Sepia

Image courtesy of Chris Button here

The overwhelming colour of orange attacked my irises as I walked along the bridge. Orange from the sinking ball of fire, tinting the sky a dirty shade of copper as it refracted off the dust in the air. The yellow-orange from the headlights of cars passing by bathed me in a spotlight of over-exposed sepia as they drove past, their car horns cutting through the music from my headphones at irregular intervals.

The air was warm and violent as the cars raced by, providing my locks with an excuse for its bad hair day. I inhaled, noting the mixture of salt, sea breeze, exhaust and heated steel, a smell I was familiar with. It reminded me of grandpa who used to work as a maintenance man for the bridge. He always used to smell of grease, exhaust from all the cars that went by and the salty harbour that the bridge crossed.

I’d come here often and watch as the sky turned from blue to pink to purple to black. But today the sky was gold. Like grandpa’s work and sun beaten hands and his favourite colour; a burnt ochre that reminded him of the red desert. I would come here often and forget about the cars speeding past, the light fading fast and just take in the smells. I’d come here often because it smelt like grandpa.

Hello, My Name Is Liquid Courage

I adjusted my position on the couch, trying to keep as much of my modesty intact. Julia, Meg, Chelsea and I had come to Thailand for a holiday retreat and the hotel was throwing a New Year’s Eve beach party. Of course, Meg, Chelsea and Julia had insisted we go. I didn’t party but I figured since we were on holiday, I’d give it a go. They had dolled me up in the prettiest but littlest dress they could find and we were now sitting on one of the couches the hotel had set up on the beach. The flame torches dotted around the place provided hardly any light and the music was so loud, I could barely hear anything.

“Anyone else want another round? I’m gonna get another round,” Chelsea announced.

I watched as Julia and Meg immediately downed the rest of their drinks and enthusiastically agreed for another.

“Lisa?”Chelsea asked.

“Um, no, I’m good thanks. I’m not quite done with my drink yet,” I told her, taking another sip from my cocktail.

“Jules, come with me! There’re only so many drinks I can hold while walking in a relatively straight line,” Chelsea said, dragging Julia up with her.

“Lisa!” Meg suddenly burst, “Have you ever had a shot?”

“A what? Was it one of your drinks that I tried?”

“A shot! A shot of vodka!” I shook my head and she gasped. “Have mine,” she said, passing me a tiny glass with clear liquid in it.

“Oh, the glass is so cute!”

“Just down it in one go, really quickly,” Meg commanded. I looked at her and then to the glass before deciding to just give it go... and wow, did it burn. I could hear Meg laughing, probably at the expression on my face.

“Okay, I’m gonna go get another one,” she giggled, getting up. I picked up my glass, trying to wash away the burning sensation of the vodka with the sweetness of my cocktail.

“Can I get you a drink?” I heard from behind.

I turned around and came face to... chest. A very nice, broad chest followed by a set of amazing abs and... his face which did not follow but was further up. I felt my cheeks burn and I hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“I... uh...”

“Hi,” he cut me off. He smiled and all I could see was blond hair, blue eyes and white teeth. I took a long sip from my glass. Liquid courage, kick in now.

“Hi,” I said but it came out more of a hiccup.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked again.

I took in the strong jaw and tanned, toned torso. Oh right, Hot Guy had asked me a question.

“Oh, no, that’s alright. I already have one. But thanks for offering!” I held up my drink to show him.

“Where are you from?” he asked casually, sitting down and draping his arm over my shoulder. How friendly!

“Australia,” I shouted over the music just to make sure he heard.

“Aren’t people from Australia usually really tanned? Cause you get a lot of sun there and all.”

“Yeah but I try to stay out of the sun cause it’s bad for your skin and all,” I giggled, “Too much exposure can lead to cancer which no one wants. I always wear sunscreen and a hat, sometimes even a long sleeved top, you know, just to be on the safe side. What about you?” I took a long sip of drink. Talking made me thirsty!

Hot Guy was silent for a moment. He must’ve not heard me properly over the music so I began to repeat myself.

“Um, yeah... I think my friend’s calling me so... I’ll be right back,” he suddenly said as he got up and left. It must have been something urgent since he left in such a hurry. Taking another sip of my drink, I realised my glass was empty. Damn, where was Chelsea? I wanted more liquid courage before Hot Guy got back.

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This piece is quite different to the ones I usually write. It's funny and light-hearted. Not something sad, depressing or angry. It was part of an assignment that I had to hand in about a month ago where we had to hand in two pieces. One was this and the other was Hourglass (the previous story I posted). Hourglass was pretty depressing and sad and I wanted to have something upbeat and fun to counter it so that I didn't seem like I could only write dark, moody pieces. I was a bit apprehensive about handing it in but my tutor seemed to like it so here it is :).

Hope it made you smile.

Hourglass

Streaks staining threads. Dirt dusting soles. I watch as she plays in the sandbox. Building sandcastles and knocking them down. Up, down, up, down. She chuckles as she knocks them over, laughs as she builds them again; never giving up in rebuilding her fortress. But now she is digging. Digging and searching for something only she knows. Or maybe she is burying something, hiding a toy she will later find as buried treasure. She lives in her world of saturated colours and cuddles, paying no attention to the outside.

There is no room for sleep or bath time in her doll house. No time to waste in braiding hair at her tea parties. There are new friends to meet, new things to learn. She lets me tuck her in at night only so that the next day will come quicker.

Streaks staining threads. Dirt dusting soles. She drags herself home, painfully aware of the outside. Saturated colours melt into grey as days pass into weeks into months into years. I watch as she grows older, no longer lost in her own world but lost in herself. There is now time for sleep but no room in her mind for rest. Time for baths but no hope of being clean. She collapses each night so that the day will end and fights the morning so the day doesn’t have to start.

Every sunrise that comes brings a moment of remembrance. Crimson, navy, indigo and ochre covering a canvas of beige. Ebony and slate washing out minutes of hours of days.

I see her toeing the sandbox where she used to play and upsets the sand. Pink pops out. It is her doll; doe-eyed and rosy. A reminder of her saturated colours and cuddles but covered in dirt and sand. She picks her doll up, smooths out her ringlets and her doll gazes back at her. Her doll has not aged in years and she thinks that ignorance pays for immortality. She lets go and her dolly falls down, down back to the ground where other left over toys and half-built sandcastles lie.

Streaks staining threads. Dirt dusting soles. I watch her as she turns away, not bothering to rebuild her crumbling sandcastle.

Look A Likes

I freeze. The hand holding my cookie is halfway to my mouth and I’m hungry but I cannot move. I cannot blink, I cannot breathe. Standing in my line of vision is one of the best looking men I have ever seen. He reminds me of someone; someone I don’t want to think about but yet cannot avoid doing so because he looks just like him.

Him who broke my heart without trying. Him who was amazing and everything I wanted. Until now. A new start, a fresh break. The hair, the mannerisms, the eyes, the nose; a doppelganger but not. This one is older, more mature, experienced, different (at least I hope so). Not him. Him who I still see, still talk to, still smile with. Stop thinking about him.

I see him in my lectures sometimes, sitting there and I’m tempted to sit next to him but no. We’ve been down that road before; we don’t want to push anything. But he’s gorgeous and he just smiled and I think I’m dead. I’m brought back down to Earth by a friend’s distracting buzzing in my ear but with only half of my listening attention lingering on her and all of my visual attention focused on him. He puts on his reading glasses and oh my god I really am dead now. I don’t care about the stupid smile on my face or the fact that my friend knows I’m not listening anymore. All I can see is him who isn’t him.

I see him everywhere. Lecture halls, food hall, library, grass field and wait, what – church?

I most definitely just died and went to Heaven. He is not him and he is now everything that I want. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t play an instrument or doesn’t listen to the same music or if he might not read books (although I know he does – thank you literature lecture). He goes to church.

No, I don’t like him. Not yet. Or at least I tell myself. I just have to know him.

I think I’m going to explode.
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Just a short fluffy piece I did in like, 20 minutes because I felt like writing and (I know it's not the greatest piece [coughunderstatementcough] but) I was bored.
Yeah, I blog when I'm bored.

Ruby

Smack. Pain. Hot, stinging pain across her face and then crash and she’s on the floor. Her arm is throbbing and there’s a chair lying on its side next to her. She hears a step and then sees a shoe. The linoleum floor squeaks as she scrambles away. He blocks the door so she hugs the fridge for protection but it only gives temporary relief to her stinging cheek and arm. Just one more night. Another step and she presses herself closer to the fridge, turning her face away as his arm extends out. Her breathing is ragged and her body is shaking but whether it’s shaking from her fear or the vibrations from the fridge, she’s not sure. She grabs the first thing she can to try to fight him off even though she knows it’s no use. A whisk. She knows it’s pathetic but, in an act of defiance, holds it between them anyway. He laughs a big, burly laugh and looks down at her, kicking the flimsy kitchen utensil away.

One more step and he’s right in front of her, rough hands grabbing her, pulling her, hitting her. She can taste copper but can’t see clearly, all she can do is feel. Feel the warm, metallic liquid in her mouth, the tears on her face, the vice grip on her shoulder and arm and the pain. So much pain in her body that she can barely hold herself up without his help. I’m sorry. She’s apologizing but she doesn’t know what for except that it’s the safest thing to say at the moment. He asks her what she’s sorry about; demands to know if she did something she should be sorry for. He asks her why she’s crying, pulls her hair, shakes her around a bit, tells her to shut up. I’m sorry. The words echo around the small kitchen, reflect off him and bounce back to her, sounding a little bit more hollow than before.

Another shove and she feels something different; the corner of a table, the flat edge of the counter top, a crack, possibly a rib, and then the burn of the plastic flooring as she lands and slides. Her forehead collides with the table leg hard and the kitchen starts to swim. The fridge magnets are playing chess by themselves while the shelf sways in a dance and why are there two of him? Oh no, God no, please no more. He’s saying something but it’s lost in his shouts and the buzzing and pounding in her head. Just one more night of putting up with this. One last hard kick in the side then she blacks out.

When she opens her eyes, he’s gone and she’s left alone with the dim fluorescent lights blinking at her silently. She takes in a deep breath to steady herself, wincing as her bruised lungs expand and push against the might-be-cracked ribs. Pulling a drawer open, she grabs a towel to clean up the mess in the kitchen. The spill of blood and dirt make pictures and patterns on the floor as she wipes it back and forth. First a red cloud, then a meteoroid, then a bird, what looks like a smiley face next, followed by a love heart and then a crooked arrow aiming just off the door.

It reminds her of when they had gone kite flying once, years ago when she could still order off the kid’s menu, and sat watching the clouds while waiting for the wind to pick up.

“That looks like a fish, Daddy!”

“Yes, Ruby, it does.”

“And that one! That looks like a unicorn!”

“Unicorns don’t exist, Ruby.”

“What?”

The wind had picked up so he had passed her the coil of string to hold while he released the kite into the breeze and up it went, almost taking her with it. She squealed and laughed, running around following the kite until suddenly the wind stopped and it fell.

“Ruby, you’re not doing it right! Can’t even fly a bloody kite... Give it here!”

The kitchen floor is clean now and she stands in the bathroom about to clean herself off so she doesn’t dirty her bed sheets. He hates dirty sheets, even when the sheets aren’t his. Everything has to be pristine so that he has something to spoil. Her eyes follow the mapped out lines that the abrasions make on her skin, leading from one old memory to the next while her fingers trace the red, purple, blue and yellow designs painted all over her body. Just survive a little longer and then I can start again.

She turns the shower on and steps in, moving under the spray of water. The warm droplets hitting her face are a welcomed pressure unlike her earlier beating. As the water runs down her body, she feels the old and new cuts and bruises that she couldn’t see; all stinging and throbbing while the water turns a faint shade of red. She dries herself off when she’s done and pulls on some clothes before crawling into bed. The pillows and mattress cradle her like a baby as she falls into a restless sleep.

Morning comes around and the alarm rings, loud and demanding. Her eyes crack open and she can see the sunlight filtering into the room, greeting her with a cheery goooood morning, it’s a new day! Her aching muscles stretch painfully as she reaches to turn off the insistent alarm and gets up. She follows her morning routine, pulls her work uniform on and, checking that most of the evidence from last night’s attack are hidden, leaves.

She runs into her next door neighbour in the hallway on her way out and before she can get away, old Mrs Anderson calls out.

“Good morning, Ruby!”

“Morning, Mrs Anderson.”

“How are you, love?”

“Fine, thanks. Yourself?”

“Oh, I’m very well, thank you. How kind of you to ask.”

The conversation reaches an uncomfortable pause and she just wants to leave but Mrs Anderson has her feeling like she’s trapped. She opens her mouth like a goldfish, hoping for an excuse to come tumbling out but Mrs Anderson manages to jump in first.

“I don’t mean to pry, love, but I’ve been hearing some... noises coming from your place.”

“Oh...?”

“Yes... Is everything all right at home?”

The hallway suddenly seems smaller than she remembers and she doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, Mrs Anderson. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that what I’ve been hearing have sounded like fights, especially last night. Some shouting and loud bangs and I noticed the bruises on your legs.”

She freezes, unsure of what to do and feeling very much like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. Mrs Anderson’s concern and questions wrap around her like a hug she didn’t ask for. She’s suddenly aware of the itching cuts and scars, throbbing bruises and how empty she must look.

“It was just me being clumsy; I walked into a door. The shouting you heard was probably the TV Dad had on,” she says after a moment, please don’t ask anymore.

Mrs Anderson looks at her intently for a moment, worry and concern in her eyess

“Well, if you say so, love. Just thought I’d check. You should really take care of yourself, though, Ruby; you’re looking too frail and skinny and you never come around like you used to anymore. Come pay me a proper visit soon, all right?”

Mrs Anderson pats her on the shoulder kindly and she bites back a wince when it touches a fresh bruise.

She nods, “I’ve gotta go or I’m going to be late for work...”

“Of course, dear! Don’t let me keep you!”

She’s grateful for the chance to end the topic and quickly turns to leave.

“Oh and Ruby, happy birthday,” Mrs Anderson smiles, “Eighteen is a big change.”

Eighteen is a big change indeed.

The night begins like a repeat of the previous evening. No real reason for the hits and punches and kicks. Just cause he feels like it. Just because he had a bad day at work and can’t take it out on his co-workers but can take it out on his own daughter in the privacy of his home. Just because she’s still a kid to him and doesn’t fight back. Just because it was her fault his wife died eighteen years ago.

He slaps her and her head whips to the side, body following through so she looks like a rag doll colliding with the counter top. He grabs her and yanks her upright, pulls her right up to his face and she can feel his hot breath like steam off an iron burning clothes. He asks her a question but she’s not listening. Instead, she’s looking to where her bag lies, packed with what little she needs.
Bang. She’s on the floor again and can feel a slow trickle of blood tickling her skin. He asks her if that hurt, because if it didn’t, he’ll try again. Getting up, she looks him square in the eyes.

“No.”

Stage

For Sarah
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I stared at my made up face in the mirror with a sigh. My vacant eyes blinked back at me as I gently poked my face, making sure that the dark circles under my eyes weren’t visible beneath my makeup. Long, tiring, continuous hours of rehearsal over the past few weeks were beginning to take a toll on me. My earlier disagreement with my mother, though, had been what triggered my current misery. I picked up my bright red lipstick to paint on my smile as my mind wandered back to that conversation.

“Mum, it’s opening night tonight, you could at least pretend to be happy for me,” I said, tugging at the phone chord in annoyance.

“Grace, you know I’m happy for you but are you sure being a dancer is what you really want to do?” Mum answered. I rolled my eyes at the phone. Mum always gave me this spiel whenever she called. With an over exaggerated sigh, I let her continue. “It’s fine as a hobby and all, but as a career? I mean I’m not saying you’re not talented enough, Grace, you got all those scholarships after all but the money you make professionally isn’t that much and it’s such an uncertain career path. I just want you to be happy, Grace.”

Yes, it was true that I didn’t make that much money as a professional dancer and as I looked around my dismal and practically empty apartment, I was glad that my mother wasn’t around to see it. Plastered walls, a worn couch, threadbare curtains and a fickle-minded heater were testament to what my salary could afford. My gaze swept around the bleak living space I called home and lingered on an old photograph of my mother on stage. I glared fiercely at the picture, as if glaring at it hard enough would enable her to feel my harsh stare over the phone. I had framed it and brought it with me in a lame attempt at some familial inspiration but in the context of this current conversation with her, I couldn’t understand why. A pair of old well-used pointe shoes sitting on my couch soon caught my attention and I immediately relaxed, my feet flexing and pointing instinctively.

“I am. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” I may have said that a little sharply but I’d told her so many times before; I really didn’t want to be doing anything else.

“Well, I’d just hate to see you left with nothing to do if it doesn’t work out,” Mum said in a clipped tone.

I glanced at the pile of bills sitting on the table in front of me and thought about how I was just getting by but I’d never admit that to her. After her own failed attempts in the entertainment industry when she was younger, Mum had never truly been comfortable with my career choice. In the three years that I’d been in the city dancing professionally, never once had she come to watch me. Not even tonight, the opening night of my first role as a principal dancer.

My thoughts were interrupted when the backstage runner called the cue of some other dancers. I frowned and the white lighting surrounding the mirror made my expression look harsher than it was while the makeup exaggerated my appearance. I moved to find some floor space and practised some of the choreography, letting my character take over.

“Grace, it’s your cue soon,” the runner called.

I stopped and turned towards the mirror. Taking one last look at myself, I was shocked to realise how much I resembled my mother. The shadows cast over my features and the expression I currently wore under the bright green room lights was definitely a characteristic of hers; one I never realised I possessed. I instantly hated those lights. A sudden and unexpected overwhelming feeling of sadness washed over me and I wished she was here watching me tonight. Pushing the thought firmly away, I plastered on my best stage smile and headed out.

As I stood in the wings waiting, I took in the surroundings of my true home. The thick, slightly coarse fabric of the heavy side curtains felt familiar under my fingers and I could feel the ambient heat from the stage lights filtering into the wings, warming me. The music was louder here than it was backstage and it instantly changed my mood. I could hear the audience applauding enthusiastically as the scene ended and I thought with a sad smile how much more support I received here than I did at home. I prepared myself for my cue as the dancers who were onstage exited and whispered wishes of good luck before hurrying out of my way.

I wasn’t going to worry about my problems anymore tonight; I was going to worry about someone else’s instead. Tonight, I wasn’t Grace. Tonight, I was Odette.

Addison at Midnight

It was the middle of summer and I was shivering. Shivering and sweating on this hot and humid night. I closed my eyes tightly and curled up into a ball in an attempt to tame the involuntary tremors passing through me but it hurt too much so I stretched myself out under the sheets. But that hurt too. I rolled over in agony and annoyance, trying to find a somewhat comfortable position but every move I made seemed to hurt a different part of my body.

All I wanted to do was sleep. I knew what would calm me down and eventually bring me sleep but I wouldn’t get it here. No, definitely not here.

My eyes drifted open and I sat up, knowing that I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. Or any night soon for that matter. I surveyed the room I was in through damp eyes and tried to ignore the shaking running through my limbs and the pinpricks of pain stabbing my head. The moon outside dimly lit the room but even that was too bright for me right now. The bare walls challenged me to a staring contest and I obliged them but the swaying shadow from the tree outside was too distracting so I blinked, losing the contest just like I was losing the fight with myself.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out everything but it seemed to do the reverse. When I opened my eyes again, the room seemed brighter than before, the shadows cast appeared sharper and the rustling from the tree outside seemed to cut straight through the fuzziness and pain in my head. I played with the hem of my shirt, rolling it up and then unrolling it; back and forth.

The red digital numbers on the clock blinked one a.m. exactly and I sighed. The night seemed to stretch on forever. My focus wandered around the room in search for something to do and landed on a book by the bed I was sitting on. I picked it up and flipped it over to read the back. Apparently it was about a lady who tries to kill herself and ends up in hospital where she has to come to terms with herself or something equally as miserable. I considered reading it but dealing with my own issues was tiring enough and I really didn’t want to have to bother with hers so I put it back down.

I turned to the clock again and realised that only a minute had passed. 1.01 a.m. I could hear the numbers mocking me and how alone I was in this room; in this place. Haha, they laughed, haha. I glared threateningly at the numbers, daring the clock to ridicule me further and it did when it blinked to the next minute.

There was a single abstract painting hanging on one of the walls. The people in charge had said that it was for “relaxation” purposes but the more I tried to focus on it, the more the lines and colours seemed to melt into one big haze, forming a new picture. This new painting reminded me of one my mother had hanging in her home and my insides twisted. I didn’t want to think about home; I didn’t have one anymore. Not since they had sent me here.

I felt like screaming, pulling out my hair, yanking my limbs off; anything that would distract me from the cramps taking over my body, the throb and fog in my head and the hunger in my stomach. Food. Food was what I needed. I thought about going to the cafeteria that was opened twenty-four hours for patients to grab something to eat but the mere thought of having to move my jaw and use my teeth caused my muscles to seize up and pain to shoot to the middle of my head.

My stomach lurched and I doubled over, stretching my tense muscles into a position that felt even more painful than I thought possible. I heard a feral sounding growl and fear gripped me until I realised that it was originating from me. I could just imagine the way I looked right now – my hair matted to my damp forehead, rocking back and forth on this hard, foreign bed, face contorted in pain and desperation evident in my eyes. I hated this current weak state I was in. I hadn’t eaten in almost twelve hours but I knew that a meal wasn’t what I really needed, or wanted rather, to quell the hunger in me.

I rubbed my nose and it felt strange – hollow and bigger than I remembered. I hadn’t noticed before how itchy or uncomfortable my nose was and rubbing it just triggered it to flare up so I clawed away at it.

A sudden movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention and panic seized every muscle in me. My head shot up and an intense pain attacked my head, neck and back. I thought I was going to throw up. I looked around but there was no one else in the room besides me. Something moved again and I realised that it was only the tree outside. I let out a bitter scoff at my paranoia. Damn that tree and damn this state I was in.

I sniffed and scratched my nose again.