I want to touch him between his shoulder blades, where his spine ripples beneath his skin. He’s so sensitive there; the lightest touch raises goosebumps and makes his toes curl. My hand travels up along his back, making his spine flex involuntarily, moulding his body closer to mine.
His rage, confusion, and insecurity melt away. He wraps himself around me and moans. This little noise stirs my insides so violently that I wish for nothing more than to slip beneath his clothes and make him produce this most beautiful sound again and again.
Impatiently, I undo the buttons of his shirt. Two or three of them must be sacrificed. They pop off and roll to the floor. A sharp intake of breath when my teeth find his nipple. An expression of surprise and pleasure when he finds nothing beneath my shirt. He takes in my bare breasts, the skin of my shoulders, my throat, touches the cheek he slapped. My skin aches with longing for him.
I pull him closer. My lungs feel as though they’ve lost the ability to expand without his breath in my mouth. He sits up, unzips my pants and pulls them down my legs. My panties follow. His impatience makes him rough and clumsy. He looks up at me. I feel shy and cover my breasts with my arms. He hasn’t seen me naked for ten months, three weeks, and two days.
Cam reaches out and gently pulls my arms aside. He spreads me out, unravels me like a ball of tangled yarn. His fingertips undo knots, his lips leave unfurled silk ribbons in their wake. He trails his tongue across my neck, my stomach, dips it in my navel, between my thighs.
As he looks up, his gaze holding mine for a moment — perhaps to see if I’m okay with this, if I’ve recovered from the shock — his eyes are so full of love for me that my heart breaks all over again. His love has always been there. In all his actions, his patience and care for me. In his pain that he’s pushed away to tend to mine. He has licked my wounds and let his own fester. I didn’t want to see it. I chose to be blind to his pain and love.
I chose to see only myself.
I want to say I’m sorry. But I have no words, no gestures. I need him to touch every inch of me. What’s outside and inside. That piece of my soul that I’ve left starved. That piece of my heart that I’ve left unattended. I tell him to grab me first here and then there, to pinch me, because I need to feel again. To bite me gently and moan into my mouth. To ravage me until I lose myself in the sheets. To tell me that he loves me, because I have forgotten what he means to me.
And he does. He does all I ask of him and more, filling me, spilling me over, body and soul until, finally, I feel able to give back what he so freely offers.
When a thin sheet of clouds moves across the sky, covering the moon and blurring the sharp contrasts of the night, our breathing slows.
‘I’ve hurt you,’ he whispers, and touches my cheek.
I touch my hand to his heart and answer, ‘I’ve hurt you more.’
He buries his face in the nook of my neck and drops gentle kisses along my collar bone. ‘Shhh,’ he says.
‘I want to forget, Cam,’ I tell him. ‘I want to forget my guilt. And I’m terrified I might forget them, too. But thinking of them hurts so much it breaks me. They fill every minute of my day. My nights. Micah’s freckles, his sweetness, his beautiful, beautiful toddler toes. And Ben. Oh, Ben.’ I turn my head away and press my arm over my face.
Cam pulls my arm away. ‘Look at me.’
I rub my burning eyes, and gaze at him.
‘Tell me about Benjamin,’ he says.
A sob weighs heavy on my chest. ‘Ben taught me how to be a mother. Such a brave boy. Pigheaded, driving me crazy every day. I loved him so much.’
‘Don’t you love him anymore?’
‘Why would you ever say that?’
‘Because you said you loved him.’ He keeps staring at me, drilling his analytic gaze into me.
‘I love him. I love my boys so much that my heart doesn’t know how to fix itself without them. My world is empty, Cam.’
‘Is it?’ he asks, and pulls me closer. He wraps the blankets around us and presses my head against his chest. A low rumble reverberates through his body. ‘I wish I were your home, Marje. I once was. I wish I could fill your world again, even if it’s just a little bit.’
‘You are my home. I’m sorry I forgot that. You are my home, Cam. You are the only reason I’ve held on for so long. My heart is beating in your chest. Don’t you know that?’ I whisper, and with these few words, his control fails him utterly. He whimpers into my hair, grips me harder, slides down along my body and presses his face between my breasts. His shoulders shake as he sobs his grief into my skin. My heart is about to explode with love for him and our children. I hold him as if I were holding all three. And for the first time in ten months, three weeks, and two days it’s okay for me not to know how I can get through the next day, the next hour. For the first time in ten months, three weeks, and two days, Cam and I share our grief, and find solace and sleep in each other’s arms.
Consciousness dawns, memories trickle into realisation. Cautiously, I open my eyes. The moon has continued wandering across the sky and now touches my face with curious fingers.
My gaze falls to the place next to me — Cam, sleeping. His chest and legs touch my side. He holds my hand, and our fingers are entangled, resting on my stomach.
His warm breath washes over me. I take my time tracing the outlines of his face, the crinkles and the different hues of black and silvery grey the night has left behind. I wonder, briefly, how old his soul might be. Sometimes, I see in him a smug fifteen-year-old boy, happy and proud to have saved a life, to have stopped the suffering of a man, woman, or child. Sometimes I see the wisdom of a very old man, or the great weariness of someone who has seen too much. I see my boys, our boys, in his face. Micah’s nose, his freckles. Ben’s eyes and stubborn mouth.
Cam’s eyelids flutter a little. He inhales deeply and turns flat on his back, his hand letting go of mine. It feels odd now, my lonesome hand. I examine it, wondering whether it has changed during the time spent in his, but there is nothing discernible. I place it on his stubbly cheek, notice the silvery strands of hair just above his ear, and the few grey bristles in his eyebrows.
I bend over to kiss him but stop halfway, take my hand away, and only gaze at him, treasuring this moment of closeness.
I watch him dream. A shiver runs through him, his eyebrows pull together, his expression worried. Then a groaned ‘No!’ and a jolt shakes his body. His eyes snap open and the dreamy anger fades. Relief washes over him as he finds me by his side.
He snatches my hand and pulls it to his mouth, presses his lips to my skin, and whispers with a desperation that drives goosebumps over my body, ‘Come away with me.’
‘Away?’ I ask, wondering if he’s still dreaming.
‘Yes. Far away. I don’t care where. Away from the debts, from this place, this city.’
‘We have no money,’ I remind him.
‘We have each other.’ He places a kiss on my lips. ‘That’s all that matters. You and I, Marje. We pack tonight. A few clothes, sleeping bags, our old tent and camping stove. We’ll stick our toes in a mountain stream and watch the sunset. Do you remember?’
I chuckle. We backpacked for months when we were young. ‘I could work as a farmhand again.’
‘You can put your hand to anything, my love.’ He cups my cheek, the one he slapped, and I see regret in his eyes, in the tilt of his mouth. It’s only a cheek, I want to say. I broke your heart.
‘I don’t care about this.’ He nods at the room. ‘It’s only stuff. Irrelevant. Let’s leave it all behind.’
My gaze falls on the bed next to ours. The thought of leaving the boys’ things behind is unbearable. I’ll never be able to bury my face in Micah’s blanket again, never again press Ben’s Mars mobile to my chest.
I’m about to say, No, I can’t, when Cam touches a fist to his heart. ‘They’ll forever be here,’ he says, and moves his fist over my own heart, unfurls it, and travels it down to my stomach. I’ll always feel empty the
re. Children who have lost their parents are orphans. But there’s no word for parents who have lost their children. There is no term describing people like us. It’s as if the world has decided that it’s better not to talk about, not to think about, what happened.
‘Marje?’ He’s worried I’m drifting away from him again. And yes, I’ll keep doing it. Often. And then a little less, perhaps. Until I don’t need to anymore.
‘I love you,’ I whisper.
He presses his forehead to mine and answers, ‘I love you, too. You are my home.’
There’s a question lingering behind his words, so I give him the answer he seeks.
‘I want to see the ocean again.’
END
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Preview of 1/2986 - the climate fiction saga
The clock on the wall shows 12:01. Twelve hours left to live, minus one minute. No drama. We all are going to die, and I’m overdue anyway. An exhale of relief will rumble through my village when they find me tomorrow morning. Maybe Zula will miss me a little. I hope he does. A few tears shed would be nice, just so I know I wasn’t a total waste of space. But then, I’ll never know.
Actually, I’m surprised I’m still here. One could say I’m a coward who doesn’t dare press the blade deep enough. But that’s not the entire truth. If hope didn’t bug me, life would be simpler. And shorter. In my case, shorter is better. But I’m naïve enough to hope the last day of school might magically turn my dismal grades into excellent ones, so that the city council forgets my wrong gender and wrong past, and allows me to be the new turbinehouse keeper. I would have a future. But even the best grades won’t convince them to allow another generation of Capras to soil this honourable occupation, excellent skills or not.
I’m thinking of my knife’s tip wedged in the hollow between bone and tendon of my wrist. I’m thinking of opening an artery, of life draining from me, and I’m growing calmer. People around me fade. I’ve already cut off most of myself. But I forget when.
I catch myself hoping to meet my brother and my grandfather tonight. My heart flutters. Of course it’s all nonsense. When you’re dead, you’re dead. Depending on how your body is processed, you either end up as ash, or as worm poop.
If Grandfather were still alive, he’d call what happened to my life after my brother died “hell,” earning him a public whipping for using a banned word. He was a rebellious guy, always talking about the Great Pandemic and how he kicked ass, then, how he stopped kicking ass when Grandmother died and he raised Mother all by himself.
When I was little and sat on his lap and no one else was listening, he dared talk about God — an old guy who made the first two humans from clay. Since then, the word “God” tastes of clay, although the sound of it is more round and fruity, like an overripe tomato, maybe. Grandfather also talked about his parents a lot, my great-grandparents, who believed our souls are all going to this place called “hell,” where we are eternally burned, or put on a stake, or gutted, or whatever.
I have no idea why people back then thought this stuff would make any sense. Maybe that’s why religions are illegal now? But there’s still tons of stuff around today that doesn’t make sense to me at all, and yet everyone thinks it’s cool.
Grandfather believed in God. He didn’t really care much about rules, and that’s why I loved him. Neither of us fit in.
For me, the fitting-in begins with the stupidest things; for example, the ability to stand with a group of giggly girls who talk about boys. It’s considered the coolest activity since we turned twelve or thirteen and the game always has the same outcome: the more men you can attract, the better. No one seems to notice how embarrassing it is to climb the social ladder simply by being the most fuckable female. Maybe I’m thinking this because I’m at the very bottom rung, but I can’t imagine that the whole circus looks any more logical from a higher vantage point.
I know I’m not good with people. But I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t like them or why I don’t like them.
The one thing I’m good at is fixing machines, especially turbines. The word “turbine” has the taste of hot pancakes with melting butter and treacle. Turbines always do what I want them to do. Maybe they like my hands. Being up at the reservoir or inside a turbine duct makes me insanely happy. The smell of grease makes me happy, too. I tasted it once, but it wasn’t good. Its sting didn’t leave my mouth for days.
Maybe turbines are my main reason to pull the plug: once I finish school, I won’t be allowed to play with machines anymore. I’d be assigned a real job. Every time people call what I’m doing “playing,” I could scream. The word “play” tastes of burned oak; ash. Although it sounds almost liquid in my ears. Like a sudden splash on a still surface.
Everyone believes I’m stupid. I tried to be better. I really did. Every first morning of a new school year, I told myself that this year, I’ll do it. This year, I’ll work my arse off (although I don’t really have one to begin with), I’ll do my homework on time (or at all), will daydream less (or not at all), and will be thinking so hard that my brain bleeds out through my nose (if that’s even possible).
Every second morning of a school year, I knew I would only be myself.
Today, my grades won’t improve either. I haven’t learned a thing. I tried but… I’m a scatterbrain.
Hope dies last, they say. I hate hope; the bitch keeps screwing me. If I were alive tomorrow, the council would assign me a job at the composting facility — the stupidest activity there is — even more brainless than street sweeping and picking weeds from the cracks in the pavement. I’d shovel the shit of every inhabitant, every cow, cat, sheep, and goat, from one container to the next, aerating and judging its ripeness before it goes out on the fields. It takes three years for fresh poop to turn into good compost. Piss is collected, stored, and sprayed on the fields every spring, but shit needs treatment. And that’s all I’d need to know to excel at this job. One gets what one deserves. I wouldn’t mind as long as people let me be. My parents do mind, though. I’m like the ugly mole on Father’s nose, making him cross-eyed and sick, and Mother’s fingers itching to slap at it.
The word “mole” feels furry on my tongue.
I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine my hand holding out my quivering school certificate to Mother and Father — a few moments before dinner is on the table — and I wonder how they’ll respond this time. The word “certificate” runs bitterly down my throat. My ass cheeks burn with knowledge. Will my parents feel sorry when they find me in the morning? The thing is I do care, although there’s no reason for it.
Right now, I’m at a place I’d rather not be. I’m standing in a line of naked girls in the blistering hot town hall. My bare feet happily leak heat into the stone floor. Beads of sweat form along my spine. I’m itching. All windows and doors are closed. Someone must be worried we could oxidise if fresh air were allowed to blow in.
The room is divided by a long curtain, so we girls don’t get to see the naked boys and the boys don’t get to see us naked girls. As if we’ve never seen a prick.
Two women — a physician and a nurse — prod, ask questions, and take notes. I have no clue why old Zula doesn’t do this. He’s good at all kinds of things, from delivering babies to curing whooping cough. He can even do cesareans on Lampit’s milk goats. Strangely, no one feels the need to enlighten us as to why our physician has been replaced by two strangers from the city. No one even asks. Not the other girls, anyway. I did, but all I got as a response were two sets of raised eyebrows.
I hate to be naked. I want to hide my skin, press my back against the wall, at least, or magically let my hair grow to waist-length to cover the worst.
The doctor walks up to me and palpates my abdomen, her eyes raking over the scars on my arms, chest, and legs. Then she asks me to turn around. I set my chin and shake my head no.
She places her hands on my shoulders and tries to force me to turn. I lock my knees and
knock her hands off me. No one gets to see my back. ‘Pull yourself together, Mickaela,’ she hisses.
‘Piss off,’ I mouth.
She gives me a cold stare and then nods to the nurse. My chin trembles when both whip me around.
They freeze, cough, and pat my shoulder without a word or further examination. My stomach slowly settles back to its usual position. The cramp in my throat loosens.
The two move on to the next girl, who doesn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the normal. My classmates aren’t completely blind or ignorant. It’s just me being…invisible.
I cast a shy glance to my right where the other girls stand — waiting, smiling, looking pretty. I’m all bones with a scrubby mop of orange hair and freckles that look like fly shit all over my face.
Anyway, here’s the deal: I see boobs. Seven beautiful pairs. Large ones, perky ones, apple-sized ones. I don’t need to look down at my own chest to know there’s nothing. Both the doctor and the nurse point it out for me, perhaps believing I’ve not noticed. When they ask everyone how regular our menses is, all I can say is, ‘Every fifteen years. Maybe.’
The doctor doesn’t seem to approve of my humour. She eyes me over her brown-rimmed glasses as though she wants to strangle me with the stethoscope. But nothing happens. She turns to one of the other girls who holds her chin high, chest pushed out, stomach sucked in.
Apparently, queuing up is the thing here; it shows some kind of order or hierarchy that, so far, hasn’t revealed its deeper meaning to me. I’ve lined up so often in my life I’m unable to count it. Line up for food rations, for examinations, for roll call, for community work. That I’m the last in line is normal, expected, just like snow in winter. I have no idea who decided this.
We get dressed and, still in line, march to school to take the last two exams. It’s only a hundred metres or so, but I’m already soaked with sweat. My scalp itches from fear when we reach the classroom. Four teachers stand guard, one in every corner of the room, making sure we don’t cheat.
Night: A Short Story Page 2
