy the first drink to make up for it. 

My doorbell rings before he texts me back. I answer it to see him standing there wearing a white shirt with the top three buttons undone which match the pair of overly skinny black trousers that he’s chosen. He looks like a fuckboy, something which I will point out several times throughout the night and something that he will, himself, start to mock.

He explains that he knows me well enough now to know that despite my worrying about being late, I’m usually early. 

I invite him into the flat, and he says that he shouldn’t because I’ve just got dressed and it’d be a shame to take the clothes off so soon after I’ve put them on. I chuckle awkwardly and pretend like I’m shocked by the forwardness but in reality, I’m resisting the urge to pull him into the flat and rip the jeans off in a demonstration of my oral capabilities. 

We make our way down the corridor toward the lift, and whilst we’re waiting there’s an awkward silence which he fills with a joke. “It’s funny how we weight for the lift, but we can’t lift the weight,” he says and I laugh, making it clear that it’s directed at him and not at the ridiculously unfunny joke.

As we step in the lift, he makes a comment about how I’m so mean to him but he knows I love him really. “Love? This is the first date, you’re moving very fast for someone who wouldn’t even come into the flat,” I feel very nervous after saying this. The large red wine and can of dark fruit I drank whilst getting ready is stressing me out, the opposite of the desired effect. 

The journey in the lift takes longer than it ever has before. I’m enjoying his smell. It’s a predictable blend of cedarwood with a hint of orange. I’m finding it intoxicating but irresistible.

I lean over to him and kiss him on the lips. He puts his hand on the small of my back as we kiss and the other on my cheek. The kissing started as awkward but now it’s passionate. It’s as though we’ve both stepped onto this dance floor together before and we’re pros at the tango. 

The lift announces that we’re at the ground floor and we both pull away from each other with grins on our faces. I’m hard. I have to resist the urge to suggest going back up to the flat, because he isn’t just a fuck. He’s more than that. 

Walking outside, I notice that his face is flushed. “I think I need a cigarette,” he says as his voice cracks. It’s adorable. He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and offers me on. I place it between my lips and he lights it for me, before even touching his own. I thank him, he lights his own cigarette, and we start walking.

He starts to tell me an anecdote about where we are, something about being drunk and ‘an absolute state’. He says that I’d really get on with his mates and that he’ll let me know next time they all go to the pub and I can come down for a few. There’s something about him planning future plans involving me and other people within his life that makes me feel warm. 

I thank him and I see him grin before saying “Unless tonight goes awful, I mean.” I know he means it as a joke but my stomach flips in that moment. I swallow, hard. He laughs and I’m settled again. 

We’re approaching the cinema now, and I’m getting nervous. It’s not nerves about the date or anything like that, it’s just my typical fear that this film I’ve waited for ages to see is going to disappoint me. 

“If this is shit, I’ll kill myself,” I say and he laughs. He’s shocked at my comment, we’ve never talked about mental health before but I suppose I’ve got to soft lauch my crazy. 

“You’re joking, right?” he has an awkward half smile on his face and his teeth are slightly showing and his eyebrows are curled.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, “mostly.” 

He has his arm around me as we walk up to the cinema. “Do you want sweet or salted?” he asks me. 

“It’s got to be sweet, surely?” I reply. His face immediately looks disappointed. 

“I don’t know if it’s worth even staying out! Sweet popcorn?! You’ve got to be joking,” he says. “I’ll just get us a mix of both and that way we’ll both be equally as disappointed.” 

Once he’s paid for the tickets, the popcorn, and the drinks, we make our way into the screen and we find out seats. He lets me sit on the end because he already know I don’t like stranger’s elbows touching me in the cinema, but once he sits down, he mockingly hits my elbow with his.

Throughout the trailer, we both provide short descriptions of whether we want to see the films and if we both want to see the same one then he enthusiastically exclaims, “we’ve got to go together, when is it out again?”

Once the lights go down, he places his hand on the inside of my leg. From my previous experiences with me, I expect it to slowly creep further up towards my cock but instead he just strokes my leg for the first half of the film. I feel slightly like a dog, but my leg feels fuzzy and warm so I’ll allow it. 

The middle act of the film drags and I get sleepy, so I put my head on his shoulder and curl up in my chair. He puts his arm around me and kisses my head. It invigorates me. I stay in that position for the rest of the film and everytime he gets scared and jumps, he quickly apologises and asks if I’m alright. I feel nestled. I’m a puppy, swathed in blankets, and getting pampered. I’m in my element.

The film ends and we discuss our thoughts on the way out of the screen. I feel very strongly one way or another and he says that he agrees but he points out errors and things he didn’t like. 

We get outside and he immediately pulls out two cigarettes for the walk back to the car. I ask if he’s sure, because I have my own and I don’t want him to run out of cigarettes. He tells me to stop being stupid and take the cigarette. 

I finish my cigarette first, and he comments on how quickly I can smoke. I explain that it’s because I’ve always only had five minutes for smoke breaks at work, and I don’t like to take the piss with it. He laughs and says that if he’s having a smoke, it’s taking him as long as it takes.

We arrive at the car and it’s a lot cleaner than the last time I saw it. He’s taken the effort to have it cleaned and I assume that it’s for the date, I’m flattered but I don’t say anything to save myself the humiliation.

It’s a ten minute drive to his, and I have the pleasure of hearing him sing along to every word 505 by Arctic Monkeys and Brutal by Olivia Rodrigo. It’s an eclectic duology, and I mention this to him and he explains that he likes the poetic contrast between the two songs. There’s something beautiful in the way that he explains it. 

It’s an untapped innocence and intelligence that I’d never considered in relation to him before. I like it. He speaks about his favourite songs with such passion that it’s sexy. It’s only slightly frightening when he takes his hands off of the steering wheel to gesture.

We arrive at his house and it’s modest. It’s a four bedroom terraced house with a white exterior and an ugly colorful door. He says that he’s glad to have the driveway because parking around this area is an absolute bitch. I make some sort of comment in agreement despite having never driven for a day in my life.

“I’ve told my housemates to fuck off for the night, so we’ve got the place to ourselves,” he explains as he puts the key in the door. I almost feel a pressure to put out when he says this, but then I remember how badly I want him and the feeling passes almost immediately. 

Once I’ve stepped within the house, he grabs my waist and pulls me toward him. I can feel the protrusion from his trousers, and it touches my own. Our tongues dance rhythmically within each other’s mouths as our lips tease each other. “Follow me,” he says, standing on the staircase as he invites me up.

I step into his bedroom, and it’s tidy. It’s modern. It reminds me of Patrick Bateman’s apartment from American Psycho.

He’s sitting on the bed and I sit down next to him. He leans forward and kisses me again. I kiss him back, but push him so we’re lying down on the bed. It doesn’t take long for him to begin undressing us both. He starts by taking off my top and kissing my neck as I sit on him, my legs wrapped around his back,

I feel his kisses travel all the way from my neck, up behind my ear until he’s back kissing my lips. I take his shirt off one button at a time whilst still kissing him until it’s off and, from the waist up, we’re both naked. We kiss like this for a while longer, until my hand wonders down toward his trousers.

I struggle undoing the button and he grabs both sides of the fabric and pulls, ripping the button clean off. “They’re much better off anyways” he says and he starts to fumble with my jeans except he can manage them. 

We both lie separately next to each other to wriggle our trousers off until we’re in our boxers. He’s ready before I am and so he goes down the other side of the bed and slowly kisses the growing bulge in my boxers. The material is present, but still thin enough for my pulsating penis to feel his lips. 

My eyes roll backwards as I pull his hair up so I can kiss him more. He starts on my neck again and my legs are wrapped around him once more except now I can feel his rod against my hole, mere layers of cotton seperating us from intertwining as one. 

My hand wanders down the sides of his body as we kiss and I feel the sides of his muscles, my hands bumping up and down with the ridges of his torso. They slip too easily down his boxers and onto his cock. It’s large, twice the side of my hand and it’s thick. I start to slowly rub my hand up and down and his breath falters with pleasure. I hear a faint “Fuck,” uttered as I kiss his neck now. 

He rolls over, unable to contain his excitement. I move my body toward his cock and slip his boxers down to his ankles. Standing fully erect, it’s almost intimidating. I purse my lips and begin making the tip moist, not yet venturing farther than the base of the head. 

I can already taste his precum in my mouth as I lock eyes with him. He’s relaxed with his hand behind his head, looking directly at me whilst I pleasure him. I lick his shaft as though it were an ice lolly and he thrusts his hips up toward the sky, his eyes rolling back into his head and his pillow gripped.

I begin to suck on the shaft, not yet all the way down, but teasing up and down and up and down in a steady rhythm. I’m enjoying it. 

He puts his hand on my head and applies pressure, I’m not expecting it and so the cock slips down my throat toward my tonsils and I gag. As soon as he hears the gagging noise, he removes his hand and I remove his cock from my throat.

There’s tears in my eyes and I can’t stop wretching. “Shit, sorry, toilet is just to the left,” he says, leaping out of bed and opening the door for me and pointing me toward the toilet. He grabs his boxers whilst I’m gagging into the toilet. “I’ll grab you some water,” he says rushing down the stairs.

By the time he gets back upstairs, I’m back in the bedroom and I’m sat on the edge of the bed. He sits next to me and hands me the water. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that would happen,” I say to him.  

He looks at me confused and says “No, don’t be silly. You’ve done nothing wrong, I shouldn’t have forced that. I saw it in porn and it was hot, but I guess it’s just a porn thing, like lasting for an hour. It’s just editing.” 

I look at him with a blank expression, trying to work out whether that’s a joke or if I’m in for some very disappointing sex at some point. 

“I’ve had a really great time tonight though,” I say, desperate to break awkwardness and fill the silence somehow. 

“Yeah, me too. It’s been really nice,” he says. “I really do like you.”

I lean in and kiss him now, but it’s not as sexually charged as before. “I should call a taxi,” I say after pulling away.

“You don’t have to, you know. You’re more than welcome to just stay here for a bit. We could get some pizza, watch a film? I’ve got the house for the night, it’d be a shame to waste it,” he suggests.

Hi Marianne,

I guess I’ll bite the bullet and message you first, I know you’re never one for starting conversations yourself. I’ve been anxiously awaiting some form of correspondence from you for the past few weeks, but I suppose you’ve been giving me some time to settle in and get acquainted with the big apple. I feel sort of settled now, I guess as settled as I will ever feel. It’s odd, everything is so strange and foreign yet strangely familiar. 

I reckon you’re probably feeling neglected that I haven’t messaged you sooner. I don’t mean that in a facetious way, I just mean that you have a habit of thinking yourself into these situations and ending up at the worst possible result. It’s odd, I find myself needing to explain why it has taken me so long to message you even though I know that I don’t owe you any form of explanation. I suppose there’s a part of me that still possesses some devotion to you, even on a platonic level. I really hope you’ve been alright since I’ve been out here. Just because I haven’t contacted you, it isn’t to say that I haven’t been thinking about you. You’d be surprised Marianne, seldom a day goes by without you crossing my mind. I’ll see a group of feminists in the East Village in Brooklyn and think about how if you were here, you’d argue with them about how they’re spreading the idea of feminism too loudly or something. You always have been endlessly stubborn. That’s not a critique, I know you’ll take it as one but I don’t mean it that way. Your stubbornness has always been one of your most admirable traits. 

It has been lonely out here but I have found other things to pass my time with aside than thinking about the girl who I abandoned three thousand miles across the globe. I’ve really hit my stride with this job on the campus, I’m officially the student librarian liaison officer. I know, I know. I can hear your applause from across the ocean. It’s the most meek little thing really, I’m a librarian extra words in my title really. The pay is shite as well, but at least it can help me afford the extortionate rent prices here, even with my scholarship it’s definitely not affordable by any means. There are some good folks here too. One of the guys, Mike, invited us all to a party that his missus was having and he introduced me to a friend of his called Lisa. She’s lovely. She’s politely argumentative but aggressively reserved. We’ve been for dinner a few times, but we’re keeping it casual and seeing where it goes at this point. It feels weird to type that, especially knowing that it’s going to you. I suppose we’ve reached a point in our relationship with each other where we don’t really keep anything. We never have. We tell each other everything and yet we’re both still the worst communicators out there, it’s oddly poetic. 

You’d really get along with Lisa though. She’s over in Dublin for a conference in a few weeks. I was wondering if you’re about and wouldn’t find it too weird, would you mind getting a drink with her or something? She’d love to meet you, probably sick of me babbling about ‘Marianne from back home’ - which is apparently something I do. I don’t even realise I’m doing it apparently (all of this is just feedback I’ve received from the guys on nights out. I completely understand if you’d find it too awkward or just don’t want to, there’s no judgement either way. 

There’s a subject that I can’t help but think about recently, and I’m sure that you’d appreciate it, and it’s the idea of the separation of church and state within government and religion. It started because I read a book about the US Government and how it’s supposed to allow the church to operate on it’s on and the church likewise, but it’s fascinating because it rarely ever exists like this for long periods of time. They always influence each other, albeit sometimes indirectly, but I think that they both attempt to exist with this sole cause and this single goal to either inspire others to follow a religion or to exist and remain intact as a governing nation, but they both provide the other with certain benefits in different ways and situations. The whole idea of non-preferential treatment is nice enough as well, but it just isn’t realistic in any way. There’s always influences within the government that affect how it treats different people and groups. 

Thinking about it, it’s made me reflect on the way in which I view my relationships with others in a romantic sense and a platonic sense and it’s distressed me very much. Without placing any blame, I think the trouble with my thinking on the subject lies with yourself. If I’m a country, I’ve always tried to function as a government and operate day to day as well as possible. I’ve also tried to pursue different relationships with women throughout my life and tried to keep them as far away from my day to day life as possible; but you were the one that I couldn’t keep away. I didn’t want you to exist outside of my living. I enjoyed having you orbit me and everything I did, it kept me focused and made me feel loved. Comparing it to how I was with Helen, I refused to open up to her and I kept her at an arm's length in every way possible. Even after Rob passed, I refused to open up and discuss anything about how I was feeling with her because it’d mean that I’d need to allow her to see a little bit into how the government worked, to let her know the day to day goings on of my mind and what I do.

I’ve probably fucked up the explanation there, but I hope you understand my point. I suppose, just reading back what I’ve said, I’ve not loved anyone as strongly as I had loved you. That’s not supposed to make you feel any specific sort of way, it’s just an open and honest reflection of us. I still do love you though, by the way. I don’t mean that I love you in a let’s get married and settle down sort of way. I mean that I love you in a way that you’re someone special in my life and I want you to exist in my life for a long time in a capacity that works for the both of us - whatever that be.

God I’m starting to ramble now so I’m just going to leave this and press send and hope I haven’t scared you off of replying to me. 

Hope to hear from you soon,

C  

“Hey there, kiddo” Oliver’s words floated through the air as I stepped off of the train. His hair had been much shorter when I’d last seen him, it'd grown out into a mullet of sorts and it sat messily at the back of his neck. It wasn’t unattractive. I chuckled at his comment “I’m not really a kid anymore, Oliver” I reminded him. We stood there, our eyes fixated into each other’s souls for the moment. There was a brief silence before he took a step forward and embraced me. I hesitated for a moment before reciprocating the gesture toward him. He has me in a tight hold and I was flooded with the memories of that summer, memories that I’d not thought about since I made the decision to exclude him from my life. “I’m so glad to have you here!” he exclaimed, smiling at me psychotically. “Elio, my Elio” he said softly as he stroked the lower half of my face and once more held that longing gaze. 

***

We strolled through the city from the station toward Place Dauphine, where we took shelter from the blazing sun in a small cafe. From the outside it looked like a modest establishment, it’s white walls with red grout in between gave an almost modern clinical feel to the place. Sitting on the red leather seats hidden away at the back corner of the room, Oliver sat next to me placing his hand on my leg as we sat down. He began to regale the memories of that summer, before I stopped him. “Oliver, don’t do that – you chose to go back to her. You chose her” I said, sweeping his hand off of me and shuffling a few centimeters away from his touch. I saw his puppy dog eyes before he looked back down. “Right,” he said, inspecting the white table linens. “It’s my fault, I get that. I’ve made peace with that. It can be different now, though, we can be together” his head lifted and he looked back at me with excitement and reinvigorated energy. “No! We can’t, Oliver” my palms were sweating now. It wasn’t the heat. It was frustrating, having to push him away like this. “I don’t love you anymore” I took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I ever did. It was a pubescent infatuation with the shiny new toy that I’d found. It was nothing more for me. It was clearly even less for you, just something to pass the hours with” it hurt me to lie to him like this, but it wasn’t something I’d be able to entertain - not without getting hurt again. 

The topic was avoided for the rest of lunch. I ordered a caesar salad whilst he opted to gain nutrients only from a medium glass of rose. Once we’d finished, he paid the waiter and left a modest 15% tip. We walked out of the cafe and he asked where I wanted to go next. “I don’t know” I stared up at the sun. “I think maybe we should spend some time apart” I suggested painfully, even though the sun had blinded me, I could feel his golden eyes piercing me with his judgement. “Why did you come here?” he asked. It was emotionless, as though I’d cured the aphrodite kiss that had plagued him and now he was left without context for the whole situation. “I don’t know” I replied, it was another lie. I knew exactly why I’d travelled here. I knew exactly the outcome I had intended, I just didn’t intend for it to be this hard - not in actuality, I was only apprehended by my agonising morality. I took a step towards him, reached my arm around his neck and leaned in until my lips touched his. 

The palms of his hands touched my shoulders forcefully. “Elio, stop,” he said. “Fuck,” was the word he chose as he pulled a single cigarette from a packet. I was speechless, a rarity. “Listen, I thought I knew what you wanted, why you were coming here but I’ve realised that you don’t even know” a vein popped in his neck and his empty hand started to clench, there were small specks of spittle launching at me every few words. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I found the whole situation wildly arousing. “You were a child when I met you that summer, and you’re still a child now. You haven’t grown up at all. You speak as though you’ve learnt things, and been through experiences and actually had some sort of clarity on yourself and your beliefs and your wants and your needs but in actuality, you’re nothing but a naive child!” The vein was bulging even more now and he was beginning to pace in a circle. For a brief moment, I thought he was going to punch me. I understood his anger, it was somewhat displaced I believe, but it wasn’t wholly unjustified. 

“I should head back to my hotel” I said, before turning around and walking away. I felt his hand touch my shoulder again, with as much force as he had pushed me away, he now pulled me toward him and kissed me passionately. It was loveless, but it was emotional. We stumbled into my hotel room and he threw me on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt aggressively until his bare torso was exposed and then he threw it onto the floor with a whip. He crawled onto the bed until he was lying on top of me, his bare flesh pressed against my cotton shirt. He tore it open, sending the buttons flying everywhere and he began kissing my neck with burning passion tearing my skin with each touch. We spent the next few hours together, we didn’t make love but our bodies became intertwined and his hold over me manifested in his control over my urges. Once he’d allowed it to finish, I lay there nestled with my body conforming to his as though he was the ultimate memory foam. 

***

I awoke before him the next morning, filled with a sense of regret and guilt. It wasn’t guilt over what had happened but guilt over the circumstances. In my head, the fantasy had been a lot more loving and tender - as it had been that summer except this time it was inhibited by the secrecy and we were able to fully give ourselves to each other. Instead I had become exactly what I accused him of seeing me as, a play thing. I thought many things that morning though primarily I hypothesized about the next two days I was to spend with him and how much I would be able to display my feelings for him through my body. I wasn’t able to articulate it in any other way, except through allowing him to use me as a personal and private pin cushion for his needs. Eventually, I got clothed and went downstairs, retrieving one white coffee and one small macchiato as well as two fresh croissants to accompany them. When I returned to the hotel room though, he was gone.

He had left a note:

Elio, last night was intense. I need some time to digest it all. Meet me tonight at Perchoir du Marais at 8pm - O

Just when I had thought we were nearing the same page, he struck me with one situation that my hypothesis had not prepared me for. 

***

I had dressed up for the occasion, my white shirt and grey blazer - which I had packed in case I had suddenly been called for a meeting with the noblest of parisian aristocrats - still felt like an unworthy outfit, even more so as I approached grand entrance to to Perchoir Du Marais. I was immediately displaced by women in flashy gowns and men in flashier suits and eyes shot at me. They knew I was an outsider to this place, as well as this world, and they all silently requested I left. I was sure of it. I glazed over to the dining room and saw Oliver sat down with his palms anxiously tapping his lap. I took a minute of composure, straightening my posture and inhaling the oxygen I so desperately needed in that moment and strutted over to the table. 

He stood up and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a stroke down my face. I hated how I loved it when he did that. It made me feel endeared to him, and I enjoyed that. “Elio” he said. The words glided out of his mouth and caressed my ears lovingly. He was soft spoken, a mannerism which I had seldom associated with Oliver from the time I’d spent with him. “Oliver” I replied whilst attempting to combat the toothy grin which I could feel escaping my mouth. I was delighted to see him. “I was quite surprised when I got back to the room this morning. Was it something that I had done last night which prompted the sudden exit?” I asked, in what I thought was a calm manner. Oliver chuckled gleefully at my question. “You’re very amusing when you’re trying to be tender and stern” he took a sip of the red wine that sat in our glasses. “I took the liberty of ordering the drinks, I hope you don’t mind. We’ve got a rich Cabernet Sauvignon” He couldn’t help but relinquish command of any situation. That was what I found amusing, although I didn’t wish to embarrass him in the same way, instead I found myself smiling in agreement. “Look, last night was – it was everything I’ve been thinking about since you arranged your trip. I just found myself overwhelmed by the thoughts of your impending expectations about our situation” I felt a shiver rush up my spine, as though there was a foreign object waiting to pierce through it. 

“I don’t know if this is too much of a narcissistic expectation, but I’d appreciate it if my thoughts were my own to wander about any situation… even those involving you” I spoke but it was as though a gazelle would speak to a cheetah on its tail, an involuntary mechanism. I no longer had control over myself, or the situation. I became overwhelmed with the fear of being hurt as I had all those years ago. “Elio, please” he said, softer this time, as his hand reached over the table and placed it on mine. “What I am trying to say is that after last night I realised that my current situation isn’t ideal or preferable to the one being offered by yourself” his words were inviting and warm, yet I worried still that the promises would be empty and contain nothing but false hopes as they had before. “I broke up with my girlfriend today, I want to be free of everything that could stop me from letting you down again. I want to be with you, wholly”

***

Three months passed and I remained with Oliver in Paris, moving out of the three day hotel into his apartment on Boulevard Saint-Michel. The nights we spent together were filled not only with the passion of that first night, but with the love that I so desperately longed for those months before. “Elio, I’m being presented with an award on Tuesday. It’s nothing major or important, but there’s a gala and a soiree afterwards. I was wondering if you’d want to accompany me?” he asked me one morning. We had sat perpendicular on the chaize end, he had been sat almost upright against the back and I had my head resting on his chest. We’d both been reading and sipping our espresso when he presented the invitation. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would excite any normal person in a normal relationship, but Oliver was aware of how much it’d mean to me. It would break his concrete notion of church and state separation with his work and his personal life. I suppose that the separation might have been a response to the first summer we met, when I presented myself as an intersection between the two and provided a hearty distraction. I, of course, accepted the invitation calmly and I could see a grin emerge on his face, though I doubt he realised that I had noticed. 

The day of the gala, he returned home with a suit which he had procured for me. It was lovely to see him relaxed and at peace with our relationship. He had enjoyed the mundane errands of preparing for the gala, the arrangement of our transport, what we’d wear and even arranging who we’d have to ensure to shake hands with whilst we were there. He’d provided me with a full debrief prior to the event. Personally, I found it all overwhelming. I had agreed to attend because Oliver was the most important person in my life and I wanted to show my undying support for him, but it was when he mentioned that he’d introduce me as his partner that my anxiety started to develop. Moving into his apartment had been a big enough transition for me, and that had went smoothly but introducing me to his colleagues, and other people within his industry as a major romantic partner within his life and someone for whom he had actual adult emotions for was a step that, for some reason, made me feel uneasy. 

In a shocking discovery in Western Arkansas, a tomb was discovered featuring a woman’s decapitated head attached to the deceased carcasses of snakes. Also recovered was a diary. The following extracts have been released to the public:

September 14th, 1986 

Dearest Diary, 

I’m not lonely. I’d never be someone who admitted to being lonely, it’s just not in my nature. I literally come built in with my own gang. I know that they’ve got my back, and my front, and my up and my down. They’ve got me covered. Sometimes I just find myself staring out the window and watching the people pass, wondering what their lives are like, wondering what my life could be like. I can obviously never grow close to anyone who isn’t a snake. It is my curse. It is my burden to carry; to be unlovable is my eternal vocation. 

Anyway, the snakes are hissing. I’d better go catch a mouse or two for them, otherwise they’ll be annoying me during Saved By The Bell - and that’s time reserved for AC Slater and AC Slater only.

September 14th, 1986  - Part 2 

Dearest Diary,

I’ve changed my mind. It isn’t my burden to be lonely. I’m not letting my life be decided simply because my hair slithers around and might turn someone to stone. That isn’t my problem. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna go out, and I’m gonna make a friend! 

September 19th, 1986

Dearest Diary,

I HATE humans. They’re so fragile and delicate; and the mirrors! They put these godforsaken mirrors everywhere and they serve no purpose. I went to a “jazzercise” class by this Fonda woman and I didn’t realise how active it’d end up being! I went to do a deep lunge dip and I lost my balance in front of the entire 20 person class, and it’d have been fine if that’s where it ended but when I stood up I went to adjust my hat and realised that it’d fallen off in the fall and everyone had looked at me and BOOM! I went from the hip girl on the block to the annoying one that turned 21 people into statues. They couldn’t just look at me through the mirrors, they just had to stare at the crazy snake lady! That’s a new one though, I’ve never been called a lady before, it’s always beast or demon or monster. I quite like it. It feels very powerful.

I say, I just don’t think I’m cut out to live amongst these humans. I tried to dive into a group of men at the local watering hole and the looks I got when I ordered a bottle of scotch, it was barbaric. Obviously I pity them, having never seen such a wonderful woman being so powerful it must have shocked them but still, it doesn’t take much to close a jaw.

September 29th, 1986 

Dearest Diary,

Last night I had THE most fun! I decided to wear a large mask to try and hide my hair and face, and I found this dance hall called Studio something or other and I had a ball of a time. I was introduced to all of these people who I’d only ever seen on TV. I met a strange painter who invited me to his studio to be his muse, apparently he owns a soup company or invested in soup or something? I didn’t really hear what he said because the snakes didn’t like being restricted. I’m excited to go and stretch my old inspirational legs. 

I’m finding the whole activity of going out into the human world very daunting, to be completely honest. I’m going out and doing it because it’s what I feel I should be doing but I’m just hoping that something will click and make everything fall into place and seem as though its worthwhile. This painter could finally be the thing to bring me back into reality.

October 9th, 1986

Dearest Diary,

Oh, what a night. I went out with Andy last night. It started innocently enough, we were fencing - the only masked activity that I could think of - when I accidentally sliced his arm and had to take him back home to bandage him up. It was a really sweet moment and there was a moment when I almost started to fall for him, he had just started telling me about how I was inspiring the best part of him and all of the usual crap that men say to try and fool us into thinking that they’re our saviours. 

He was trying to lead me into his bedroom and then he went to take off my tightly fastened beret - even though I told him that he didn’t want to do it - and all of a sudden… I guess you could say that he was hard as a rock. 

I’ve come to a conclusion, diary, I’m fine without people. I don’t need anyone. I’m mother fucking Medusa. I don’t need the power of other women, I’m the most powerful woman of them all. I just need to make sure that I don’t lose my head and I’ll be an unstoppable force to be reckoned with. 

“Your father was a good man, Amelia. That’s the truth and remains the same regardless of any mistakes that he might have made in his life. There’s no denying that he was a great father to you and took care of both of us as well as he could. Not just us, even, everyone he met. There wouldn’t be a packed out church through those doors if he was the sort of monstrous man that you’re trying to make him out to be.” Mary lowered her stubby, painted finger from her daughter’s face. She readjusts her, now smudged, makeup and pulls on her dress as she looks back at her daughter. “So, I’ll have none of that today” she lovingly uttered as she embraced a suddenly sobbing Amy. Within one dismissal of her accusation, she had been reduced to tears by her own mother.

She nodded as they headed toward their pew, seated at the front of the busy vessel of people who had journeyed out to pay their respects to David Swanff, a man who would be remembered as a loving husband, a doting father, an accused pedophile and a friend to many. 

As Amy shuffled down the birchwood pew toward her seat, she was aghast with guilt. She’d enabled a false memory of her father to be kept alive by all of these darkly clothed strangers who hardly knew the man that she did. Her grandmother approached her as she took her own seat, a stern look was cemented on the face of the solitary woman. She held Amy’s hand as she spoke to her but Amy could only hear a ringing in her ears as the world became a spinning top that she was trapped upon. Swiftly, she barged past her mother as an apology attempted to half - heartedly leave her mouth. She bashed open the church doors and dashed past a gaggle of her mourning extended family members. She found herself down a wet, damp alleyway round the back of the church. Before she had a second to collect herself, her stomach had a case to make, spewing vomit all over the floor in front of her. Shoes were collateral damage.

“Shit” she declared to the pool of her breakfast. She reached into her black clutch bag, that had maintained its position between her elbow and her side, and emerged with a miniature bottle of cheap vodka. In one swig, the bottle was empty and she repeated the act with another bottle. Stashing the empties, she retrieved a small circular compact mirror and a wipe. Adjusting her mood and her makeup, she began returning to the church’s entrance. 

Whilst lurking around the corner, she spotted her dad’s best mate, John, sneakily smoking away his grief. She approached him meekly. “Can I pinch one, Uncle John?” she asked softly before he handed over the packet immediately. “He was a good man, Amy. He’d have been proud of you” John said with his hand on her arm. “You were always his little girl” he added. Amy rolled her eyes and replied “I wasn’t his only little girl though, was I?.” John was disgusted by Amy’s comment and in that moment transformed into her mother. “Oh, don’t start, Uncle John. I’ve just had it from Saint Mary in there. We all know what he was and but I just don’t understand why we’re all turning a blind eye. It isn’t like he cured cancer or did anything miraculous that could present a moral argument for cancelling it out.” Her start declaration had shocked and disgusted John who was immediately disappointed with Amy. “That’s not what today is for, hun” he tried to calm her with his soft northern tone. “Today is about paying respects to the man who we want to remember. What happened with Trixie was never proved, mind, it was her word against his -- “ a sharp clap struck John across his leathery stubbled face, the reverse side of the set of five sleek black painted nails making contact with the top of his cheek bone. Amy stood there, now enraged. “You’re just as bad as he is, if that’s what you think” her face was wet with saltwater streams. “The fact that after she accused him, got slated and alienated by everyone and then felt that she’d be better off killing herself”Amy took a second to compose herself with a deep breath. “The fact that my dad was found hanging from a rope, does that not scream guilty to you? Everyone is thinking the exact same thing. It’s just time for someone to get up and actually say it.” Uncle John was spellbound by Amy’s negative feelings towards her father and was still reeling from the clump he’d received. “That man took care of you for your whole life, you never wanted for anything! You’re going to show him some respect.” Amy hadn’t seen this side of John before. In that instant, however, the pieces fell into place for her. “You knew all along, didn’t you?” She took a step back from him. “That’s why you don’t want everything coming out about my dad. You just don’t want the finger to start coming your way… god, your behaviour. It sickens me.” Amy stormed back into the church. Angrily she stomped up to the lectern on the side of the altar, that was momentarily empty. “I have something to say” Amy declared, her voice booming throughout the church, ironically like the voice of God. Everyone’s heads turned toward her simultaneously, a hive mind of owls riddled with curiosity.

Her speech was noticeably slutted within those five words and Mary became visibly worried. In the pew parallel to her sat Eileen Swanff, David’s mother, who looked at Amy in quaint anticipation. They hadn’t allowed her to be privy to any of the accusations made against her son. Mary was suddenly awash with guilt as Eileen shot an unknowing glance of sweetness over toward her. Her palms flooded with sweat, her nerves began to vibrate them as the blood rushed instantly to her head. Amy’s eyes shot quickly from John to her mother, visually blaming both, unbeknownst to everyone else in the building. “My father was a good man” Amy spoke shakily. “He always did everything he could for me. I have so many fond memories of him but one comes immediately to mind.” She gulped, swallowing her heart down to the gut. “One summer, he surprised me with a holiday to the caravan he owned down on the coast. He let me bring along my best friend, Trixie, with us. We were both so excited and had planned everything that we were going to do for the whole week.” As Amy took a precautious pausem Mary and John locked worried eyes from down the pew. “We were only 14, mind you. So obviously we needed Dad to be there for most of our plans and we weren’t thrilled by the adult supervision but we accepted it and made our peace. What we hadn’t planned for though, was the food poisoning that I would catch from his cooking on that first night. It completely wrote off that entire second day for me, but being the humble person I am, I told my dad and Trixie to go off and enjoy the day.” As soon as Amy started this sentence, Mary leapt out of her seat and darted up to her. She wrapped her arms around her and guided her back down to her seat. She stood in front of the microphone, about to disarm the fuse that Amy had lit, when she saw John lean over and say something aggressively to Amy in hushed tones. Mary was out of earshot and couldn’t tell what was being said, but it affected Amy greatly.

Mary grabbed the lectern with a hand on either side and squeezed tightly. Enraged with John berating her daughter, she reached her neck up to the microphone. “I also loved that holiday, Amy, and I’m sure that everyone here today shares some sort of associative emotion toward my husband. There’s one person who is sadly unable to be with us today to pay her respects, although I doubt she’d have any” Mary saw Eileen’s face dropped to a cocktail of confusion and curiosity as her focus remained transfixed on the 4” 2’ figure of darkness that was about to rock her entire life. “Trixie died about 5 months ago now, and she left a note. In the note, she apologised to everyone for burdening them. When I saw it, I could not believe it. That the poor girl thought she was anything less than a blessing to everyone in her life, was criminal. Absolutely tragic. My husband left a not too.” Mary glanced over the sea of mourners and chuckled. “It’s funny though, because Dave mentioned Trixie in his note. He called her, now let me make sure I get this right… ‘a worthless, lying slut’” The congregation took a collective gasp. Eileen’s brows furrowed with anger. “She wasn’t, of course, any of those things” Mary said calmly now. “She was a sweet, kind, loving girl. She was forced to live for a whole decade with the trauma of what Dave had done to her that day.” Mary looked down and shed a single tear as her lip quivered. “She had told me, and I dismissed her. Only when Dave reacted in the way that he did, I realised that something hadn’t been right. He raped her.”

Eileen’s cries echoed through the church as Mary calmly walked down from the altar and retrieved her bag, locking her arm around her daughter as the two of them strolled toward the exit of the church. “Liar!” screamed Eileen, now placed in the middle of the aisle. “You’re making all of this up, you never really loved him! You made a joke out of him, he did everything for you and you laughed in his face. You evil witch.” Her shrill voice was excruciating for Amy to hear as she burst into tears, all three women now crying. Mary, however, stood her ground and stared Eileen directly in the eyes as her cheeky were dampened by tears. “I’m so sorry” she uttered as she took her daughter and left the church. A quiet murmur of discussion rising from everyone present. Whispers of David and Trixie’s names followed the two women until they completely exited the building.

The silver Toyota pulled up to the gravelly driveway with a continuous growl against the rough surface of the tyre treads as they rubbed against each other aggressively. The door to the house swung open with haste, and a denim clad figure emerged and swaggered over to the side door of the car. “Uber for Kevin, yeah?” he spoke shakily as he anxiously stepped his ankle high leather boots over the bottom of the doorway into the pit of the seat. “Yeah. Going to Uxbridge Town Centre, mate?” the driver replied whilst his eyes remained firmly locked onto the screen of his phone, sat neatly within the holder against the air vent. Kevin gazed out of the window towards the house as the driver prepared his trip. He wondered what he had let himself in for by arranging this dinner. He nervously replied “Yep” as his vision remained focused on the door from which he had just departed from.

“You going somewhere special then?” asked the Uber driver, trying to earn his five star rating by aggressively attacking Kevin with politeness. As he heard the question leave the driver’s mouth, his eyes rolled to the back of his head for a moment, realising that he had lost the gamble as to which type of human would be driving him to his location. He had a small talker. It was the last thing that he needed before this dinner, already racked with nerves, he had no space within his brain to try and muster up acceptable answers to earn his own five star rating. “Just a dinner with my boyfriend” he uttered begrudgingly as he chewed on his thumb. He looked in the driver’s rearview mirror and witnessed the face of his driver drop as though he had just had a gun pulled on him. It was a reaction that Kevin had become unfortunately accustomed to but did not phase him. 

Stress and anxiety working in synchronicity to hoist his eyelids down as he pressed his head against the window and took in the vibrations of the car and allowed himself to enjoy the motor massage as an opportunity to destress. He was fully immersed in all of the sounds of the car, soaking himself into the quiet mumbles of the car radio, until his journey was complete. 

Exiting the cab, Kevin lit a cigarette to quiet his nerves and allow him to maturely enter the restaurant without freaking himself out and turning around and going home. He looked through the front wall of the restaurant and saw Luke. He was seated at a table, accompanied only by a bottle of red wine and two glasses. His casual t-shirt and boot cut jeans proved only to Kevin that this dinner was more needed than he cared to admit to himself. He threw his cigarette onto the floor and strolled, stress free, into the restaurant. He walked over to the table and sat down. 

“You alright?” Luke asked as Kevin settled into his seat, leaving Kevin overly unimpressed. Immediate disappointment filled his body as he realised that after 5 months of dating, their relationship had become so watered down that he was greeted with such a menial remark. “Yeah, I’m alright. What about you?” Kevin replied in a nonchalant manner as he picked up the table’s bottle of wine and filled both of their glasses to the rim. Luke replied to Kevin’s question with a long explanation, none of which Kevin paid attention to as he became engrossed by the playing of Louis Armstrong’s ‘La Vie En Rose’ which he thought was less than fitting to the situation. 

Luke’s glistening grimace glared at Kevin as though he was staring down a grandma whilst hooded in red. His pearly white teeth contrasted with a painful beauty, against his silky caramel skin. “So what about you? What’ve you been up to today then?” Luke asked, checking his phone prior to a grin sprinting across his mouth. “Nothing much, just working really” Kevin shot back sharply. “What was that on your phone?” he interrogated. Luke looked shocked for a second and took a large sip of wine and then fired back, “Oh, it’s just a meme that Chloe sent me. So how was work?”. Kevin took an even larger sip of his wine in a panicky return, losing all manners of defense that he had arrived with. “So it wasn’t a message from another guy on Grindr that you’ve been sleeping with instead of me?” Kevin instantly regretted that the words had left his mouth in such a confrontational way, there was no chance of a mature conversation after that. Luke’s eyes shot open and his jaw nearly clearing the table as it fell to the floor. “What do you mean? What other guy? Come on babe, you don’t actually think I’d be into anyone apart from you?” he reasoned. Kevin scoffed loudly at this rebuttal. Kevin’s leg immediately became transfixed by the spirit of Michael Flatley’s Riverdance as it bounced up and down from fear of the conversation’s outcome. He didn’t want to lose Luke but at the same time, he didn’t want to be taken for a fool. 

Luke’s hand touched Kevin’s in a blatant attempt to brush the conversation away from his mind but it was as reluctant as a stain. “Don’t give me that crap. I saw your Grindr profile the other day, and you’ve been working so many ‘later shifts’ and yet when I went to surprise you after work last week, your boss told me that you hadn’t worked in days. What’s happening? If you don’t want to be with me, then don’t be with me. This relationship isn’t a prison, the door is right there if you want to leave” Kevin splurted his words toward Luke in an aggressive frenzy. Luke was stunned. He was mentally weighing up his options and deciding the best way to deal with the issue at hand. The silence had bombarded Kevin with an answer before Luke could muster one up. “Okay, I’m glad that we’re both on the same page” Kevin spoke softly as he stood up and exited the restaurant.

Walking outside of the restaurant, Kevin suddenly felt very cold. His hairs stood erect to the chill in the air. It took the first gust of evening air for Kevin to realise that the jacket he had worn out, sat across from his now ex-boyfriend. A solemn tear slowly edged from his eye toward his chin. He pulled out a cigarette and shakily sparked the lighter, moving the dimly lit flame closer to the cigarette and igniting the end of it. The embers slowly dimmed and glowed with each calming breath of nicotine that he allowed himself as he closed his eyes and centred his energy.

“You always did look sexy when you smoked”. Kevin’s eyes slowly opened, revealing to him a somewhat sympathetic Luke, reaching out to him and extending the black denim jacket to him. Kevin took back the jacket and put it on. “Thanks” he replied. Luke stood against the wall, next to Kevin and leaned on his leg at a perpendicular angle. He pulled out his own cigarette and searched his pockets hopelessly. “You got a light?” he quietly asked. Kevin handed him the lighter without even looking at him. “We’re not going to be able to sort this out, are we?” Kevin voiced his mental realisation as a question to ease the pain of his expected answer. Luke softly placed his head on Kevin’s shoulder. “Not whilst you’re being such a hypocrite” he meekly attacked. Kevin stepped away swiftly, throwing Luke off of his balance. “I’ve also seen your profile. Tinder. Grindr. Match. People have sent me screenshots of your profiles for months and I just presumed that you hadn’t deleted them. So yeah, I’ve been going on a few dates with a few guys. None of them even come close to how I feel for you”. Kevin started to sob even more. “This isn’t going to work out. It just won’t. I was only on those apps for fun, I just liked seeing what was happening and judging different people. It was never anything more, but the fact that you didn’t feel secure enough to ask me about it. We clearly don’t trust each other enough and after this, I don’t know if I want to”. Kevin started to wipe his tears from his eyes as Luke wrapped his arms around Kevin and softly said “I know”. 

It was his eighth birthday and the rain was flooding the garden patio. A river of muddy water ran from the dip in the concrete slabs and down to the drainpipe at the bottom. Donnell McKilty was sitting anxiously on his grandmother’s beige fabric sofa, his little head barely visible behind the craft in the attempt at a floral pattern on the burlap sack posing as curtains. “The Lord gets bladder shy with his miracles when you’re watching, young man”. His Nanny had entered the room and immediately startled him and calmed him with her strong irish accent.

“Will I go rustle up some waffles and a brew whilst we wait for Mammy and Daddy?” she proposed to the young boy who was now sitting cross legged on the floor and was repeatedly counting the same four tyres on his truck. “One… two… three… four… one… two… three… four” he looped in succession as his tiny fingers gently stroked the treads on each tyre. Delayed, he responded with “I’ll have milk and three sugars, please ta”. His Nanny chuckled and strolled into the kitchen again, where there was already a plate of waffles and a small mug filled with tea. She’d never known her grandson to turn down waffles and a brew. “Can you explain to me why you’re counting the wheels? It’s okay if you can’t, I just want to know if it’s something that I should be doing as well.” Nanny was sat on the floor next to Donnell now, and he handed her his yellow and black branded JCB truck. She often worried about him, she knew he was special to her, he was the light of her life. She just wondered if he was special, or gifted rather, in other ways.

“You need to count them to make the bad things not happen,” he explained to her with genuine earnestness and innocence. She looked puzzled and intrigued simultaneously. “So the truck can make bad things happen?” she probed further. “No!” Donnell cried out with the attitude and aire of rudeness that only an eight year old boy could get away with. “It’s just a toy, Nanny” he looked at her once more with a patronising smile on his face. “Mummy always says that nothing bad is going to happen because there’s four wheels on the truck and there’s supposed to be four wheels, so everything is happening like it’s meant to and I keep checking it to make sure that nothing is going wrong”. His Nanny smiled at him, only somewhat understanding this strange but simple vehicle related belief system that he’d created for himself. “So it’s like when Nanny prays with her rosary beads?” she probed further, trying her best to understand his complex little mind. He smiled silently at her and continued counting, indicating that she was probably on the right track.

At that moment, the phone rang loudly throughout the house and second after Nanny picked it up, her knees buckled and she fell to the floor sobbing and screaming loudly. Donnell’s parents had been involved in a fatal car crash on their way over with his gifts. Donnell dropped his toy on the floor and rushed up quickly and jankily and trod over. “Nanny? What’s wrong?” he asked as she pulled him in tight and continued sobbing.

The two of them sat there in the hallway for what seemed to both of them like hours, holding each other and processing what happened. All the while, the toy was now turned over on it’s side lying on the carpet sitting next to a single broken wheel. 

Chance Encounter

The music in the club pounded through the speakers and onto the sea of drunken, sweaty twenty somethings that swayed rhythmically along to the beat. A man stood at the bar nursing a dark and fizzy concoction whilst staring intently at Megan McNulty from across the dancefloor. “Go over and talk to him!” her friend Marianne shouted in her ear. Megan waved the notion away and continued hopping from one foot to the other. Marianne hounded her with a fatal mix of smirks and disapproving glances. “It’s girls night, I wouldn’t want to leave you guys all alone” she pleaded. Marianne laughed and gestured over to their third musketeer, Kelly, who was drunkenly explaining the socio-political ramifications of cryptocurrency to a man at least double her age who was feigning interest with the hope of a handjob. Megan rolled her eyes in defeat and danced backwards into the sea of people, away from Marianne. 

“What’re you having?” the man opened with as he leant on the sticky bar facing towards Megan. His eyes noticeably drifted towards her breasts as though they were being presented solely to him on a red platter of polyester. “Mine’s a vodka red bull, please” she said bluntly, eliciting a chuckle followed by a shocked and judgemental response from the man. “No it’s not, you’ll be up all night. I’ll get you something you’ll actually like” he spoke with titanic amounts of confidence and just enough arrogance to cancel it out and come across as sexy. The bartender approached and he ordered “Two amaretto and apple juice please, ta”.

She systematically examined him up and down and appreciated his attire. Clean shoes, skinny jeans, and a rugby shirt. Either a serial rapist or a gentle soul. “Donnell” his thick voice cut through the noise, even though it seemed as though he spoke with an earnest quietness. He handed her the cup of what seemed to contain piss. “Megan” she said, accepting the piss cup before taking a sip and exclaiming “that’s fucking fantastic”. Donnell’s face lit up with a quaint grin. “I know right? My nanny got me onto them. It’s just sweet enough that it’s delicious, just like you”. Megan chuckled. “A bit of a family man are we then?” she remarked. “There’s a cafe just across the street, do you wanna finish these and get out of here? Go somewhere where we can talk properly?” he suggested, dismissing her comment. She knew that she’d touched a nerve by the way his face had sunk. Mentally she toyed with the idea, but after glancing over at Marianne wiping Kelly’s vomit off of the elderly man apologetically, she knew her choice had already been made by Kelly’s stomach. “You see that girl who just spewed all over the OAP over there? That’s my pal, I’d better get them home. Maybe another time though?” she explained. His face perked up at her suggestion of meeting at a future time. “Are you local? We could go for a walk or something tomorrow if you’re up for it?” Megan giggled flirtatiously at him. “Someone’s eager. You could always come back to mine for a nightcap, those two will probably just go straight to bed anyway”. The moment those words left her mouth, she was overwhelmed with embarrassment, she’d made herself seem so desperate and eager. She’d blown it.

“Uh… sorry… I don’t really… uh …. That’s not really my sorta thing” Donnell’s face dropped and he anxiously looked around and played with the golden watch on his wrist that Megan hadn’t noticed before, twisting it around the part of his arm that met with his wrist. He was embarrassed too. What sort of idiot wouldn’t wanna go home and do unspeakable things to someone as stunning as her? A broken idiot like me clearly. A million self-deprecating thoughts and insults raced through his mind in those moments, all brought to a halt by Megan taking his hand softly and scribbling her number onto it before kissing him on the cheek and slowly navigating towards his ear, whispering “Don’t be ashamed about being one of the good ones”. With that, she walked off. Donnell finished his drink with a smile on his face before he rushed to his phone to text her. 

Shattered Beliefs

The bell rang throughout the clinical white hallways of St Anthony’s Catholic Secondary School as hordes of pubescent uniformed teens swarmed in unruly, unsupervised crowds. “McKilty!” someone hollered down the hall. The words caught the attention of one student, an acne-ridden, plump child that was almost tipping over onto himself under the weight of his backpack. The source of the yelling approached and shoved him against the blue aluminium lockers. “Were you just looking at me funny there Donnell? What’ve I told you about looking at me funny?” barked Jamie Smithers, a tall stocky teen with the face of a raisin. Donnell stared through Jamie, shutting down and becoming numb to the events that were to unfold. 

Jamie and his gang ripped Donnell’s backpack off of him and tore through it as though they were beasts on a fresh kill. Jamie’s arm was still forced against Donnell’s neck, ensuring that he was kept under Jamie’s control. “What’s this then?” Jamie questioned as he released his grip from Donnell’s throat and clasped his hands around the toy truck that he had plucked from his bag. In that moment, Donnell was returned to the moment with his jaw tightening beyond discomfort and his fists clenched so hard that they caused his nails to dig into the palms of his hands. 

Jamie took the truck and ran it over Donnell’s face, all the while making mocking car engine noises. “Give it back” Donnell pleaded with his torturer. Jamie laughed in his face and removed the toy. He looked at it and then back at Donnell, showing sincerity for a single moment before his grasp around the toy tightened and he thrust it against the locker. 

Within a matter of seconds it happened, shards of plastic went flying everywhere and Donnell shoved Jamie to the floor, straddling his chest whilst his goons looked on flabbergasted at the turn of events. Jamie himself was shocked but didn’t have time to react before Donnell’s fists were colliding with his face. “One, two, three, four” Donnell repeated as his knuckles dove into Jamie’s chiselled jaw and emerged dripping in crimson. 

The crowd all stood around in awe as Jamie slowly faded from consciousness. Donnell, unaware of this fact, continued the violence as though on autopilot whilst still quietly counting. “One” he hit left. “Two” he hit right. “Three” he hit left. “Four” he hit right.

Eventually, two of the teachers came sprinting down the hallway and took hold of Donnell, hoisting him up from under his shoulders whilst another teacher rushed to check on Jamie and the small pool of blood that now surrounded him. Donnell was dragged down the corridor, still counting as he stared blankly into the void. “One, two, three, four”. His eyes unaware of what had happened, fixated only on the shattered remains of the car that he once held so dear.

Le Visage Blanc

The taxi pulled up at the curb of the restaurant, lit only by the faint white pale fairy lights that surrounded the door and outer glass window. Donnell emerged from the taxi, first by his polished black brogues and then his fitted suit. He’d dressed smarter than he usually did for these sorts of occasions, it was his way of paying reparations for what he felt was a wrongdoing by not going home with her the last time that they had met. 

He reached into his pockets and his hand emerged holding a battered pack of Marlboro Gold and a zippo. He rested the tan of the cigarette on his lips and just as he went to light it, he heard an angelic voice ring through his ears. “Don’t suppose I could pinch one of those? I get awfully anxious before a big date.” She stood not a foot away from him but he still couldn’t believe his eyes. Her black heeled shoes looked as though they were causing her discomfort as she took steps towards him, that was his first thought. His gaze soon skimmed up, past her tightly wrapped bodies covered in a sleek black material that Donnell thought was very pleasing for her figure. His heart skipped a beat when he looked her in the eyes though.

They shone a bright emerald green as they caught the reflection of the fairy lights. They looked just like his mother’s. She’d always told him that green eyes were a sign of both inner and outer beauty, he’d always thought she was just being immodest but now he could see that she was onto something. 

He handed her a cigarette as he lit his own, before he could offer her a lighter she had taken another step closer to him and held her cigarette to his, the embers burning between them both and lighting one another. Donnell could feel her breath on his skin and he enjoyed being this close to her. 

“You look absolutely gorgeous” Donnell commented, taking a short drag of his cigarette. Megan jokingly giggled and tossed her dirty blonde hair, “I do try.” She kept looking down at her feet anxiously, a trait that she and Donnell both shared. “Did it take you long to get here then?” he broke the silence with his innocent attempt at conversation as she took a long drag of her cigarette. Donnell noted this, she was clearly an experienced smoker unlike himself. He barely smoked except when he got really stressed, he’d had the same packet for nearly a year now. “Not at all really, my place is only a forty minute walk or so away” she said nonchalantly. Donnell looked shocked and embarrassed “I’m sorry, I should have offered to get you a taxi or something” he was upset with himself and thought it was an inconsiderate move on his behalf. “And miss the chance to show all of the men what they’re missing? Not a chance ha!” her exuberance perked Donnell up and made him feel better about his decision. 

She grabbed the centimeter of cigarette that he had left and, along with her own, threw it on the ground before stumping it out with the heel of her shoe. “Come on, let’s head inside” she instructed. She turned and now her attention was equidistant between Donnell and the door of ‘La Visage Blanc’ a fact that Donnell couldn’t help but notice, he didn’t like feeling rushed but also hated feeling as though he was the cause of someone else’s discomfort or displeasure. He bent down and picked up the now extinguished cigarette butts, walking over to the bin across the road and throwing them in. Upon his return, he informed her “You shouldn’t throw them on the floor like that, dogs could eat them. 

One inside, they were greeted by a tall man who introduced himself with his thick french accent as Pierre. "Bonsoir madame et monsieur” he said enthusiastically as he pulled their chairs away from their table. “Unfortunately, our kitchen has stopped taking orders for the night, however we are still fully operational as a bar and so if you’d like I could send over the house sommelier to discuss some suitable wine options for you?” The couple were disappointed at the lack of food but accepted that it was their own fault, hiding their disappointment well in the face of Pierre. “That sounds great, thank you Pierre,” Megan said. Pierre bowed respectfully and walked away from the table.

The lighting in the room was a dim orange, as though they were seated with a tinted view of the inner workings of the sun. The sommelier came over shortly after and they collectively agreed on a vintage 1864 Sauvignon Blanc. “Excellent choice, monsieur” he said as he poured two glasses and walked away. “I didn’t know they’d all be so…” Megan chuckled at her own remark before she had a chance to finish it. Luckily, Donnell caught her train of thought as he leaned in and whispered “french?”. The two of them chuckled and sipped wine for hours as the evening went on.

He kissed her as they left the restaurant, after being asked to leave as the only ones still remaining at the winding down of the night. Megan appreciated that he was the one who made the first move, realising now that he wasn’t unconfident, he was just a quiet, caring and warm soul.  

My work is my treasure. The sense of euphoria that I gain from the feeling of the chisel plying away at the layers of wood, defining each feature with the precision of a skilled marksman, is indescribable. The layers of the wood reveal their complex textures and tones to me in dreams and visions, begging to be created. When I respire, my lungs oft thick with sawdust, my heart filled with joy. My workshop was stacked with my creations, the walls seldom visible to the naked eye. My carved puppets lined and arranged neatly in rows upon rows, none for sale, all to treasure. My proudest work, Pinocchio, dangled from the ceiling as though the house was his puppet master and he was performing for my affection. I had spent many a year crafting the piece, perfecting every inch of his body. Chiselling away at his figure, sculpting his facial features, painting his skin with flesh. He dangled there in his wooden glory, his blue pants and his yellow chequered shirt presenting the idyllic son. He was my child, and I his father. 

From the day that I hung Pinocchio my wife began to tremble at the sight of him, he flooded her with every emotion and cured her eyes of drought. He had awoken something within her, something that I too shared but was fulfilled within me by the boy. The longing of a child. Though she had prayed to every god, and been to every apothecary, still she was unable to bear fruit. Her face was drooped more than it was before, her eyes withered, her hair greyed. A young and once beautiful woman, such as my dear Gilda, should not have been taken hold by such evils. “We shall try again and eventually the gods shall shine upon us with a child” I used to plead to her. My words now ran as empty as her heart. The light now rarely graced her skin, her soul and her mattress had moulded together with her mattress. The house was empty of souls, the faint echoes of pitter-pattering feet that longed to be within the walls shrieked within her mind causing her to cry out in pain. Nothing settled her. Nothing would. Nothing but a child.

A flash. A blinding light. A feeling. Something had emerged from nothingness into my workshop. It presented an energy that flooded the room and flowed through every lifeless caricature in the home. The being deafened all my senses. Drowning out the growing screams of Gilda. “I present you with an offer that shall change your life forever Gepetto,” it spoke to me; the stern, authoritative, ethereal figure directly beaming thoughts into my subconscious. “What do you mean? What offer?” I tremble before it, my eyes squinting to pinpoints. “Pick your most treasured puppet and your wife shall bear it as a newborn in a mere 14 days. In return, I ask for a small fortune of your treasure”. At that moment I felt nothing, my mind had become clearer than ever before. I had the clarity of a fresh mountain spring. I knew my answer. “Yes, I will do anything for a child. Take this one. Take my boy Pinocchio and make him a son” my hands guiding the light towards the glorious figure hanging from my ceiling. A bomb of light fills the room once more, however, this time when it fades there was but a ringing in my soul and an empty space where my darling hung. The strings now empty as the house they reside in.

I have never experienced a fortnight longer than the one I waited for my child. I watched the sun rise and fall as though it was an empire-building up and grow back stronger. The days were elasticated and the nights were daggers. When the waiting had ended I was filled with mirth and to my glee, my wife was filled with our child. I was working in my shop and I saw a ghost emerge from the bedroom, dressed in a white sheet, a shadow of faith cast on her feet by a swollen bump. “My darling! Look what has happened! I am with child, it is a miracle” she gleams in a way that I had not seen in all the years I had known her. I waltzed towards her and embraced her, I will always remember the way that she pulled away from me. Her hands clawing at her stomach.

She writhed on the floor in pain, rolling around as though she was a pig in a stack of thorns, her screams echoing the cries of war that I had heard many years before. The floor stained in scarlet, I paced back and forth, my hands trembling. I carried her in my arms back to the bed that she had remained in for so long. I remember what happened next as though it was the only event that happened in my entire life. Her screaming stopped. The entire world did. Everything stood still for but a single second. That’s when it happened.

Where she had clawed on her stomach in agony, something was clawing back, as though a response to her apparent provocation. She continued to scream, but this time in pain and horror. She began to shake and convulse, as though she was having some sort of seizure. I was aghast. The whole house began to shake in rhythm with her. The candles flickering with evil. It stopped. Until suddenly a being emerged from her stomach, tearing through the flesh, splattering blood everywhere. It painted the walls. It painted my skin. It painted it’s own body. “I’m a real boy” the maniacal demon cheered as it danced, still stood in the violated corpse of my wife, the last of her blood pumped through her veins and splashing everywhere as the feet of the jolly jester. “Look Papa! I’m alive!” he announced gleefully as his boots slowly stomped on Gilda’s intestines, tearing them apart as he does. 

My fists clenched. My posture straightened. Something took over me. I leaned towards the demon child and grab for him, my fingertips felt the smooth brassy touch of his skin but he jumped away in the nick of time. “Yes, Papa! Let’s play Papa! You’ll never catch Pinocchio!” he exclaimed, as though he had been waiting for the opportunity to torture me for years. As I leaned forward, my feet slipped on a pile of crimson memories of my wife that lay on the floor. I tripped headfirst into the open wound that had birthed the creature. My face dripping with the blood of my deceased beloved, I was more determined than ever to avenge her death. I wiped my bloodied shoes on the carpet that she had been so passionate about so long ago. I stormed out of the room and into the hall. I couldn’t see the thing, but I could hear it’s laughter. “Ha Ha Ha! Papa will never find me” he proclaimed away in his hiding space. Crash. Smash. Knock. I knew instantly where he was. 

I charged down to my workshop. As I entered, everything looked identical to how I had left it. Had it not been for the trail of blood that still lingered on his body, dripped off of him with every step, trailing the remains of my wife with him as he moved, I would not have been able to locate him. But he did. He painted his steps with her essence. It appeared as though he had coated each footprint in blood so precisely, as though he was taunting me with his actions, reminding me of what he had done. I had not forgotten. I was fuelled by it. I followed the trail, leaping up and down the room in pursuit. I saw him. He was lined up with the other puppets against the wall, stood still in the same position as them, mimicking them. “You are not my child! Do not taunt me, wicked one! Show yourself!” I exclaimed. It took but a moment for him to step out of the line, I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed his shoulders and pushed him towards the floor.

My fist was charged. Bang. I punched him. “Papa!” he cried. Bang. I punched him again. His teeth now dangling like my wife’s intestines were. His nose bent like my wife’s spine was. His face torn like my wife’s stomach was. Bang. “Papa, please!” he begged. Bang. “Has Pinocchio not been a good boy?” he pleaded. Bang. “I just wanted to make you happy, Papa”. Bang. “Pa-”. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. I became automated. I became numb. I was flooded with memories. I was flooded with emotion.

Suddenly, I could only think of one thing. My Gilda. Her perfect smile, the way that it stretched from ear to ear when she laughed and the way that it lit up when she awoke that morning. Her perfect hair, the way that her locks of sunshine flowed in the breeze. Her skin, her smooth touch. Her eyes, blue as the clearest sky, windows into her mind. She was a passionate but thoughtful woman. She cared. She wanted to care more. She wanted to care for a child. She couldn’t now. She was gone. She was gone, and it was his fault. He is to blame. The demon thing. My creation. I had killed her. I had turned her into the ruined carcass that she had become. 

I was the cause for the state that she now lay in. Her perfect smile ruined, now frozen in a rigid scowl, dimmed to the point of diminishment. Her hair now lay on the stained sheets, ripped from her in pain. Her skin now empty and rough. Her eyes now void of emotion, black as her soul. She was gone. 

As the thought of my wife and what she had become drifted from my mind, I became ever present in the moment and looked down at the child. The child that she had borne. The child I had just destroyed. He hadn’t known any better. He was excited to be alive, he wanted to play and celebrate but in my anger, I ripped that from him. Even through his bloodied and now grotesque face, I could see a faint smile. I was correct, it was all a game to him, just not the malicious one that I had thought. 

Tears filled my eyes and regret filled my heart. I was truly alone. I shivered there, on the floor of my workshop, down the hall from where the corpse of my wife decomposed and next to where the blood of my child was still spilling onto the floor. I couldn’t stop staring at him. His appearance reflecting the appearance of my soul. The winds of depression flooded the house, the silence blowing my eardrums, the breeze causing me to shiver. Still, I knew there was a way I could repent for my actions. I stood up and grabbed the ladder that stood in the corner of the room. I placed it directly in the centre, underneath where Pinocchio had hung, grabbing the string and looping it around my neck. It warmed my skin, as though it were inviting me to stay, convincing me. I tied the knot and leaped, the ladder falling to the floor with a thud. It fell onto Pinocchio. His body squeezed out one last spurt of blood before it was truly dried up. As I dangled there my body told me to struggle, to save myself. I knew it wasn’t right to do so. I fought the urge.