2.

2. Discovering her1

I found her walking home. She walked out of the store with the usual groceries in her hand – bread, milk, biscuits, fruit. She threw away the receipt and pulled out of the bag a chocolate bar. Snickers. Peanuts, caramel, nougat, and chocolate. She stopped to unwrap it, threw the wrapper away, and took a bite before she’d even started walking again. She took a second bite, finding herself two fifths of the way through the bar, when she felt the need to pull her jumper further down. She was conscious how the little boy across the road was watching her as she crossed the street, and his nine-year-old eyes said it all: I never want to be like that.2

It was at that moment she stopped in the middle of number seven’s driveway and looked at the chocolate bar. Then she looked up at the streetlight, as if it knew something she didn’t. It seemed to speak to her, and she understood it just as she had that little boy. Her money had not bought it. She had no permission to buy it. She didn’t need it. She took a final small bite, savouring it, and threw the rest in the hedge.3

The walk home that day took longer than usual. She crossed the road again so that she could add an extra few metres to her journey. Time to be alone, she thought, was what she needed. Time away from the planet that she’d been forced to play on, pretending to be some form of human. She never felt human, not as she once did. It was a lie now, a masquerade others were selfishly oblivious to. Yet never oblivious enough. She was never alone, despite her loneliness. Judgement, judgement, judgement. She felt it shivering in her very bones, hidden in there with the cold of the British winter.4

She arrived back at her house and stood outside for a few moments, staring at the door. She saw movement, and knocked. Through the hazy glass she saw the figure hesitate on its way up the stairs, then slowly turn back and open the door.5

“Get lost?”6

She ignored the comment and closed the door behind her, taking off her shoes with her feet and leaving them at the foot of the staircase. 7

“Did you enjoy the cold then?”8

“Of course.” She said, unsure herself whether the sarcasm was really a truth in disguise. She contemplated this as she walked into the kitchen and took everything out of the carrier bag, throwing it away. After putting the milk and fruit in their respective places, she left the biscuits next to the bread on the counter and added the change in coins to the arrangement.9

“I’m going to shower now.” She announced this to nobody in particular, and didn’t listen for a response. It seemed necessary to remind others that she was still in the house. Vital, in fact, because it meant she would be allowed some glorious freedom while imprisoning herself. It was the best comfort she knew, and cherished each moment, knowing how rare an occurrence those uninterrupted moments were in the day, only achieved by the sound of a shower behind the door.10

She picked up her pyjamas and underwear and sat in the bathroom, her back against the door. I could almost feel the air she exhaled in the sigh then, from so deep within her it was amazing it was not lost. She closed her eyes and rested her hair against the door behind her. When she opened them again, she blinked harshly, as if unaware of where she was, or how she got there. She stood and turned on the light, illuminating the room around her, stealing the darkness from the objects around her. “Well done, genius!” She muttered under her breath, her annoyance breaking through the silence of the room. She reached forward and flushed the toilet, waited a moment, and switched on the shower. She undressed slowly only then, as if there were a camera hidden in the room, scrutinising her as she did it. She looked like a child, new to the experience, and it was all I could do not to reach out to help her, teach her how to take the jeans off more easily, both legs at the same time. I knew she wouldn’t accept it, and pay no attention. She would never see me. I’d yet to learn to cope with that. I was as new to this as she was.11

She got into the shower and simply stood. The soap remained unused, the face wash was abandoned, the shampoo never even glanced at. She stood. Just then it felt as though she was guiding my hands over her body as she did so – feeling the grooves of her skin, counting the rolls of her stomach, defining the curves of her legs. Each movement was deliberate. She looked at her arm, staring at a graze on it. She moved it out of the water and looked down. Avoiding the sight of her stomach as much she could, she looked at her thighs.12

Had I been more than a whisp, my blood may have run cold with pity, love, and shock.13

I found myself examining her thighs then, too. Written in red were words. Short words, big meanings. Fat. Ugly. Stop. Alone. Help. They were not deep, they were not physically hurting her, I knew – but her eyes froze over and she nodded, eyes affixed to the statements. She had labelled herself. She believed every word. 14

Suddenly, she was pulled out of her daze as she managed to slip. She didn’t pick herself up, but stayed in that awkward position in the bath-shower convertible, and spread her legs out, the water hitting where her thighs spoke for her. She closed her eyes and brought each hand to its opposite shoulder, covering herself awkwardly. I wanted to turn away, but I was stuck there, transfixed. I was in awe of this girl, who had so suddenly turned into a sacrifice in her own bathtub, complete with final resting position and release of blood. I was in awe of her the same way we cannot help to watch the sick patients as we sit in hospital waiting rooms, the same way we stare at people being removed from car wrecks onto stretchers into ambulances.15

I reminded myself what a sick, sick world it was.16

There was a knock at the door.17

“The water bill’s going to be sky high!” A voice shouted, loud enough to break through our respective reveries, leaving us with a sense of Armageddon I knew we shared. Words weren’t needed, written in blood or whispered in darkness.18