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Monthly Archives: July 2014

Robinson Cursed

I wake up everyday, to blue skies and sunshine. This island doesn’t know the meaning of bad weather.
It helps to wake up to light every day, unlike England – dark, gloomy and brooding, always making my moods worse.

Mother must be crying everyday – I feel a pang of guilt at the thought. I doubt my Father is crying, though he must feel bad – I think. Selena and Brian too. They must think of me…but I think that their thoughts are spurred by the way in which I’ve disappeared – and less to do with me, myself.

After all, in all the time that I was there, all I ever heard them do was complain about how shiftless I was or how downcast or how pessimistic. What is that new-fangled saying? My glass is always half empty.

Over the years, I tired of it. It’s hard enough being me, it’s hard enough waking up and going through each day and the cumbersome waltzes human society puts in place – but add to that the crushing expectation of having to be like that Pollyanna woman all that time?

When I heard of the ship leaving, I knew this was my chance. I bribed the captain and told him to tell everyone I was lost in a pirate skirmish. When we landed here, his crew helped knock up a house and a garden for fresh vegetables, left me with supplies and a flare kit – and left.

A year later, the captain came by – to check on me. And with him came new books, new supplies and more. I’ve willed my estate in Brazil to him as payment. And his son started the tradition this year.

I’ve been here 4 years. And I haven’t regretted it once.
I wake up, I tend my garden, I read my books, I write. I walk around the island four or five times a day.
No one accuses me of being a fusspot. Or a pessimist. Or unhumourous. Or uncouth.

Here, I am perfect.

 
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Posted by on July 28, 2014 in Fiction

 

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Rules of the game

It started like any other argument. I was being flippant, careless with words and saying things that I didn’t mean, that I thought would be funny.
And he was being over-analytical, obsessing over each word and its hidden meanings because he’d gotten so used to that, so used to assuming there must be more behind the puffs of hot air that human beings emitted without thinking.
And all of a sudden, we were in the middle of a maelstrom.
He was screaming. As his voice rose, so did my temper.
I started freezing into stubbornness, its twin sister righteousness welcoming me with open arms. I had a right to have an opinion, even if it was wrong by everyone else’s standards.
He started castigation and then taunting, two tried and tested tools in his arsenal.
I responded with icy disdain and told him to stick his libertarian views where the free-ranging sun didn’t shine.
He said I was the reason children were starving. I told him it was karma, it wasn’t like I was eating their share.
It was the usual fight. The usual corners. And our usual routine.

And just like that, the game changed.
He raised a hand and hit me.
And even though, truth be told, this wasn’t even the first time – this time it felt different.
It felt like he meant it. It felt mean.
It felt…like it was actually tearing my face apart?
I looked down. There was blood trickling down my shirt. I just kept looking.
He’d cut me with a blade. And sliced my cheek open.

I stared at him. He stared at the blood and then his hands.
And then told me it was my fault. I was too negative. I was too strident. I pushed him into it.
I was too full of myself. Too full of hate. I always thought everyone was stupider than me. I always made him feel small. I always did this. And that. And other things too.

I was still staring at him. My lips seemed welded together. I couldn’t speak.
My cheek burned, blood dripping down.
Was there any point speaking? All the words hovered around us like moths.
Could we even go back from this?
If he started cutting me and I retaliated, what would be left of us?
There’d be no kiss and make up now.
There was no way backward.
There was just the blood on the floor, a reminder of how he’d suddenly changed the rules.
There was just forward, without each other.

I grabbed a towel and held it to my face, staunching the blood.
He stared at me. I stared back.
I picked up my bag and left for the hospital.
They would stitch up my cheek.
My heart, however, was another matter.

 
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Posted by on July 25, 2014 in Fiction

 

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