Don’t Look

Memories of the island come to me like a dream. Being there had eventually made me so sick to the stomach I had to leave. The wind blew over the island like the big nothing it was and constantly filled the bottomless hole in my head with sand.

This wash of thoughts made for overactive senses. Smells were sharp, sounds cut through me; the slightest touch gave me goose bumps, especially when it was cold. Or when someone touched me. Sometimes I’d stick out my tongue and taste salt in the air, or damp on the grass and leaves. Sometimes I could even taste dirt.

But there are these weird little ones, memories; they’re filled with a beauty that doesn’t exist in my life anymore. I watch them play out in third person. A little kid running down a road, a rustle underfoot, a canvas of branches and autumn leaves overhead holding in everything he needs to know and be. His clumsy arms grabbing for a leaf dipping swooping doubling over and dashing forwards. The misty-eyed sun poking through the canvas and spying upon him until, at last, he notices its gaze. Standing still, mouth open, they communicate wordlessly. The eye shuts, the leaf has gone, another falls.

Those that come to me in first: stabbing my arm repeatedly with a pencil in detention. Pulling my best friend’s hair after he bit my fingers. Screaming at my mum, the weight of our words making my whole body tremble. Discovering my dad’s boxcutter, “Careful, that’s sharp.” Hiding beneath the porch. Jumping off the roof. Stubbing a cigarette out on the back of my hand.

That last one. The hiss of my roll-up tricks me into the memory, the sound of tiny hairs singing, the smell of burning flesh.

We were drunk in the playground’s Wendy Hut: James, Eve, Alan and I. Around us were the etchings of cocks, names, dates and devotions of love. “CP + EM 4 eva. That’s us,” I said. She smiled at me, and for a moment and we were in love. Until that point I’d never known anything with such clarity.

Eventually she laughed and ran off. Alan chased her and they fell in a heap by the swings, drunk and hysterical. James comes up to me and tells me they’re together, pats me on the shoulder like he’s sorry for my loss or something and fucks off. I’m left there, ears prickling, tears welling, cigarette burning. I didn’t make a sound, just the quiet hiss upon my hand. The sand swept away. The nothing sank in. That sweet, absolute nothing I continue to crave.

I stepped out with this new release, took the vodka from James and walked out onto the cricket field. He didn’t even bother coming after me. Fingering was big back then, everyone was at it, regardless of who was going out with who. Guys would run up to each other and glide their fingers under unsuspecting noses. At the time Alan fancied Eve, most of the guys did, and it was likely he was hoping to get a turn.

Upon the field the teenage boy is on his back, drunk, staring up at the sky. The island slides away from him, taking with it the excited sounds of laughter and moans of horny adolescents. Stars poke holes through the blanket stretched above. He hasn’t had sex yet, but thinks this must be what it feels like after. Eyes closed, the blanket is laid upon him and he enters a state of slumber. When he awakens it’s light and the cold and the vodka’s gone.

Cold. It’s cold in here. As I grind the cigarette on the windowsill I look at the garden and see the shed where we used to watch videos, get stoned and piss ourselves playing WWF on the Playstation. Beside it, in what used to be a flowerbed, lay the bodies of hamsters six inches underground – Jam, Pickles, Nuttela, Peanuts and Gaylord – each with their own little headstone.

The window’s shut. Cold’s locked out. I’m trapped in.

Don’t look at the bed.

Sitting down I stare at the patterns of the carpet. Retro red blue and yellow zig-zags. Who in their right mind designs this shit? The ceiling isn’t much better either. Infuriatingly inconsistent swirls of white paint. A buzz sounds from beside me.

Don’t look at the bed.