Mortals background
Aug. 31st, 2009 05:44 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annwfyn.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsI didn’t say “goodbye”.
What was the point? He could say “I’m sorry,” again, because he was sorry. Genuinely and truly. I could smile, forcedly, and say “it’s OK,” when it wasn’t at all, but what the hell else was I meant to say? I mean, he’d always been honest enough with me. Honest about his wife, honest about not wanting to leave her. I was the one who hadn’t been honest.
And I was sick of lying. So, I didn’t say goodbye.
I sat on the train as it pulled out of Edinburgh and was surprised to discover that I wasn’t crying. I should be crying, surely. I was leaving behind a job that I’d worked hard to get, the friends I’d had for years, and the guy who I’d been turning my life upside down for over the past year. Everything I owned had either been given to Oxfam, put in storage, or was stuck in a single suitcase at my feet. I was leaving my whole life behind.
I should be crying.
But I wasn’t. Instead, for the first time in months, I felt my heart lift. Right now, on this train, he couldn’t hurt me. I was travelling somewhere new, to a place where every single pleasure I found would be one that he couldn’t spoil, couldn’t take away. My mobile phone had been ceremonially thrown out of the window as the train pulled out of Waverley, and now he couldn’t get back in touch, so we could ‘try and be friends’ or ‘to check I was OK’.
I was free.
And although there was a little bit of me which felt ashen and sore, where it had been bright before, the rest of my felt this weird liberation.
I had taken a step into the great unknown. Maybe I’d fall and die. Maybe I’d fly. I didn’t know, but somehow that felt good too.
******************
The cottage – Gran’s cottage - was prettier than I’d expected. It was also smaller, with a weird smell in the lavatory, and doorframes that I kept bumping my head on. There was no mobile reception anywhere, and the garden was an alarming tangle of thorns that left me scratched and bleeding when I tried to investigate it.
The carpets were of a lurid seventies design, but there were a few nice pieces of furniture, although I couldn’t find a bed I’d be prepared to sleep in. There was some unpleasant mould in the kitchen, and the white goods looked like they were straight out of 1983.
The first night, I camped out in the lounge, using a bed mat and a sleeping bag. Not ideal, but it seemed the safest room in the house. I left a window open, and as I lay there, I realized I could smell lavender. I hadn’t noticed any in the garden before.
******************
My first week there went quickly enough. I explored the village, examined the bus timetable and the somewhat depressing two buses per day, and bought a bag full of supplies from the village shop. I came back in the late afternoon, and unpacked the shopping in the kitchen - milk, bread, cereal, pasta. I fiddled briefly with Gran's old transistor radio, but it was erratic, shifting from 'fine' to 'static' and occasionally seemed to jump to another station, which had some kind of discussion programme that I couldn't quite make out on it.
I managed to make it into Cambridge for a day, and wandered around the churches and colleges, trying not to look too much like a tourist. I got a new mobile phone (and managed to not give into the temptation to text him. I repeated 'he hasn't even thought about you' like a mantra), and wandered around John Lewis trying to work out what kind of furniture I needed.
I spent a day cleaning out the kitchen, until I was coated in dirt and covered with sweat, which was, of course, the moment that my new (reasonably attractive) neighbour decided to knock on the door to introduce himself. We chatted for a while, but after he left I found, much to my irritation, that my brain seemed to be drifting back to the other, the man I had left behind in Edinburgh.
I swore to myself. Why the hell was I comparing the first man to be nice to me in an age to him? What was the point in that? And where was the bloody lavender in the garden? It seemed to be entirely filling up my nostrils.
I went to bed early that night, crashed out in the living room again, but I couldn't sleep well. I woke up three times, sick and sweaty, from bad dreams I couldn't quite remember. The third time it felt as if I couldn't breathe, as if something was squeezing at my throat.
******************
There was no lavender in the garden. I spent two days hunting for it. There was no bloody lavender. Neither was there lavender out the front of the house, or in any of my neighbour's gardens
In the evening of the second day I stood in the kitchen and poured myself a stiff drink. I knew how strong the scent of lavender was in the house. I didn't know where it came from.
I then spent the next day bleaching every surface until I felt light headed just being inside and then went for a walk. I called my mother, called my best friend, Sophie, in Edinburgh and came back home to a house that didn't smell of lavender. The radio worked all evening, and I managed to clear out the smallest of the upstairs bedrooms, and set up my bed mat there, along with a couple of small prints that I'd picked up in Cambridge stacked against the wall.
I even looked through the local newspaper and circled a couple of jobs meaningfully. I didn't need to work immediately, but I didn't really want to live off my inheritance fund forever. I was moving forward. I was starting anew. I was going to make this work.
******************
The next morning I woke up at 9 am. My phone was beeping. I had a text message.
And suddenly it was as if the last three weeks had just melted away. I hadn't made any progress. I hadn't made a new start. All I'd done was run away to some stupid cottage in the middle of nowhere. I had no plans here, no future. I'd been an idiot and I'd run away from the man I loved more than anything and at that moment I just wanted to go back.
It didn't matter that he was married. It didn't matter that he'd never leave his wife. I'd always know that anyway. What mattered was that what we had when we were together was real, was precious, and at that moment it didn't feel as if I'd ever feel that again without him.
It was then that I noticed how strong the scent of lavender was. Stronger than it ever had been before, almost suffocating. I couldn't breathe.
I stood up. Almost immediately I sat down again. I couldn't breathe properly. It felt as if something were clutching at my neck. I couldn't tell what it was, but I couldn't breathe.
Images flashed before my eyes. I was with the man I loved. I could feel his arms around me, taste his lips. I opened my eyes. It wasn't him. It wasn't. It was someone else, although every feeling I had for this stranger matched the feelings for the man I had left behind in Edinburgh.
I couldn't breathe.
Shit.
I really couldn't breathe.
There was something round my throat, something pulling tight. It felt rough, constricting and I couldn't breathe.
I tried to scream, but all that would come out was a croak. I tried to stand, but I couldn't.
The last thing that I remember thinking before I passed out was that I really didn't think this was very fair. I was dying, and I hadn't even had a chance to pick out new wallpaper.
******************
I woke up on the floor. I was still alive, but my throat hurt like hell, and when I peered into a mirror it was purple with bruises.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't normal.
And this wasn't something I was going to be able to ignore.
What was the point? He could say “I’m sorry,” again, because he was sorry. Genuinely and truly. I could smile, forcedly, and say “it’s OK,” when it wasn’t at all, but what the hell else was I meant to say? I mean, he’d always been honest enough with me. Honest about his wife, honest about not wanting to leave her. I was the one who hadn’t been honest.
And I was sick of lying. So, I didn’t say goodbye.
I sat on the train as it pulled out of Edinburgh and was surprised to discover that I wasn’t crying. I should be crying, surely. I was leaving behind a job that I’d worked hard to get, the friends I’d had for years, and the guy who I’d been turning my life upside down for over the past year. Everything I owned had either been given to Oxfam, put in storage, or was stuck in a single suitcase at my feet. I was leaving my whole life behind.
I should be crying.
But I wasn’t. Instead, for the first time in months, I felt my heart lift. Right now, on this train, he couldn’t hurt me. I was travelling somewhere new, to a place where every single pleasure I found would be one that he couldn’t spoil, couldn’t take away. My mobile phone had been ceremonially thrown out of the window as the train pulled out of Waverley, and now he couldn’t get back in touch, so we could ‘try and be friends’ or ‘to check I was OK’.
I was free.
And although there was a little bit of me which felt ashen and sore, where it had been bright before, the rest of my felt this weird liberation.
I had taken a step into the great unknown. Maybe I’d fall and die. Maybe I’d fly. I didn’t know, but somehow that felt good too.
The cottage – Gran’s cottage - was prettier than I’d expected. It was also smaller, with a weird smell in the lavatory, and doorframes that I kept bumping my head on. There was no mobile reception anywhere, and the garden was an alarming tangle of thorns that left me scratched and bleeding when I tried to investigate it.
The carpets were of a lurid seventies design, but there were a few nice pieces of furniture, although I couldn’t find a bed I’d be prepared to sleep in. There was some unpleasant mould in the kitchen, and the white goods looked like they were straight out of 1983.
The first night, I camped out in the lounge, using a bed mat and a sleeping bag. Not ideal, but it seemed the safest room in the house. I left a window open, and as I lay there, I realized I could smell lavender. I hadn’t noticed any in the garden before.
My first week there went quickly enough. I explored the village, examined the bus timetable and the somewhat depressing two buses per day, and bought a bag full of supplies from the village shop. I came back in the late afternoon, and unpacked the shopping in the kitchen - milk, bread, cereal, pasta. I fiddled briefly with Gran's old transistor radio, but it was erratic, shifting from 'fine' to 'static' and occasionally seemed to jump to another station, which had some kind of discussion programme that I couldn't quite make out on it.
I managed to make it into Cambridge for a day, and wandered around the churches and colleges, trying not to look too much like a tourist. I got a new mobile phone (and managed to not give into the temptation to text him. I repeated 'he hasn't even thought about you' like a mantra), and wandered around John Lewis trying to work out what kind of furniture I needed.
I spent a day cleaning out the kitchen, until I was coated in dirt and covered with sweat, which was, of course, the moment that my new (reasonably attractive) neighbour decided to knock on the door to introduce himself. We chatted for a while, but after he left I found, much to my irritation, that my brain seemed to be drifting back to the other, the man I had left behind in Edinburgh.
I swore to myself. Why the hell was I comparing the first man to be nice to me in an age to him? What was the point in that? And where was the bloody lavender in the garden? It seemed to be entirely filling up my nostrils.
I went to bed early that night, crashed out in the living room again, but I couldn't sleep well. I woke up three times, sick and sweaty, from bad dreams I couldn't quite remember. The third time it felt as if I couldn't breathe, as if something was squeezing at my throat.
There was no lavender in the garden. I spent two days hunting for it. There was no bloody lavender. Neither was there lavender out the front of the house, or in any of my neighbour's gardens
In the evening of the second day I stood in the kitchen and poured myself a stiff drink. I knew how strong the scent of lavender was in the house. I didn't know where it came from.
I then spent the next day bleaching every surface until I felt light headed just being inside and then went for a walk. I called my mother, called my best friend, Sophie, in Edinburgh and came back home to a house that didn't smell of lavender. The radio worked all evening, and I managed to clear out the smallest of the upstairs bedrooms, and set up my bed mat there, along with a couple of small prints that I'd picked up in Cambridge stacked against the wall.
I even looked through the local newspaper and circled a couple of jobs meaningfully. I didn't need to work immediately, but I didn't really want to live off my inheritance fund forever. I was moving forward. I was starting anew. I was going to make this work.
The next morning I woke up at 9 am. My phone was beeping. I had a text message.
- Hey you. Just wanted to check you were OK. You left really suddenly.
And suddenly it was as if the last three weeks had just melted away. I hadn't made any progress. I hadn't made a new start. All I'd done was run away to some stupid cottage in the middle of nowhere. I had no plans here, no future. I'd been an idiot and I'd run away from the man I loved more than anything and at that moment I just wanted to go back.
It didn't matter that he was married. It didn't matter that he'd never leave his wife. I'd always know that anyway. What mattered was that what we had when we were together was real, was precious, and at that moment it didn't feel as if I'd ever feel that again without him.
It was then that I noticed how strong the scent of lavender was. Stronger than it ever had been before, almost suffocating. I couldn't breathe.
I stood up. Almost immediately I sat down again. I couldn't breathe properly. It felt as if something were clutching at my neck. I couldn't tell what it was, but I couldn't breathe.
Images flashed before my eyes. I was with the man I loved. I could feel his arms around me, taste his lips. I opened my eyes. It wasn't him. It wasn't. It was someone else, although every feeling I had for this stranger matched the feelings for the man I had left behind in Edinburgh.
I couldn't breathe.
Shit.
I really couldn't breathe.
There was something round my throat, something pulling tight. It felt rough, constricting and I couldn't breathe.
I tried to scream, but all that would come out was a croak. I tried to stand, but I couldn't.
The last thing that I remember thinking before I passed out was that I really didn't think this was very fair. I was dying, and I hadn't even had a chance to pick out new wallpaper.
I woke up on the floor. I was still alive, but my throat hurt like hell, and when I peered into a mirror it was purple with bruises.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't normal.
And this wasn't something I was going to be able to ignore.
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no subject
Date: 2009-08-31 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-31 07:38 pm (UTC):-p
Hmm.
Date: 2009-09-01 08:35 am (UTC)Re: Hmm.
Date: 2009-09-01 08:44 am (UTC)I'm still faffing as to which domain to base in, which I know I need to resolve.
Re: Hmm.
Date: 2009-09-01 08:59 am (UTC)I have no real preference at the minute - either one has what I need for the character.
Re: Hmm.
Date: 2009-09-01 05:56 pm (UTC)Re: Hmm.
Date: 2009-09-01 06:59 pm (UTC)(OK...so it doesn't make much sense when I think about it either. I think I just blanked the existence of Cambridgeshire)
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 08:53 am (UTC)