“The sadness lasts forever ...”
Girl
Amanda pulls the petals from the
long dead flower
He loves me ... he loves me not
He once loved me ... he loves me ...
knot
Amanda cried a dry tear. Her once radiant blonde hair, now greying and
dull, danced in the dappled rays of a fast fading sunset
The petals floated down stream on
a swollen river, to a distant sea.
The pictures in her embezzled
book danced before her eyes. The yellows
and the blues. The way the colours came
together and played on a mysterious light, just looking at how the colours
worked ... and then really worked. She could not copy the pictures faithfully
and get the exact same copy. The
pictures were painted by a meticulous master; hers would just be a copy of the master’s
work. Amanda wished upon a falling star
that one day she would be a considered by all a ‘master’ and be able to paint
like him.
She closed the book tightly and
returned it to the book’s hiding place. He came thundering upstairs, she heard
him approach long before he arrived. The
harsh light from the landing silhouetted his massive frame. He was breathing deeply, his breath rasped
against the stillness of the night. He bounced Amanda’s bedroom door open,
sweat dripping from his forehead. He wanted his sex. He pulled at the covers of the bed and ripped
them from her. Amanda coward from him. He was possessed. He snatched her
panties off her. She froze. He took what he wanted. She didn’t even flinch ...
just hurry up and do what you have to do ... he pulled out and his sweat dripped
into her eyes and stung. Amanda closed
her legs and tried to maintain what little dignity she left. He smiled and
lightly kissed her forehead.
“Would you like me to read you a
story before you go to sleep?”
“No, I am fine thank you”
He pulled up his trousers and
retied his belt as he left the room
She cried, alone, afraid, staunch.
She would come out of this ‘relationship’
alive and well and together. She would
find a man who cared and was gentle, one that she could return love to ... her
dark days would pass, as all things must, there would be better times and
happier times and she would dance with glee upon his grave once she had out
lived him and he was dead forever
Her pencil lightly flicked across
the page as she copied the picture in the book.
She tried to make the image her own while trying to make it look like
the one in the book. She failed. Amanda was so close to ripping out the page
and throwing it in the bin, already to start again. She knew that no matter how
many times she started again she would never arrive at where she wanted to be
... She was not Vincent van Gogh ... never would be ... never could be ... it
wasn’t going to happen.
She was Amanda Norris ...
battered and abused before she had a memory ... she could paint and draw a
little ... people commented that her pictures where good and she knew they were
not just saying that. She had won second
prize in a local artists competition, her prize was a small box of oil paints
and two cheap brushes. She would use them once she had saved up for a proper
canvas and had a good idea for a painting.
Amanda wished her Dad was
dead. It was a stupid wish to make as
her real Father had died before she was even born; her mother had a crumpled
photograph of him in her handbag. Amanda knew her Mum still loved her Father,
why else would she have kept the picture? He was pictured sitting on a large
rock next to a lake or a river or something. In the black & white image he was smiling
and you could see his socks with sandals, he looked a nice man. The image was creased from being unfolded and
closed many times, the corners were now rounded and the soft paper had abandoned
the plastic of the photograph a little bit.
Amanda thought his name was Fred but she didn’t know for sure. Her
Mother never spoke of him. Amanda occasionally
stole a look at the photograph when she knew she would not be caught and get
into trouble. She wished her Dad was
dead. She was sad that her Farther was dead.
It was Christmas Eve, a wintery
knight. They went to church. Gathered
with the many and sung the familiar tunes that had been on the radio for weeks
before. A large white candle held the dancing
flame and created the demonic shadows that provoked the sinister along the
wall. Amanda focused on the shapes of
the shadow as they danced her across the floor and let the vicar’s words mist
into the background.
Her Dad sat at the end of the pew
with his long legs outstretched, blocking any chance of escape. His best coat collar pulled up round his neck
as he snored lightly, the insignificant smell of whiskey wept from his every
pour. Her Mother in her finest hat gripped the pew in front for balance with
one hand while she held the hymn book open with the other so both her girls
could read and sing. Cestral kept her
wondering eye on the boy in the front row of the choir. He had already noticed her. He winked, she
blushed, he smiled acknowledgement.
Amanda was embarrassed of her family.
Amanda looked at the fantastical tree with the charlatan presents
wrapped perfectly underneath. She wondered
what was inside each one. She knew they would just be empty boxes.
Cestral opened her present as her
mother opened another bottle. The box
had a crimson bow tied perfectly on it and tissue paper inside protected the
delicate form of a pair of ballet shoes.
There had never been a more perfect gift. Cestral held the shoes to her
fast developing bosom and thanked both her Mother and her Father. A tear of joy ran down her cheek and an
infectious smile raced around the room.
Her Father cracked a nut in celebration and threw the broken shells into
the fire. Amanda opened her gift wrapped
in plain brown paper. She deciphered the
Chinese writing on the side of the box; it gave the clue that they loved
Cestral more than her. Five waxy
pencils, a halve sister, the hoax of Christmas.
She thanked her Mother and her Dad. She forced a tear of joy. She just wanted the day to be over and him to
be dead.
He came at her again in the
middle of the night. The fight was long gone
from Amanda. It was easier to let him in than to block the entrance. He took what he wanted and left. She loved
her Father, she hated her Dad ... at least she cared.
The light wrap on the door was
enough to signal the customary response.
Amanda’s Mother opened the door to the two Christian boys with smart
suits, black bicycles and the bitter wind.
“Do you have time to discuss
God”?
“That word shall not be spoken in this house
... now be off with you both or I shall set the dog on you.” Amanda knew this was not quite true because
they did not have a dog ... they did not have a god either!
The boys turned on their heels,
pushed their bicycles quickly down the path and headed towards Redemption.
The greys and blues just came to
her. The colours danced in front of her
eyes. They mixed and pulled so many more
colours from each other that were not there before. The very act of mixing of two colours and the
result was neither and yet different amazed Amanda. The process fascinated her
to the point of distraction. “So orange
was just yellow and red mixed” ... more red than yellow gave a redder orange.
The deft brush moved lightly
across the canvas leaving a dark line along the stem of the flowers Amanda was
painting. A ‘still life’, Amanda was perplexed over the meaning of the phrase.
The words ‘still life’ buzzed around her head, an oxymoron was a complicated
idea like a tiger eating his own tail, the stripes came full circle. Amanda stopped painting and looked at her
open hand, knuckles rubbed red with turpentine, paint smeared and very much a
part of her. Her cheap watch had stopped at 11.34 a while ago. Amanda just used
the watch strap to mark where her hand stopped and her arm started. This hand would paint so many pictures. It
would guide the brush to shade and develop negative space. She realized that there was no line around it
to say where the flesh stopped and the rest of the world began. She scrubbed
out the fresh line with gesso and gusto.
She wanted this to be her best painting ever,
yet. It did not matter about the amount of time she spent on it, how many
mistakes she made and then put right better than before or whether or not she
sold it, not even if she won a prize with it.
This painting was to be for her.
Not to hang on a wall. Not to be judged by others. Not to be put in a portfolio for future
reference. Just to be.
Amanda knew that she was way down the list of ‘loved
objects’ as far as her mother was concerned. 1st was the bottle, 2nd
was the bottle, 3rd was her half sister and Amanda dragged up the
rear with a very poor 4th.
She was always being told she was not good
enough. But this was not the worst bit of her life, not even the abuse, not
now, not after this many times. Amanda had stopped caring or even
counting. He took what he wanted and
she, now, let him ... at least he was quick.
The worst thing about being Amanda was being
‘Amanda’. She wanted to be an artist; she was an artist, but not a very good
one. That was her measure, how she saw
herself. The frustration of wanting to be something that you could never
be. This was her sadness; she could draw
but not like taking a photograph. If you
wanted a photographic representation then just take a photo. She didn’t have
the talent to add to the picture so that anybody could see that it was a
drawing of the object and who had actually drawn it by their style and line
thickness without reading the name in the corner. She was not after the recognition or fame
just to be able paint a picture and for other people to know who it was painted
by.
Her mother crashed up the stairs. Her
inebriation came just before the sound and the sound came after the door whacking
the wall.
“I need more of this” she held out the empty
bottle and pushed a few notes and coins at Amanda.
“Don’t just sit there girl ... go fetch ...
now!”
Her sketch book fell to the floor along with
her pencils. Amanda made a grab to catch
a few before they hit the floor.
“Now means now, not in a bit now!”
Amanda pulled on her coat, collected the money
and disappeared out of the house and into the dark, wet night. Her shoes let in the cold puddle water, her
inadequate coat let in the bitter wind that chased across her small frame ...
her mind raced with the crows flying over cornfields.
He came at her again, in
daylight. She hated it when he took her in the daylight. His big hands were all
over her. Amanda closed her eyes but she
could still see him and the faced he pulled when he ejaculated inside her. She
squirmed and gagged as he pulled of his belt from his trousers and pulled it
around her neck. This was part of the
game he liked to play. Amanda never struggled these days. It was easier to let
him have what he wanted and just let it be over with until the next time. He was hurting her now, this game was getting
rough. He knew better than to leave a
mark on her, he never did. All Amanda’s
scars were insider her head. He tried to
roll her on to her back, his favourite position; he pulled on the belt yanking
her head back towards him. The back of
her head glanced his forehead as he rudely pushed his way in. It knocked him
off balance and he fell from his perch on the kitchen table and onto the cold
hard floor. He went down like a dropped sack
of potatoes and out like a light. Was he just
unconscious or had she actually killed him?
Amanda panicked, she tried to find a pulse on his wrist and then on his
neck like she had seen many times on T.V.
She didn’t know if it was just her not knowing where to look or the fact
that he was dead. If he was just unconscious now was her chance. If he was dead
then it did not matter, she had won. She just had to make it look like an
accident so they couldn’t blame her, but how?
He lay in a foetal position
wrapped around the kitchen table leg. There was no blood coming from him so
there was nothing to clean up and no trace of evidence could be found. She pulled
his belt from around her neck and passed it through the two back loops of his
trousers. She pulled at his belt and his
dead weight, he did not budge. He must
have weighed more than twice what she did. She had seen him put a bathroom
towel under the sideboard to drag it through the house when they had moved
in. She lifted a leg and placed the
‘seaside towel’ underneath it. She
pulled and tried to roll the massive carcass onto the rest of the towel. He gurgled, she danced back in fright. Was he
coming to, was it just air escaping from him or was it his ghost having one
more go at her sanity? With one more
super human effort she managed to get most of his frame on to the towel. She
sat back on her hunches against the kitchen wall sweating and breathing hard.
She rested for a moment. The thought
that Cestral and her Mother would be back on the half past bus from town
pressed her into action. She pulled and
wrenched and tugged. He unwound himself
from around the table and he slide over the flagstone floor, easier once he was
moving. She cracked his head, for good
measure, against the door jamb of the kitchen and heaved him into the
hall. Pulling his dead weight was harder
work on the hall carpet but she could still move him. At the bottom of the
stairs she rolled him again, this time off the towel and positioned him in an
awkward way. She tried to find the
missing pulse, again without any luck.
He was either very dead or his blood pressure had fallen so low that
there was nothing to detect. She put his belt back around his trousers as the
hall clock chimed ‘quarter past’ the hour.
She bent over him and put her arm around his thick neck and squeezed
with all her might. Sharply pulling his head to one side, commando style. She heard the satisfying sound of his neck
snapping. “Well if you weren’t dead
before ... you are now!” she said to the corpse. She replaced the seaside towel, quickly
neatened up any mess making sure the place looked tidy, pulled on her coat and
left the house by the back door. Amanda smiled and waved to the next door
neighbour mowing his grass.
The day of funeral was grey. A
sadness filled the house along with all the people. Amanda did not know many of the people,
relations hoping to be included in the will, neighbours only really interested
in having a good look around their house.
Old people that smelt of piss with flowers and cards of the deepest
sympathy knowing that their turn could soon be next.
Tea and compassion was passed
round while the organisation of the cars and the sitting plan was sorted
out. Amanda was to be in the first car
along with the kith & kin. The big
black Rolls Royce took up much of the width of the lane outside their house
while the hearse took up much of the length.
Amanda sat in the church with him
inside the box centre stage the flowers that sat on top of the box that had
been arraigned in the word ‘Daddy’. A smile washed across Amanda’s face. She had longed for this day. She would saviour every moment. The words to ‘If you're happy and you know
it, clap your hands!’ pranced across her mind.
She threw soil on his coffin. She
smiled as she cried. It was an end, sort
of, a mere punctuation mark on the rest of her life. He would never hurt the
babies she might have. The last
generation and the next, nothing really changes but he would not be
involved. She was here to make sure he
was dead, stayed dead and buried. She
would never visit this place again, she wouldn’t have to, she had the memory
and the knowledge that the weight of six feet of earth would keep him warm and
in his resting place. She hoped he would
be going to somewhere warm, sooner rather than later.
Amanda’s breasts became tender
and her nipples had grown larger and become darker over the last few days.
“Who doesn’t get constipated at one time or another?”
Amanda was sick most mornings now
and she knew that the story was not at an end.
Amanda sat with the large bottle
of vitamin C tablets she had stolen from the bathroom cabinet. She took a good sized handful and washed them
down with orange juice. Another handful;
more than before, another gulp of juice.
She waited, nothing happened. “Maybe in the morning” she said out loud. She emptied the bottle of the pills and
skulled the rest of the OJ just to make certain.
The gin was poured and drunk as
the hot bath was run. Mothers ruin ... how ironic.
Amanda punched herself hard in
the stomach. Not hard enough to do any
real damage. She knew she could not do
this to herself with the full intention of ending one life to save another; she
didn’t want his bastard child to remind her every day of the pain and suffering
she had been through. She lay with her
back on the damp grass with quivering arms outstretched above her, she held the
paver. She knew this was going to hurt. She winced and closed her eyes as she
let the rock fall onto her. The dull pain increased as if she had cut herself
in halve. She cried wet tears. The fast rising welt across her middle stung as
her baby blue nylon jumper touched the fast forming red line. She was not brave enough to do it again. She was not sure she had done it
properly. She was chased by the four
horses of failure, uncertainty, fear and pain.
Amanda sat on the toilet. Her
panties were round her ankles. She held
the paint brush just shy of her vagina. She opened herself and pushed the
wooden handle of the paint brush high insider her. The pain was intense she drew a deep breath
and probed deeper with the paint brush. She gasped for air. Blood covered her hands and her head
spun. She lost consciousness as she
rocked off the toilet seat and fell onto the tiled bathroom floor. She woke to find herself lying in a pool of
her own blood and she was sure she could hear her dead baby cry.
Amanda gave birth to a healthy
baby boy. She named him Vincent. She was
allowed to hold Vincent for a few moments before they took him away forever.
“Never a good idea ... children
having children” the fat bitch of a midwife said as she took Vincent from
Amanda without looking back.
