#wuu2

Starting Again

A story for Scottish Book Trust’s Rebel writing campaign. Read more responses here. 

My shoe broke on the way to the station which I tried not to take as a sign. Limping into a new life does dampen the intended grace somewhat. The right lace now trailed along demonstrating all too plainly how I couldn't hold my life together. I half expected a mocking over the tannoy. Thankfully, none came.

My travel companion was to be a York University student; tall, dark, unfazed by revision. As I sidled slightly flushed into my seat we exchanged small smiles and small words, while I tried to work out where best to store a poster tube for the next four hours. I concentrated on the wire of his headphones as the train pulled away and, true to form, I had a cry on public transport. ™ London. I've wondered since if his soundtrack was complimentary to the scene.

A forward facing window seat with a plug, naturally. A lifetime of British holidays has taught me that much. Facing forwards no doubt about it and yet stretching back. As a discontent child squirms in a pushchair my insides follow suit. As concrete diminishes and tree trunks multiply I divide myself between two places. It feels physical. Intestines unravel, one end still attached, the other in the hands of my dearest friends back on the platform, and I'm wondering at what point will I feel the tension? How much elastin is in this fleshy rope - will it stop the train or tear right out after ten, twenty, fifty miles? Am I invincible or dispensable?  

"A green tea please."

"That'll be £2, darlin'."

Contained change. A hot and emotional whirlwind with a lid on it. My heart beats along with my distraction playlist, an untitled medley to new beginnings. I raise my tea to hope, or is it to foolishness? Will I open up the forum to the carriage? I stay silent.

Whose idea was this because it doesn't feel like mine? It was a thousand hated breaths of a city that pushed me out. Invisible, polluted hands and mouths snidely daring change. Was I mistaken to tune into them? Because I really am alone now. No friends in a new country, unemployed, short hair, short fuse. Of course I've noticed the voices faulter, the split second eye refocus as they try to craft comment on what no one wants to label as outright ridiculous. Adventures are for fiction, for gap year uncertainty to be a bit of a joke of coming of age. They're for late night 'if I could do it all again' conversations brought on by wine or sunsets or New Year. Yet when I really listen I can hear my inner voice saying 'yes', I can feel the sparks of fire inside that fuel the assurance of this, on paper, outright mad desire: to start again.

I observe every blur of a sheep and whizz of a bird. If I'm attentive and lucky I might see a fox. Everything is stripped back to a worldly version of I Spy. I can only merely label 'sheep', 'house', 'river' because as I get further away from old I've no forged connection to be able to describe anything more fully. I feel very young. This is just the beginning of everything being new and it's already so hard. I'm dipping my toes into strength I haven't imagined.

From Kings Cross to 'what if?'. I can sense the paths of my life frantically rerooting themselves in this new direction. Those things that I have anticipated up ahead, that I've taken the liberty of running on and tending to, are overturned in the storm. They fly by with the Wicked Witch of the East.

Well wishes flash up on my phone from all sorts of people I didn't even know cared. Oddly though, I feel more connected to the people on this train, to Mr York University now highlighting passages of an indistinguishable textbook (right-handed), than to so many I am meant to love. Somehow emotions have gotten out of joint. Ashamed, I take the opportunity to bury myself in a novel. A thin, battered volume selected specifically for comfort. Part of my adventurers kit. What do you pack when you want to erase so much of the past?

See see August. Hi pal, hey buddy. Can I get you any sauces? Ketchup? Brown? I saw something weird last night, and the night before that and some. Fringe swinging so calendar days dissolving in a rush of work and play. Or flip that: play and work. Drew me to this city and sometimes I stand in the footprints of a former self, both instances the pinnacle of me and I smile and remember. August feeds me from her liberating breast, holds a hand in mine and with the other sketches the way. I want a reason for it all.

Eggs, eggs, eggs. Secret fried eggs off the menu- maybe actions do speak louder than words. Creaking floorboards give away the hour I stumble home, laughter on my lips that cannot quite be turned toward my misgivings. It’s a 30 minute walk to happiness; heals or flats? I’m listening for footsteps. Listening, listening. Pacing, pacing. Dancing.