Something more.

The way to my heart is through a really strong brewed coffee. The fresh comfortable silences that two people share. Being able to blurt out anything to someone and knowing they'll react well. Being seen as predictable. Knowing what the other person will say next, the side of the bed they sleep on and where their heart really lies. Their guilty pleasures, deepest secrets, their past regrets and future endeavours. The sacrifices you'll make for them, and they'll make for you. Hands down. Removing inhibitions, banishing worries and knowing there's no one you'd rather walk over broken glass for. I'm ridiculously happy. The kind of happiness that overly consumes you. It makes your chest tight and your face ache and your pulse race. The sleepless nights and the good morning texts. Having someone in your life that makes everything easier, better, more worthwhile. Being shamelessly soppy and hopelessly happy, and constantly having the biggest grin on your face. 

Electric veins and window panes.

You can't see her properly through that frosted prison-glass, but you know she's crying. A tear cascading down her sculpted cheek, gaining speed as it reaches her jaw. It looks bitter. It's cloudy, blurry, not quite in focus. It has mucky fingerprints all over it, and year-old chewing gum stuck to the  corners of the glass. The silence is deafening. The space between the two figures seems miles; totally endless. As one of them presses their palm to the partition dividing them, the other flinches. It's uneasy and clumsy and the encounter just isn't the same. The space between them is too much, in reality a few inches seems infinite. They don't breathe the same air, or drink the same coffee anymore. Their voices are only met by plastic echoes, their touch is never truly felt, through a thick wall of loneliness. 

Book #9: Room by Emma Donoghue.

(Okay, reminder, this is a week ago in writing, sorry guys.)

It's 12:53 Ibiza time, my head is pulsating with the intensity of the heat, and also, at what I've just finished reading. I feel like I've been deprived of words on this holiday so far, so I'm writing this in my notes and will publish it when I get home on Monday/Tuesday. Tuesday probably, considering our flight lands in Newcastle at around 10pm Monday and I'll have other things to do than rewrite my inner thoughts that are three days stale. So with my up and coming tan lines I've worked many a tiring day to afford, here goes. 

This isn't a book recommendation, I really must say this from the off. This book is like nothing I've ever read before or am unlikely to read again. Gritty is one thing, but this is unbelievable. Emma Donoghue's 'room' has won awards, rightfully so. More so, I imagine, recognised for the content of the narrative than the writing itself, which is kinda sad, but it makes sense. A novel in it's own right, Room is more than that, it's a journey. The writing is exquisitely fresh and unbelievably well thought-out. The perspective in which it is told is comforting and yet makes Emma's writing more perverse than you can ever really comprehend. This story is none other than an art-form frankly. It is so well written that it made me cry, made me sick, and made me laugh. Donoghue combines the naivety of the narration with a sudden realness you absolutely must bring to a story about kidnap. Oh, didn't you know that? I didn't either. I had no idea what Room was about until I opened it on my kindle a few days ago, surrounded by an Ibiza coastline and lots of suntan lotion. So now, as I'm basking in the rays, room is on my mind. I honestly had no idea what this book was about, never mind that it was a piece of fiction so harrowingly considered when it comes to abduction.

A subject matter I would shy away from usually, but I can't say this enough, this book is BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN. It's riveting and shocking and at times, surprisingly it's very funny. I want to rave about it and thrust it into the hands of those around me, just so I can have someone to discuss it with. I felt drained as I finished this book, and understandably so. It kind of breaks your heart and then pieces it back together again. It doesn't need recommending, it doesn't need praise or advertisement, because the writing speaks for itself. 

Departure.

In less than 48 hours, I'll be departing Newcastle airport and arriving in Ibiza. The pilot will announce over the receiver the local time and the temperature outside, and be greeted with a few hundred passengers all cheering happily. Excitement brews. Prospects are all over the place. A week, two weeks? Ten days? All of these people have something in common, a holiday destination. And yet, they'll all have very different holidays. 

A girly holiday is our chosen plan. Betty, Steph, Sarah and myself are ready to hit the white isle for a second battering after last year's drunken antics. This time, with a little bit more money, a year's worth of preparing our livers, and an even more desperate need for a tan. 

This time however, things are different. I'm excited to go away, but there are things pulling my back. Ties I've made. Things I don't want to leave, not even for seven days. Excitement in the air, a tear in my eye and euros in my purse, I'm ready. Well, okay, that's a lie. My suitcase isn't even packed. The flight is Monday afternoon. I literally finished shopping for stuff today. I'm very, very disorganised and it's totally not like me, at all. My camera isn't free of photos, my iPod isn't stocked up with new songs, my money isn't properly sorted. I'm out of sorts. It hasn't quite hit me properly that I'm actually going away. Part of me still thinks it should be January or something. Madness. Let it begin.

Guilty.

I can't help but feel a sense of guilt creeping up behind me at times. I shed a tear for someone other than myself, and immediately, I wonder why. I know why my sadness is felt, but there's something alien about it. Something stolen, wrong somehow. It's like, maybe that person wouldn't be grateful for the tears I shed for them. I mean, it's not like it's the best thing you can receive from someone. A bitterly shed tear. It's pathetic, in one sense. It's criminal. Right now, I feel like every time I agonise on someone else's behalf, I'm committing a crime. Those tears aren't mine to shed, and yet I seem to have some sort of entitlement towards my feeling of upset. It's strange. But hey, what can I say, I'm very strange myself. My chest feels like it's caving inwards today. My emotions are poles apart. I want to smile and cry and punch a wall for how goddamn unfair life is, and yet toast it at the same time. Nothing about life is fair. But sometimes, it tests you, because you can handle it. Well, I'm kind of getting that feeling right now. Nothing we come up against in our lives is too much to get over. We are, as a race, resilient by force, rather than choice. We don't give up. We don't have the luxury of a choice like that. If you're kicked forcefully in the stomach, you get the fuck back on your feet, because you're bloody well good at standing on your feet. If you're tested by something, it's only because you're well equipped to deal with the problem in front of you. I can't even breathe. Just this.

'The Abyss.'

So, this is the piece I originally wrote for my blog, and then frantically deleted, revamped totally, and submitted for my Creative Writing Assignment for Uni. This, as I'm posting now, is the end version. (PS. I just got 65% for this assignment, and I'm very chuffed about it.) This is my favourite piece of writing to date, and for some reason, I cannot explain my attachment to it. It was very difficult to write. Harder to watch it get put under scrutiny. But, that's all over. Here it is.

 

                                    The Abyss.                    

 

‘The abyss looks back.’

 

She knew what that was like. Waking up every single day and resenting each breath that is snatched unwillingly from your lips. A crushing feeling that made your lungs tight and your face sour and blank. She coped, nevertheless. In the darkest places of her mind, were hidden the worst things imaginable, her very own Pandora’s box. For Molly knew what it was like, to look the abyss straight in the eye, to scream into an echoing void, to cry for help and her voice to be muffled. She was trapped. More than that, she was her own prisoner. The sharp corners of her mind, her cranium of torment. When she tried to break out of the never ending cycle that was her life, she was always caught with a fist clutching at her wrist, pulling her back, maintaining her consciousness for now. Then of course, there was Nicky. He was her rock, her crutch, her man-made safety-net. It was as if their ribcages were suitably entwined like an intricate, yet robust spider’s web, keeping them both alive. Most days, Nicky was the only reason she got out of bed, the one constant in her chaos. Blood ran through both their veins in rhythmic parallels.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I walked towards her street. Immediately, I spotted her. Molly sat on the window ledge of Victoria’s B&B, a dated old place. It was a hot day, in the height of summer. She was precariously balanced. Half a bottle of cheap vodka in her left hand, the neck of the bottle clutched between her fist clumsily. She kept taking a swig every so often, but never winced once. In her other hand, between her thumb and forefinger, she held a nail varnish brush. She was painting her toe nails, a mucky black colour. She had her right leg bent, touching her chest so she could access her toes more easily when applying the varnish. Her other leg was stretched out as far as she could, her ankle resting on the outer ledge, with her foot just dangling in mid-air, carelessly. She kept tapping her feet, and her anklet rattled every time. The window behind her was jammed open. The radio was playing ‘Sweet Caroline’ and she sang along to it, badly. Her favourite song. The bottle of nail varnish, cheap stuff and almost dried up with frequent usage, was balanced on the ledge alongside her.

 

Molly was heavily made up, with dark black eyes which made her face appear harsh and frustrated. Hers are the kind of eyes that you never forget. Wondrous, haunting almost. Her fingernails wore the same gaudy black nail varnish, bitten back so far that her fingertips shone red raw. There was very little remaining nail varnish on her fingers. She was totally spaced out, drunk, high. Occasionally she scraped her blonde hair back with one swift motion of her hand. Her hair was lank and messy. She sang along to the radio. As the song reached the chorus, she took another huge swig from the bottle of vodka. The second time, she was too busy singing to the music that she missed her mouth and the vodka spilled down her front. She didn't acknowledge it, that is, if she even noticed. Getting carried away with the music, she stretched her once-bent leg out, withdrawing it from its neat nook in her chest, knocking the nail varnish off the ledge and making her catch the brush on her knee. It left a dirty stripe on her bare leg.

 

“Shit!” she swore too loudly, as the bottle hit the concrete below and smashed.

The chorus of the song returned for one final time, as she took an even bigger swig than before, and sang at the same time. At that moment, she noticed me. I’d been standing just metres away, watching her, a witness to her own little nightmare. Her eyes became fixed on my outline.

“NICKYYYYYYYY!” she droaned, raising her arm, and the vodka bottle in tow, as if she was privately toasting me from her ledge. She got excited. The song was just finishing, lowering the volume to the end of the track. Fading, peacefully away.

“Nicky, where’sya been? I’ve been waitin’ fo’ ya f’rever” she slurred.

As I walked closer, I realised how much of a state she was really in. Her big, brown eyes were starting to roll into the back of her head. Her eyelids were swollen and the dark circles under her eyes made you think she hadn’t slept for a fortnight. I gulped hard, raising my arms all the while moving towards her, ready to catch her if I needed to.

“Nickyyyyyy!” she shouted, now seemingly euphoric at my arrival. A haunting grin was artificially plastered across her face. She clumsily got to her feet, and began to sway drunkenly on the ledge, caught up in the music.

“Shit Molly! What you doing?! Sit down, will you! You’ll break your fucking neck!”

I ran up the flight of stairs and burst into her room, all the while, my pulse vibrated through my eardrums. I fell through the door just to see her swaying on the ledge, her arms outstretched, like a strong gust of wind may catch her and sweep her off her feet at any moment. At that point, I didn’t recognise the song in between the stomach-churning fear and the distraction of her drunken slurs. I froze a moment, fascinated, before grabbing her wrist and pulling her back inside to the safety of her room. She didn’t say anything for a minute, just studied me closely. Like a young child would, all wide-eyed and full of intrigue. She looked at me as if I was the most wondrous thing she’d ever seen.

Molly was wearing the tiniest pair of denim shorts. Light blue, frayed around the legs. I couldn't really make them out properly until she stood up, because she was wearing an over-sized t-shirt that was almost down to her bruised knees. Far too big for her. If I didn't know better, I’d say it was a man’s shirt. It made her look drained, too thin, wobbly. As I grabbed hold of her arm, I noticed the syringe marks. They were raw and puckered, like tiny pin tucks. She’d been scratching at her arms and made them sore. Her eyes couldn't focus, and her heroin and vodka cocktail were pickling her liver more every second. I didn't know what to do. I never did. She caught me looking at her scars, and snatched her arm away, bitterly.

‘Get off me!’
“Right, put some shoes on. We’re going for a walk. You need to sober up.”

“I don’t need to, I am sober.”

I ignored her blatant cries of denial. My nerves were dead to it now. More than anyone, I knew never to trust the words of an addict. No matter how much they prevailed. She followed my lead, and we headed off down the road. I had my arm around her waist, a necessity, rather than a public display of affection. We wandered through town, as I tried my best to divert the attention from my junkie girlfriend. She was a total mess. We got a few funny looks, but I wasn't taking an awful lot of notice.

 

Her paces began to slow as we reached a bridge, and then, suddenly, I saw her eyes light up and her legs begin to strengthen. She broke free from my grasp and seemed to sprint towards the bridge. Once her feet were firmly united with its concrete, Molly came alive. She was euphoric. Deep down I knew it was the effect of her drug cocktail, but part of me wanted to see past that, see the Molly I used to know.

She sat down, very matter-of-factly, on the concrete, shuffled over to the edge and hung her feet over the side. I shouted at her, urging her to get up, my stomach lurching, but she ignored my pleas, so admitting defeat, I joined her. I nervously shuffled to her side, so both of our legs were dangling mid-air, with only the water below and each other for company. It was late afternoon, and it was quiet, peaceful.

Suddenly, Molly spoke.

“What if I jumped?”
“What do you mean?”
“What would you do if I jumped?”
“Um…” I hesitated.
“See. Nothing,” she snapped.
“Well that’s not entirely true, is it?”
“You tell me.”
“Well I don’t want you to jump.”
“I never said I was going to. I said if I did. I said hypothetically, if, right here, right now, there was just me and you, and I jumped, what would you do?” She might be totally messed up, but Molly’s tact and wit were still in full working order.

“I’d jump too.” I realise now that was a crazy thing to say to a girl who was fragile, mentally unstable and under the influence of both alcohol and drugs, but she caught me off guard.

“What?”

Her face almost crumpled at my response. Tears began to form in the crevices of her bloodshot eyes.

“You asked me what I’d do. I’d jump with you.”
“But… but…why?”
She looked increasingly puzzled and upset.
“Just ‘cause I wouldn't know what else to do.”


“Well, I guess I just expected more from you, that’s all.”
“Expected more from me? Are you fucking kidding Moll? Are we really going to do this now?!”

She just stared past me, blank. I knew then, I’d lost more than her gaze. 
“You know what they say, don’t you? If you stare into the abyss…”
She didn't respond to me.
“Don’t ever say you’d jump after me. Ever. Promise?”
“Er, I thought you said this was all hypothetical.”

You had to be matter-of-fact with Molly. There was no room for any more irrationality, sudden reactions or unexpected outbursts. She had all of those stations covered.

“It is.”
“Well then, why does it matter?”
“Because, Nicky. It matters to me.”
“I’m not gonna let you do this.”
“DO what?” she wears an innocent expression, not quite believable. Knowingly smug.
I shook my head, “Don’t patronise me. You know what I mean.”

She laughed sarcastically.

“I love you Molly.”
“Yeah. I know, more’s the pity.”

“Y’know sometimes, I don’t think that’s a defence mechanism, I just think you’re being a bitch.”
“Whatever, just don’t sign your life away on my account.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just because I might be bored with this place, doesn't mean you have to be.”

I refused to dignify that with answer. I saw through her cocky façade, and sometimes, it was just exhausting, being the other player in her constant mind games. I laughed, because, really, what else could I do? She was right, in a way. She was a complete fool, a waster, a junkie. But she was mine. I was blinded by her, and she knew it. I shrugged it off, my shoulders weighted down by such an exhausting responsibility. Just before sundown that day, we headed back. I walked her home to the door of the B&B.

 

“I’m staying the night.”

“No, no, don’t be stupid, you don’t have to do that.”

“”We both know I’m not gonna leave you like this Moll, so don’t patronise me.”

“Fair enough.”

 

I helped her clamber up the stairs, and through her front door, and sat her clumsily on the sofa. She was sobering up and looked totally worn out.

 

“Nicky, will you run me a bath?”

 

I nodded, and did what I was asked. I could hear her shuffling about in the next room, trying to get comfortable. When I came out of the bathroom, she was curled up in a foetal position, with her thumb nail between her teeth, half asleep.

 

“Moll?”

“Hmm,” she groaned.

“I’m just gonna go buy some tabs, I’m dying for a smoke. Sure you’re okay here?”

She looked at me indignantly.

“Yeah, I don’t need babysitting y’know.”

“I’m just checking. I’ll be back in ten.”

I began to walk towards the door when she grabbed my arm. Molly looked at me, her eyes clinging on to the very image of my being almost as tightly as she clutched my wrist with her tiny hands. She pulled me closer in one swift motion and kissed me like she didn't have another second to live. I grinned.

“Wait. I love you, Nicky. ”
“I love you too.”
I laughed, it was just like her. I smiled again, and watched her close the door as she headed into the bathroom.

-------------------------------------

“Molly? Hello? It’s just me, I’m back. Got caught up…I mean, ya wouldn’t believe it, they had no fuckin’ Marlboro lights.”

There was no answer. I could hear her old record player humming, notes drifting under the gap in the bathroom door, along with the very familiar scent of lavender. I smiled to myself, slumped myself in the chair and lit a cigarette while I waited. The sickly-sweet taste of Nicotine seemed to switch a light on in my tired eyes, the taste of relief after a very long day. I must’ve zoned out, because when I looked at my watch again, it was five to nine, and I only had six cigarettes left in the packet. My eyes darted from one side of the apartment to the other. It was dark outside now, and the only light was glaring from the bathroom. I could hear the radio crackling vaguely.

 

“Molly? Moll? You in here? Y’know that bath water will be freezing now…”

 

My voice trailed off as my eyes struggled to become accustomed to the scene in front of me. The radio was still playing. The bath water was discoloured, an almost rainbow effect that would’ve seemed pretty in another light. My throat was tight, I felt like my airways were constricting, and yet, it was undeniable, there was something remarkable about what was in front of me.

Razor blades and exposed veins. The radio skipped and was stuck on a particular line of the song. I was met with a scene of carnage. Blood. And yet, I would come to hate myself for thinking it, but at that moment, she had never looked so beautiful. Her eyes were open. Her pupils blown, dilated. Her wrists slit, her lips a dangerous, lonely shade of blue. They were parted slightly, sleepy and yet happy. Stunning. Peaceful. One of her hands hung loosely over the edge of the bath, the razor blade still in her mucky clutches.

Thoughts twisted in and out of my mind, making my stomach lunge.

It’s funny really. When you lose someone, there’s always an influx of people waiting to lay flowers and say nice things about how loved they were, and all of their positives. But at that moment, it was hatred loitering in my chest. She was a fucking mess, frankly. But she was my mess. The good days, the bad nights, the bitters slurs and the exclamations of adoration at three in the morning when the Methadone was wearing thin and her skin was raw and her nerves were needy and shaky.

She wasn’t fearless, Molly acted out of cowardice. Utterly and completely. It was naïve and selfish and if Molly hadn’t already got there first, I probably would’ve killed her myself for even entertaining such a monstrous thought. At that moment, beneath the anguish, the heartache, the sheer breathlessness, I wanted to cry, but more so, I hated her. From her selfish ways to her absent-minded self-indulgence. Her vanity. Her lust for all the wrong things in life. I hated how I’d sat back and watched such a soulful, passionate girl destroy herself all because I was too proud to admit I couldn’t cope on my own. Who was I kidding? I hated her and I hated myself, because I couldn’t handle her and I should’ve been able to, or at least, I should’ve been brave enough to ask for help when I realised I was in way over my head.

When I saw the razor, and the cuts on Molly’s wrists, I gagged. My stomach flipped, my heart leapt from my chest to my vocal chords and lodged itself there like something unpleasant you just can’t digest. And I knew the real reason for my reaction. Molly wasn’t dead because she’d slit her wrists, or because she drank so much cheap vodka she’d pickled her liver prematurely at 25, or even because she was a junkie who never got the right help. She was dead, truthfully, because she had a failed support system. Her crutch snapped beneath her deadweight, fragile frame. My knees buckled at the thought of losing her, so when she tested the water and saw the fear in my irises, she kind of got off on that. Knowing she was almost gone, as if she was standing on a cliff face readying herself to step over the edge into the abyss. And so she plunged, into the dark, lonely recesses of her mind. But the abyss isn’t as lonely as it seems. The abyss isn’t for the dead, but for the living. And the problem with it is, even when you snatch your gaze away with every ounce of strength you conjure up, the abyss always looks back.

Book #8: The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver.

To sum this book up in a word, bittersweet. That would hit the metaphorical nail on the head exactly. Lionel Shriver, award-winning author best known for her weird masterpiece that is We Need To Talk About Kevin, has this time, written something totally different, so far removed from her other works that you actually stop and question whether these two novels were dreamt up from the same mind. Poles apart, and yet her striking writing style is evident throughout both. 

The Post-Birthday world focuses on protagonist Irina, and her struggle to decide on a concrete path in which to develop her life. The narrative splits almost immediately after the introduction, into two parallel plot lines, in which Irina proceeds to make decisions that will shape, not only her future, but those individuals closest to her. A crusade of morals, life choices and loyalties, The Post-Birthday World tugged at my heart strings and made me question the very foundations between right and wrong. Skewed ideals are at the forefront of this novel, and while at first, my emotions were drained by the protagonist, the ride through the pages is nothing if not tumultuous. 

A brilliantly-written novel, one I've taken my time to read, like savouring a fabulous meal, if only to feel too full afterwards. Shriver writes with such conviction that once or twice, I even shed a tear for the most pompous or infuriating characters. My sympathies were all over the place, constantly switching between head and heart like Irina does. Her dual-journey is full of emotion, heartache and excitement, and not one I took lightly. I struggled to read certain parts of this book, out of sheer denial at what I was reading. Just when you think you've cracked Shriver's secret, you're spun in an entirely different direction, left with nothing but an expression of disbelief.

You'd do well to read this book. 

Bound and gagged.

Okay, okay. Calm down. It's not that kind of blog post. What kind of shit do you think I write? *blushes* Yeah, okay, I laughed at myself. Apparently that's a sign of madness. May as well be one I applaud and self-confess. So, what's with the title, you may be wondering... Well, it's how I feel right now. I've attempted this blog post four times now. Every time, I was unhappy with the words on the screen. I deleted them with enforced frustration. My words weren't conveying the tone I wanted. It was, it seemed, useless. 

So that's how I felt, bound and gagged. Stuck. As if I couldn't find the appropriate words to explain how I was feeling. I still don't think I can, not really. My head is whirlwinding, sort of. Ups and downs. Good news and bad news. Positives and negatives. My mind is torn between tears and grins, and the poles are further apart than ever. I have my lovely other half to thank for the constant grin sprawled so effortlessly on my face. Lukas, thank you. For being just so amazing. Being with him is like my happy place, as Phoebe says, and he is my person, to quote Cristina in Grey's. The reason for my insane happiness. Now for the other side of the spectrum. Someone I don't physically know, and yet, have come to know, may be going through more than I can ever imagine. She's incredible, and is strong enough to get through whatever life throws at her, I just know it. Gracie, you can do this shit, okay? Whatever you need, there are people around to throw it in your direction with amazing force. Eloquence seems to have left me amidst my subsequent confusion, but it will hopefully be sitting comfortably in my lap soon. Today ends with prayers, happy thoughts and the confidence that things get worse before they get better.