Tail
Page 28
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The day had worn itself to an exhausted midday nap. Susan lay atop the cliff with dipped arms and stretched guts. She could no longer smell or hear the sea that played with itself at the bottom of the cliff. Grass formed around her throwing their small torsos to surround her shoulders for comfort. With the sun out everything had dried up, melted away into the ground. All the ice and water that culminated over the night had evaporated away from Susan. It left her skin taught and cracking under the sky. Her rain coat was left redundant and sour.
Standing up from the grass she brushed her muscles against the increasing wind that toiled on the cliff. A rock wall of mossy lime stone lined its way along the edge of a nearby field close to the cliff edge. Without intentional thought she moved to the wall in search of support, the rocky kind. She sat on top of a large comfortably arse shaped stone and relaxed her spine within the confines of her rain coat.
The place and neighbouring fields were empty and void of anything that dared to breathe. Susan turned her head around, taking in everything as she rested her hands between her thighs as they cooled down from the extreme pulsating excitement from the night. Curling her fingers she embedded them into her thighs for the knowledge that they were the one place that refused to let go. They were her thighs, her fingers, her legs, hers to maintain, hers to throw off of the cliff.
Thinking about her mother was, naturally, the only thing she thought about. It was surprisingly hard to get away from the image of her frozen mother. But once she did, Susan entered into a rush of overwhelming coloured thought of what she must have been like, and all the other curious wrappings that packaged her mother’s fate.
She knew that the extent of her relationship with her mother was limited to the play that convulsed over the night. It was the only conclusion she came to. Didn’t necessarily make her feel better, but at least being aware of it was miles ahead of where she was before she found out.
Sitting on the wall Susan was frightened by the idea that somebody may walk past inadvertently disrupting her need for solitude. After completing another full scan of her surroundings she wriggled her back to a comfy pose and wrapped her arms around herself. The tips of her fingers reached around to the curve of her spine and played with opposing fingers from the other hand that did the same. Squeezing her arms into her meat she pushed all the air out of her lungs as she tightened her hug to a constricting strength. Her ribs cracked and heaved with pressure under the force of her amending arms. Her skeleton collapsed under the weight and soothed into an amalgamated mess of bloody guts. Slush bucket of bleeding red and ticklish purple, all held in by her rain coat.
Maybe it was the pressure from her own hug, or the heat that stung her cheeks, but she felt calm, empty and ignorant to any external harm. Her thoughts found it difficult to find any ground to stand on, instead floating away on every breath that slipped out. Smiling and sharpening her cheeks with an old release she wiped away the wind that brushed against her lips. It was a strange joy that she hadn’t felt before, one she was not willing to share with any other living sole.
Susan rested her broken body up against the side of the elevator in her flat building. It was her rightful turn to rest her cheeks, her turn to calm down the sides of her faces that ached. It was a well-deserved healthy selfishness. With that she held her back straight and clung onto the half broken metal bar that circled the inside of the lift. She wasn’t unknown to the feeling of needing the warmth of her bed, yet the desire had never felt so demanding.
The door opened. The hall to her flat was cracked into a series of bends and twerks of architectural design. Dragging her boots along the burnt brown carpet she entered into the hallway to her front door. Her spine jolted with instant fear that dove its nails into the skin of her neck.
A trail of dried up liquid shattered erratically along the carpet, leaving nothing but stained splashes of very heavy black. It looked as if the drink was pushing into the soggy floor. Susan began to imagine the drink dripping through to the bottom floor like acid. She tiptoed over the drink and few cans of beer that splashed along the brown carpet.
The place was silent and desperate for the usual clang of outside city noise. But the further Susan got to her front door the less she heard. Her front door was broken from the lock, cracked with something heavy and determined. The wood was violently torn from the door and left in spread splinters on the floor dancing their tiny shaking booty in the puddles of drink. Fear stabbed her spine erecting jabs of adrenaline for the next problem that seemed to frolic in the safety of her home. Whoever broke in seemed to be driven by drunken determination as if attempting to break into a century old ruin to uncover a dirt smothered artefact.
With a lack of nerves she touched the centre of the door and pushed it gently open. The place was untouched, clean from any violence, yet covered by the generic tips of thieves. It had that scent thieves leave behind, yet nothing was stolen. Perplexed by the situation she forced herself into her home. Susan stood heavy and confronted as she stared at the wet sack that rested his head on her couch. Mathew was sleeping on the couch, fully black jacketed, with wet hair dripping over his scalp. Her fear did not disappear.
He was perfectly huddled into a foetal position with his legs tucked up to his chest fast asleep. She was held by her own shock, assessing the trail of drink that ended at the foot of the couch with an empty whiskey bottle. Closed eyes and exhausted nostrils stopped him from picking up on anyone that broke into his slumber.
The stain that held its ground on the furniture ever since the existence of the couch had to share its company with Mathew. His face fitted precisely into the stained head shape on the couch cushion. It was a worn down stain made from years of abuse that reflected Mathew as he rested himself into the grasp of the cushions filth. His nose was pressed up against the brown stain, leaving only one path for oxygen to seep through. In order to breath he had suffocate his own lungs in dusty air. With all of the windows closed Susan felt it was the perfect time to rest her head. But with the whole front door broken in thing, and the fat fact that Mathew lay passed out on the couch, she felt the need to freshen her flat up a bit first. Perhaps orange scented or just general fruit. Fuck ya that would smell good. Ya this place stinks, I’ll definitely need to freshen this place up before I get some rest.
Closing the door she walked over to the kitchen and perused what metal features were on offer. Susan browsed the sparse catalogue of utensils. But she knew exactly what she was looking for. With her wrecked and shaking hand she picked up a recently cleaned chef’s knife. Sharp and flat like a fin. Perfect for the meat that she needed to cut, fat mainly.
Grabbing a nice wooden armless chair she pulled over to Mathew making sure to not wake him. Poor lad needs his sleep like. Having pushed the coffee table away and pulled the chair up to face him she sat down relaxing her arse on the wood.
Mathew’s coal black overcoat dripped over his hips dropping to the floor with loose ends. He was sharp to look at with his stubble clawing its way around his chin. Susan rested herself into the chair holding the kitchen knife with both hands between her thighs. She ran her eyes over him counting and collecting all the memories that he seemed to be a part of. Quite a few, considering the fact that most of them were laced with sweet pleasantries. Susan almost choked on the sweet taste that collapsed on her tongue. Nah, she was in the mood for something savoury.
He was still asleep, molesting his cute intakes of breath every couple of seconds. He couldn’t help it no? It was his nature to breathe like a normal human being. Taught from the moment he fell his way into life.
Susan relaxed back into the chair, resting her spine, and holding the knife firmly with both hands. She held the metal between her thighs heating up the purple handle until it melted. The knife was at an erected angle to the sky as she held it. Perfect for the grasping natural that comes with strength. It was her gun, her tool to control, her depraved weapon wishing it were something a bit softer. Like a cushio
n. In that moment she pondered the idea of a knife wishing to be a cushion. Sitting quietly in her flat she farted out an unexpected laugh at the idea.
Poor delusional knife. She thought to herself. The damn thing is made out of metal. There probably isn’t a single person that would want to rest their head on a knife. Stupid dream, it’s not like you are just going to turn into something softer the moment you wish for it. She held the conversation in her head, diverting her attention from Mathew. The knife wept desperately into the cusp of Susan’s caring thighs. Her laughing perspective of the idea had shifted to a hard angle of empathy. For that moment she felt sorry for the knife, for the empty chase that the metal found itself in, for the non-existent finish line that dangled its reward for winning an infinite race. Susan couldn’t help but see her own depraved reflection in the sheen metal of the knife. The only thing she wanted more than the comfort of her own pillow was to see her mother through her own memories rather than those of Kevin. But like the knife she knew it was a futile race that surely ended at the edge of a cliff. She couldn’t help but feel like a depraved puppy chasing its own tail.
Having snapped back into the reality of the situation she faced Mathew straight on. He, oblivious and asleep to what he wanted, to what he broke in for, and Susan tired from consuming the wealth of information that was shovelled down her gullet over the past few weeks. She held her knife tightly in her right and woke him up with her left hand. “Hey.” Susan said as he broke his eyes open from his slumber. He was still yet jolted to the realisation of existence on top of the stained couch. He was frozen and unable to hold what he demanded so hardly for, spilling words out of his mouth through mumbled tongue shifts. Susan dug her eyes directly into his pupils and said the strongest words that had ever slipped out of her lips. “Leave…now.”