Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

SARAH
Sarah lay back on her bed, taking the deep breaths of a swimmer who has just resurfaced
from the ocean. Her own blood dripped off her arm onto the blue carpet, making islands
of claret. For a few blissful moments the world was good again, all the frustrations and
anger of Sarah’s life seemingly escaping through the gaping wound. On this sunny
Sunday afternoon, while her dad was pottering away in the garden, while her mum was
cooking a roast in the kitchen and her little sister was watching Mary Poppins in the
lounge, Sarah lay in her room, carving ‘HATE’ into her right forearm with a razorblade
found in the bathroom. She had continued the carving by underlining the word again and
again, tearing away at her own flesh, but now she was finished, satisfied with her work.
Sarah closed her eyes and began to dream. Only freaks and weirdoes cut themselves –
apparently.
Nicholas Gant
FRANCES
Sitting at her desk, Frances allowed her head to flop forward. A clumsy golden
waterfall cascaded down in front and her face, clear but unfocused, was splashed
drunkenly in the shiny white surface. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and
considered the advantages of going insane.
The biggest attraction dementia currently held was the possibility it might allow her to
escape from the armpit of a lesson she was currently stifled by and the crime-againstimagination
room it was taking place in. Even with her breath held and eyes shut, she
couldn’t totally blank it out. A constant droning noise kept her anchored in reality. She
experimented with letting the sound wash over her and was a little surprised to discover it
wasn’t, in fact, just one noise, but three separate entities, each contributing something
slightly different.
The biggest culprit was, understandably, the near-invisible man standing towards the
front of the class. So nondescript she couldn’t even remember his name or the first thing
about his face after almost a year’s tuition, the figure needed to remind the world he
existed by constantly emitting white noise. If she concentrated hard, she could just about
believe it was comprised of words from the English language, but it took a lot of effort
and the impression was gone again almost immediately.
Combined with this was the sound that upset Frances the most. Harsh and insistent, the
electric lights buzzed and crackled above her. She simply could not understand this.
Outside it was a wonderful living morning, bitingly cold, but with the sun sweeping
across the dew-frosted grass and concrete in a way that made them sparkle.
Despite this, the expansive window, which occupied almost the entire wall, possibly the
only redeeming feature of the place, was shuttered so that only the smallest chinks
allowed shards of natural light through.
The final player in the obscene trio was the most provoking: the distant whine of an
aeroplane - yet another reminder of life passing her by outside. She felt she would have
gladly swapped her situation with any one of its passengers at that time.
Her head was spinning now. She felt dizzy and sick. Panic set in. Then the answer
dawned. She let her breath out with an explosive, gasping noise and opened her eyes. The
monotone stopped, and a muttering and scraping replaced it as the other students turned
in their chairs to see just what the hell Frances was up to this time.
‘Is there a problem, Frances?’ came the tired question.
16