Goodbye

“Megan, come and meet your new foster parents.”

I crept from behind the doorframe, panic rising within me. It couldn’t be my turn. Not yet. A middle aged couple stood before me. Normal, at first glance. They both had matching smiles plastered onto their faces, just like all the hopeful couples who came by the place in search for a new piece to add to their incomplete collection. Upon closer inspection – with my head lifted just an inch – I examined the man’s rough fingertips: bruised, damaged. A sign of hard work – possible bravery. The woman stood beside him, the violet velvet sleeve of her coat not quite touching his - keeping a distance she felt would be appropriate, close enough to show their united front, to hide the conflict and disagreement that went on behind closed doors. A pang of guilt shot through me like the raindrops striking at the window. I watched the children leaning on the doorframe as if it were all they had – their, our, last form of protection. And it was. Without it, we wouldn’t have a home; we wouldn’t have our own room with a pillow to cry into or toys to punch when the frustration got too much. Without this place, we wouldn’t have each other; we wouldn’t have to roll our eyes over the cracks in the floor when asked about our family. We wouldn’t feel the tension rising inside as the memories flowed back, blurry images of our actual parents. Months ago the screams would echo in my mind as I fought to sleep at night. Being here, things had gotten better.

Tears tore from my eyes as I dragged a single suitcase behind me. All I had to show for seven years of my life. The rest glimmered inside of me like the glazed looks of my eighteen brothers and sisters. Some waved, others hung their heads to the floor, puddles forming below them. I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t quite come out.

“I’ll miss you.” 

Change

Stomach tingling, excitement whirled inside of me. His hands felt firm on my waist. Firm, yet safe somehow. Deep hazel eyes glared into mine. They twinkled like the flashes of the spectator’s cameras, all waiting for the perfect shot. I didn’t look at them – couldn’t take my eyes off of his. His lips parted into a crooked smile and I felt my cheeks flush crimson as he held me close. My head fit into his chest and, in that moment, nothing else seemed to matter. I forgot about the looming coursework and jobs applications. I forgot about trying to balance two jobs in a desperate attempt to dig up money to pay the rent. I forgot about the never-ending questions and countless decisions I was forced to make. His familiar scent lingered on my skin long after we’d finished dancing.

***

He still smelt the same, a faint mix of vanilla and autumn leaves. Wrinkles were carved into his face, each telling a different story, a new tale – one I’d never been a part of. His eyes flashed through mine, but they didn’t look at me the way they used too. The longing was gone. He just passed by, cane tapping the ground like his dancing shoes used to all those years ago. A pang struck at my heart. I missed those days. But, I walked on, syncing the tapping of my own walking stick with his. Time changes everything.   

Perspective

(Her)

Damn you thighs. I tried hovering my legs above the ground slightly. Anything to make them look thinner. Anything to stop them from expanding the way they always seemed to, anything to stop the repulsive fat from spilling over onto the bench of the bus stop. As I caught the crimson stain on my faded jeans, I watched it grow bigger before my very eyes, just like the insecurity, the self-consciousness that invaded me every day, strangled my happiness, trapped my freedom. My hand found a rip in the denim, shielding my pale skin from the autumn wind. Countless cars were at a standstill on the road before me – rush hour, all the more pairs of eyes, watching, staring, judging. I made an attempt to flatten out my hair, feeling the harsh knots as my fingers got stuck in the curls. As I stood up to check the time the next bus was coming, I made sure to suck in my stomach as far as it would possibly go. It never went in far enough. Never as far as the other girls. I envied their flat stomachs, their effortless abs. I noticed a boy about my age sitting at the next bench over. Feeling his eyes pore through me, I sat back down again. Cheeks burning, palms dampening, I ignored his gaze, wishing more than anything that he’d stop staring. He didn’t. I could hear the judgemental thoughts spinning around his mind; feel the disbelief in his eyes. I brought my hand to my face, rubbing my eye as if to force back the tears that wanted ever so desperately to dampen my cheeks. My bare eyelashes fluttered - I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Ashamed, I hung my head, going over every flaw, every slight imperfection, jabbing an agonisingly large hole through my already broken heart.

(Him)

Car honks exploded from drivers that grew more and more frustrated at the lack of movement on the road. I waited for the bus, tapping my foot on the ground to count the seconds that went by. She was the only other person at the bus stop. It was her shoes I saw first – original, quirky. As she stood up, I eyed her full figure. A yawn escaped my mouth and tears blurred my vision. As I blinked them away, I couldn’t help but stare. She was beautiful. The lack of colour in her clothes was such a contrast to her pale face, her fair skin. It dazzled in the late afternoon sunlight. She sat back down and my eyes followed the line of her hips as I imagined the curves underneath the black leather jacket she wore. She looked down as if in discomfort, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Not yet. My gaze got lost in her curls, each strand of her chestnut hair hiding a different secret. She looked like a girl who had many secrets, little things locked up inside – things she never told anybody. The lack of makeup on her face was surprising, yet refreshing. She stood out from the girls with carrot-like skin and eyes that were painted so black they looked burnt. She’d stand out anyway. There was a sense of uniqueness about her, something that made me desperate to initiate conversation, but something that trapped the words in my throat at the same time. Eyeing her jeans, I admired the rips and tears – they symbolised adventure, spontaneity. As I watched on, I could feel her trembling. The slight glimmer of a single teardrop forming in her eyes caused mine to find the ground again. She didn’t look at herself with pride. And, for just a brief second, I was overwhelmed with the wish that she could one day see herself the very same way I saw her. 

Promises

You can do anything, my father used to tell me. He’d tell me the world was in my hands, that I could conquer anything. He believed in me like no one else ever could.

Merry Christmas Chloe, he said as he leaned forward to hand me the modest black box. As the lid came off, I gasped, mesmerised by the way the necklace glimmered, reflecting the thin speck of winter sun shining through the window. The chain held a small globe as its proud pendant, the whole world right there, wrapped around my very neck. Joy radiated from him as he watched me admiring the gift, overwhelmed, inspired.

***

Lights flashed, machines beeped, my father’s limp body drowned in the sterile white sheets. I held his hand as the doctors forced countless medicines down his throat. Each ounce of hope died away as I overheard their conversations, caught their shaking heads, hanging them in shame. I turned to my father, who reached out to stroke my tear stained cheeks, a weak smile lingering on his lips. You have to promise me something, he said. I looked up expectantly. Promise me when something doesn’t go right, you’ll keep trying. A single tear ran down my cheek as I waited for him to continue.  Great things will happen for you Chloe, work hard, okay? I could only nod, tears streaming down my cheeks, desperate gasps for air strangling my throat.

I didn’t talk to anyone at the funeral. I couldn’t bear the apologies, the fake regards and wishes. Ignoring every word the priest uttered, I ran my fingers over the necklace, the cold feel of the chain matching that of my icy heart. Long after the guests had left, I knelt by the grave, scraping my fingers through the soil I’d dampened with my tears. It took every ounce of courage inside of me to stop crying, to put on a brave face and pretend the strength was genuine. I promise Daddy.  

Adventure

            

Plates rattled as they were stacked in the corner, piling up like the unbearable hours of my shifts, more and more every week. I tied the apron around my waist with a sigh, pulling my hair back into the same ponytail I’d had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. I stacked the plates and ignored the yelling, trying to block out the countless orders – the same cups of coffee with no milk, the same toasts with little butter and extra ham. Sneaking to the back of the restaurant, I pretended to be grabbing something I needed, reaching for the small jar buried at the bottom of my bag. I dropped in the morning’s modest collection of coins. The tinkle as they collided with the glass was music to my ears, the best sound I’d heard all day. I crossed my fingers for generosity, for a small pile of coins waiting on the receipt as I cleared the table. We’re getting there, I thought to myself, eyeing the bronze coins that had barely filled up a quarter of the jar. I watched them glimmer, knowing that it would happen someday. Dreams could come true.

“Nicole, get out here, you’ve got customers!” Deep breath, fake smile, knuckles holding onto the plastic pen and notebook so hard they turned a crimson colour – like the salami sandwiches, a popular favourite.

Golden coins caught my eye as I made my way to the table, longing for each one to be mine, for each one to double, to triple, to fill up ten of my humble glass jars. Table 35. Teenagers. No tendency to tip. Great. Glancing at his shirt, I noticed the flag drawn onto the back. Australia. The one place I’d always dreamed of going. I tried to avoid coughing, struggling for air, strangled by the sickly smell of cheap coffee mixed with the cigarette smoke drifting in from outside. I kept my coughing in, kept it all locked up inside, just like the emotions, the misery, the depression, the agony of spending each and every single day trapped in the same cafe, waiting on the same tables, in the same small town with the same provincial people. I longed to escape, to just pack up some things and leave for a while – clear my head. I longed to try something new, meet a new person, taste some new food. I longed to dance with the African tribes and to swim with sharks in Greece. I longed to explore the rainforests in South America and to gaze endlessly at mountains in Alaska. I longed to get in the car and just drive, throw the map away and follow the signs, choosing the best, most tempting town name and heading that way. I wished for a change, to wake up not knowing what will happen, not knowing where I’ll end up. I longed for a miracle to come along and fill up my glass jar until it overflowed with passion, with excitement, with adventure. But, instead, I drew in a deep breath and plastered the same superficial smile on my face, a painful pang striking at my aching heart.

“What can I get you?”

Stranger

They sat next to each other on the train, still pretending to be strangers. Her deep emerald green eyes darted over to his seat every few seconds, while he kept his firmly locked on the window, trying to admire the scenic winter view. Raindrops slid down the window, disappearing like their memories, like their hopes, their plans, their dreams. She adjusted her coat, shivering at the thought of the empty train, countless seats around and yet he chose to sit right opposite her. He must not have noticed, she thought. He had. A feeling of nostalgia exploded inside of her as she thought of the picnic, the one they’d had for their very first date. She’d brought sandwiches, he’d made pie. They threw their heads back in laughter as the spring birds sang for their passion. Everything was so simple back then. The whistle of the speeding train snapped her back into focus. She avoided his eyes, the desperation inside of her almost too much to bear. He stole a glance at her slim figure, a quick thought flashing through his head – she’d lost weight, a lot of it. He hoped it wasn’t because of the breakup. It was. He remembered their weekly baking sessions – she’d run to the oven and whine when she saw the heads of the cupcakes, burnt, as usual. He’d suggest coating them with layers of vanilla icing. They didn’t taste as bad that way. They hadn’t quite meant to finish the whole tub. It had just happened. She swallowed the lump in her throat and struggled to draw back the tears, memories of the fight flooding her mind. The yells echoed in her head, the insults strangling her heart. She couldn’t remember when things started to go wrong. She couldn’t remember when the spark had begun to sizzle, when it blew out for good. She couldn’t remember when the man she’d once loved with all her heart had become nothing more than a stranger. 

Look around

I took a sip of my coffee, flinching as the drink burned my tongue. My pen clicked against the blank sheet of notebook paper before me, lines and lines of empty space – no inspiration. Countless thoughts spun around in my mind, but I couldn’t string a single sentence together. I glanced around me at the metal tables and chairs of the cafe, various strangers sat doing their own things, thinking their own thoughts. I watched the woman ahead of me, her red hair flaring in the late morning sunlight. She sipped on her drink, ripping off pieces of the second chocolate croissant the waiter had brought her. My eyes flashed over the man next to me, a fairly young man, days old stubble shielding his face. Headphones hid his ears, music blaring so loud even I could hear it. His foot tapped along to the rhythm. I turned to see the mother sitting behind me, holding her two young daughters on her lap. I watched the way she looked at them, planting kisses on their cheeks, staring into their innocent eyes. I gazed at the waiter carrying the trays with such ease. I wondered what must be on his mind, what he must think day after day while he recited the lunch menu. I watched him dance across the patio, flashing a smile at the new customers walking through the door. I averted my eyes, and focused on the single red leaf as it fell from the nearest tree, wavering in the air for a while before dropping to the floor, almost as if it were ready for a change. And, as I watched the world going on around me, I reached forward and took another sip of my coffee, capturing the flavour for as long as possible, letting the inspiration seep through me. Then, I began to write.