'Can't you feel the wind? You wouldn't like it up there.'

If I read my pieces for my fiction portfolio again this evening I will scream. I must have read them all about ten times today. I've decided to ditch the story about the young and the old man in the charity shop in favour of a story about a woman with a scar. I'll post the three I want to submit at the end of this blog.

Anwyay, today I woke up and got on with some work then headed to meet my friend, Olive for lunch which was very nice. Then I went to meet Ian. We were meant to go on the Big Wheel in Castle Park in town but, because of the gales, the ride was stopped. The man told us, well, Ian to be precise:

'Can't you feel the wind? You wouldn't like it up there.'

A bit presumptious we thought but he was probably just covering his back insurance wise.

Anyway, we went for a drink and then to see the Almodovar film Volver which was really gripping. We both really enjoyed it. I didn't credit Penelope Cruz as an actresss before, but now I do. She was fantastic. The story was about two sisters whose mother is presumed dead in a fire but she is actually alive and comes back to stay with them. It's very good. Go and see it. But don't blame me for ruining it for you.

So after that we went to get something to eat in the Watershed, then I came home to get on with some work and I'm pleased with what I got done.

Anyway, it's late and I'm tired and want to get into bed woth my book so here are the three pieces I want to submit for my portfolio. Bear in mind they will probably get another edit before I submit them.

Snow Angel.

What a perfect day, she thought as her footsteps crunched on the snow-caked grass. It just couldn’t have been any more romantic. She watched her breath in the air punctuate her movement and clenched her icy hands in the pockets of her jacket. Oh, it felt exquisite to know nothing could hurt anymore. No more surprise’s, no more disappointments, no more pain. She smiled at the thought and opened her mouth letting snowflakes land on her teeth and tongue. It felt like Christmas had before it became just another day to dread, another day to struggle through. Back when she and Rachel had woken in the early hours tiptoeing down the stairs to see what was under the tree; back when her father would take them tobogganing and there was nothing to worry about and the pressure hadn’t come on like a thousand ovens. Back when the simplest thing would have made him happy, just the simplest thing. She wished her father could see her now. Oh, she knew word for word what he’d say. The same he always had when she hadn’t met his sky high requirements, ‘‘Amanda, we had such high hopes for you.’’ She heard the disappointment in his voice even now; saw his shaking head and rimmed glasses at the head of the dinner table; at her sister’s graduation; at her own wedding; at the clinic yesterday. Had they all thought she hadn’t had high hopes for herself? Had they really thought that? Not that it mattered now. Nothing did.

The wind whistled in the background and she laughed out loud; a sound that shocked her. Wasn’t it funny how things like that happened? Here she was, about to take her own life and even nature was calling for her to stop and see sense. She stood still covering her mouth as she laughed and laughed while the wind cried out. How wonderful to imagine her mother and father and all the others who had put such strain on her calling out at the last moment and how reckless to be ignoring their pleas. She turned and looked at the trail of footprints she had left. Thank God he wasn’t here now with his pedantic eye for detail. Not a straight line at all! She laughed again, this time falling back in the snow looking up at a blue sky that felt as familiar as happiness. How relaxing to be lying here without a care in the world, to feel so removed from everything and everyone. Maybe this is what it’s like to be on the moon, she thought, as she put her arms out and waved them through the snow feeling the chill cover her hands like a pair of cold glass gloves. She closed her eyes and let the snow land softly and slowly on her face. Maybe if she lay here long enough she would get so cold she would die anyway. She smiled at the thought, licking the snow that had collected on her lips.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours later when she opened her eyes again. She saw a man peering down at her with an expression as blank as the snow. How long had he been there? And what right did he have to distract her?

‘Sorry Ma’am,’ he said, his words melting snow in the air. ‘I saw you here and you looked like you were having so much fun I wondered if I could join you.’

What a stupid ridiculous man! Fun? Fun? This is exactly what is wrong with people, she thought. They see only what they want to see. They have no idea what goes on outside of their own silly little heads. Still it was her last day, so why not humour him? She patted the ground beside her and told him to lie down. He was a funny looking man with angry red skin and nostrils you could hide apples in. He lay back slowly and carefully and this annoyed her tremendously. Why take all the care in the world when you will end up wet and dirty regardless? But then why spend years trying to make everyone but yourself happy when you end up dead anyway?

What was she supposed to say to this strange man? He wasn’t saying anything at all; just lying beside her like a big fat slug; his breathing getting heavier and heavier.

An hour passed.

‘I’m John,’ he said, his words shattering the silence like a hammer on ice. She didn’t care who he was, not a bit. But she spoke anyway.

‘I’m Marilyn Monroe,’ she told him. She had always wanted to say that, always, but never had the nerve before. He didn’t say a word after that. She smiled. They lay there, still and silent in the snow for what felt like forever. She might have been asleep or she might just have been thinking, it was hard to tell anymore, but she felt his hand wrap around hers. Very strange, she thought, for someone to hold the hand of someone they don’t know. But she didn’t move it straight away. It felt almost ceremonial.

After a while she took back her hand and put it in her pocket as she stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ the man asked without moving.
‘I’m going,’ she said completely at peace, ‘to die.’

Goodbye.

11pm
He sits in the parked car; glances at the clock and feels tears threaten. Only four hours ago he’d had everything someone else could have wanted. And he’d left it for love. Now he has nothing, nothing. But now what is it that he wants? He doesn’t know. He shakes his head, his hands on the wheel. He doesn’t know. His mind thumps with questions, questions he can’t answer. Can’t or won’t. He flicks the lights on, where can he go? Off. On, what will he tell people? Off. On, is this what he deserves? Off. On, the brick wall in front of him. Off, the brick wall gone. On. And off. Silence. On, the engine starts.

10.10pm
The silence between them is like an overdose; it pulls hard at his guts, twists his stomach and steals the air from his chest. Did he hear Mark’s words right? Deserve; secret; married; love; sex; priorities; gay; wife; kids; gesture; decision. His mouth is dry; his tongue lies flat, futile against gritted teeth. Pain rushes from his toes to his throat, chokes him like gas. No words left to say; no words will change his mind. It’s too late. It’s over. There’s no point telling him about earlier. He doesn’t want to beg.

Mark stands slowly, awkwardly; pulls on his jacket, pushes in his chair. Goodbye Andrew, walking away. He nods once in response, glances up from his drink; sees the door open, sees the rain beating down, sees the door swing shut. His future, his dreams disappear into the night. Not been here since we first met, he’d said. They’d finished where they’d started - a palindrome. The voices in the bar blur in his head; blur into one. One voice asking the same question: what has he done?

9.05pm
He walks into the bar; a pool of chatter, jazz playing in the background, conversations scattered with laughter. He smiles; deep breath, Mark is there. He walks over. Memory washes over him, absorbed by every pore of his skin; two years ago, two years - was it really that long? Not been here since we first met, as he sits down. Sorry I’m late. He wants to kiss him, to hold him, but remembers one of his own rules - no affection in public. He wants to blurt it out - I’ve done it; imagines Mark’s face, imagines the future in an instant. But Mark speaks first; I need to talk to you, Andrew.

8pm
The car reverses slowly out of the drive. Rain hammers down so hard that the wipers stagger, moan as they tremble on the glass. He can barely see out of the rear window; his shirts are stacked on the parcel shelf - different coloured copies of his work self. The kids wave from the front door. He waves back. His hand drops, then raises, then drops to the wheel again. Her arms scoop the kids back inside and the door slams shut.

7.45pm
The kitchen table; the clock ticks loudly in the background. Was it always that loud, he wonders, or had we always filled the silence until now? She sits opposite him. Her eyes are puffy, bloodshot, streaming. She holds tissue to them; sniffs, sniffs, and sniffs again. The kids come in. Not now. She whips her arm; sends them away. She asks him something. He doesn’t hear. His heart is thump, thump, thumping in anticipation; drowning everything like a wave. I still want to see them. You must be joking. I’ll drag you through the divorce courts. I’ll take everything you’ve got. But she can’t. She can’t take everything.

She stands; slides the ring from her finger, drops it in front of him. He watches it roll from the table to the floor to the skirting board, watches it fall over. I hope she’s worth it. If you leave now, Andrew, you never come back. He stands slowly, walks to the door, every step stirring his heart. She crumples; her back to the wall, she slides down, her face in her knees. The door closes; her arms wrap around her legs, her body crippled with tears, the back of her head rhythmically hitting the tiles as her chest heaves.

7pm
He looks around the room, empties his wardrobe into a travel bag; throws in books, CD’s, jewellery, anything that’s his - his and his alone. The kids smile at him from inside a frame. He smiles back; places the picture carefully at the top of the bag, zips it shut. He glances at his watch – 7pm. What time had Mark said? 8pm? Maybe he’ll get away before she comes back. He’s a coward. He knows that. Of course he knows. He doesn’t want to hurt her. But he can’t keep lying, lying to everyone. He clears the en-suite; hears the front door open; hears it close - hears the kids laughing, her voice murmuring commands, her footsteps on the stairs. The door opens. She stands in the room; her face confused; her mouth open; her breath stolen. What’s going on?

7.45pm
Mark takes his phone from his pocket, checks the time – 7.45pm. What time had he told Andrew? 8pm? He picks up his book again but puts it down in an instant; he doesn’t mark the page he was on, doesn’t remember the words he read. He can’t concentrate; thoughts tangle in his mind and his head feels heavy. He loves him. He exhales, drums his fingers on the table. He loves him. But there’s no future. No future in black and white lies woven with secrets and empty promises – a basket full of nothing. He needs more than Andrew can give. More than he will give. Ice hits his teeth, slides over his tongue as he finishes his drink.

8pm
He waits at the bar. Another gin and tonic? The barmaid asks. He nods, yes, please. Double? He nods again, glances at the clock above the bar, thanks. Someone late? She looks behind her, the glass pressed to the optic; God I hate it when people are late. He forces a smile; Yeah, I’m always waiting around for him. Always. Well, least you got your book; she puts his drink down in front of him, £3.50 then please. The change falls into her hand; he walks back to his table and sits down. Looking out of the window he sees people running for shelter from the rain, their clothes soaked through, their faces distressed. You look how I feel, he thinks as he plays with a beer mat, you look how I feel.

9.05pm
He watches Andrew walk in and, smiling, walk over through the dense air of smoke, music and laughter. Even now, that smile almost works as he sits down; not been here since we first met, sorry I’m late. Almost works. But almost doesn’t count. He takes a deep breath; this has to be done, his mind is made up. I need to talk to you, Andrew.

10.10pm
Silence. He’s said it. He’s said it all. And word by word, brick by brick, a wall’s been built between them - deserve; secret; married; love; sex; priorities; gay; wife; kids; gesture; decision. Has he done the right thing? There was love there. There was passion there. Has he honestly done the right thing? The last two years flash in his mind: an amalgamation of cryptic phone calls, Christmas’ alone, awkward encounters. It couldn’t go on; he deserves more. So why is it so hard to leave? Why does he feel rooted in this seat? He stands slowly, awkwardly; pulls on his jacket, pushes in his chair. Goodbye Andrew, he walks away. Opening the door he glances back; swears he sees tears in his eyes. Never seen his tears before, never seen him cry, he thinks as he steps out into the rain.

11pm
He turns on the TV but there’s no room in his head for the sounds and the images. He turns it off, staring through the blank screen at his reflection. How had he ever let it get this far, to love? He’d known he was married. So is this pain what he deserves? He fills his glass, distant from his actions, distant from everything. It was the right decision; of course it was. His glass is empty; he fills it again with a shaking hand and falls back in the sofa.

He wakes later; he doesn’t know the time. Peeling himself from the sofa he walks upstairs.
Opening the bathroom cupboard he sees the toothbrush Andrew had left. Don’t go getting any ideas, Andrew had told him. He spits into the sink, splashes the tap on, off, walks back to his bedroom.

Lying in the dark he wills himself to sleep; he rolls onto his left, onto his back, onto his right. Don’t go getting any ideas he hears in his head, remembering that morning; don’t go getting any ideas. But he had. A tear betrays him; he had been getting ideas.

The Scar.

Standing naked on the bathroom tiles Annette Ashley wipes the steam from the mirror and stares at her reflection. Like every morning for the past two months it’s there; an imprint of a night she can’t remember, a branding she can never forget. She traces the scar from her temple to the corner of her mouth; a dark red alien curl pressed into her skin.

She should count herself lucky; that’s what they told her in the hospital. After all she’s still alive, more than can be said for Danny. Swallowing the lump in her throat she wonders if life like this really is any better than death. Living in the same four walls every day of the week, a prisoner in her own home. How can it possibly be any better? The man she loved is dead and the woman she was has been torn from inside her. Now she’s nothing but an empty shell, void of any passion, interest, feeling. A tear slides in the scar to the corner of her mouth to be met by her tongue – tears, a familiar taste now. Wiping her eyes she finishes drying herself, pulls on her dressing gown and walks to the kitchen.

Since that night Annette’s mother has brought her meals daily, sat watching her push food round the plate in silence. But her mother won’t be coming today. She won’t be coming for two weeks.

‘I just need a bit of time to myself,’ she’d told her, ‘I need a break Annette.’

A break, Annette thinks as she peers into the fridge, I could do with a break; from my thoughts, my guilt, my nightmares; myself. But it won’t happen. It’ll never happen.

She takes out a pot of something her mother left, pours it into a saucepan and flicks on the hob. Still in her dressing gown, she leans back against the worktop and glances at the clock on the oven: 3pm. She woke early today.

Sitting at the dining table Annette picks at food that looks like vomit. The scraping of her knife on the plate grates on her bones making her gag and after three mouthfuls she pushes it away and falls back in the chair.

When she looks at the time again it’s 6pm. Was I asleep? She wonders. Or was I awake? But what does it matter? Awake I feel the same as asleep – disconnected, numb, paralysed. The days become nights and the nights become days. She knows what people will be thinking: get yourself together, don’t let this ruin your life. But it’s not that simple. If only it was. She can’t even bring herself to step outside; to let people see her; to have them stare. So she stays here in the house because here she’s safe, safe and in control.

She looks out of the window, a full moon lights up the night sky. Maybe I could go for a walk, she thinks, no one would see me properly; see my face, my scar. But it was dark the night it happened, she remembers, it could happen again and I’d never forgive myself for being so stupid. Once bitten, twice shy. Oh no, she shakes her head at the window, oh no I’m not going out there again. And she smiles at having taken back control.

She’s still smiling twenty minutes later when the doorbell rings. She stands quickly, then freezes. Her smile disappears. Who is it? She wonders. No one visits. No one but my mother and my mother is away. So who could be at the door? She takes deep breaths and presses her back against the wall. Am I too late? She panics. Have they seen that I’m home? God, oh God. What should I do? She covers her ears and counts to herself: 1, 2, 3, 4 – the doorbell rings again, a nasty rasping buzz. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 – the doorbell again. Tears stream down her face. She feels sick; she can’t move; she can’t move a muscle. It’s as if her veins have run into the ground, tied around the floorboards and rooted her there. She hears the letterbox open.
‘I know you’re there, Annette,’ a female voice calls, ‘I know you’re there. Let me in.’

The letterbox closes and she feels her stomach churn and drop to the floor. The person knows her name; the person at the door knows her name. She counts again: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 –

‘I need to speak to you,’ the voice comes again, loudly and clearly, ‘I need to speak to you about November 23rd. You need to hear what I have to tell you. You need to let me in.’

November 23rd? November 23rd; that’s the date; that’s the date it happened she thinks as she feels blood pump through her body, tingling from her toes to her legs to her stomach to her throat to her face. It’s as if she’s been brought back to life.

Before she knows what she’s doing she’s opened the front door. She doesn’t care what happens now; she needs to know what happened then. The pale face looking back at her is familiar but she doesn’t know why. The woman steps inside locking the door behind her.

‘Thank you,’ the woman says, ‘can I sit down?’