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NORTH WEST WORDS<br />
SPRING / SUMMER <strong>2018</strong> ISSUE 9<br />
Redemption<br />
Saturday<br />
I stop running. My breath is sore <strong>and</strong> rough <strong>and</strong> cathartic. I crouch over, red faced <strong>and</strong> sweaty,<br />
willing my lungs not to burst. My skinny legs are drowning in a pair of borrowed gym leggings with<br />
an oversized grey hoodie with a dark brown stain on the pocket wrapped around my waist. I am<br />
alone on this small country road, weaving through this remote part of Northwest Clare. Looking<br />
around, all I see is flatness <strong>and</strong> grey. Fifty shades of charcoal. The Burren l<strong>and</strong>scape is as bleak as is<br />
it beautiful. The long expanse of limestone broken up by dashes of lavender plants, struggling for<br />
sunlight <strong>and</strong> defiantly breaking up the cold hardened wilderness. The sickly sweet air a welcome<br />
change from suburban Irel<strong>and</strong> grime.<br />
The only thing I remember about the Burren was a quote from my Junior Cert Geography syllabus.<br />
When a British Captain came upon the area he said of it ‘There is not enough water to drown a<br />
man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him’. The irony does not escape me. I<br />
rub my b<strong>and</strong>aged arms, tucking down the sleeves of the hoodie over the white gauze.<br />
My breathing regulates <strong>and</strong> I notice the darkening sky. Curfew.<br />
I am a 23-year-old woman with a curfew of 8pm. Although it said on the tacky orange welcome<br />
h<strong>and</strong>out it was ‘a suggested check-in time’, I know better. At Redemption House Wake up at 7.<br />
Breakfast at 8. Morning circle next. Therapy. Lunch. Help around the home. Dinner. Free time. Bed.<br />
Lights out by 10. No phones, no internet, no contact without permission. There is a comfort in the<br />
reassurance of the schedule. I haven’t spoken to a soul since I arrived. The staff seem nice though<br />
<strong>and</strong> the other girls, well, they seem as broken as me, hallowed cheekbones <strong>and</strong> trauma frozen on<br />
their faces.<br />
This has been my routine for 8 days <strong>and</strong> counting. Ever since that night. That fucking night. Sirens<br />
<strong>and</strong> blood <strong>and</strong> screaming.<br />
I see the sign ahead for the Burren Perfumery. This has been my routine every day. Run as fast as I<br />
can, walk to catch my breath <strong>and</strong> repeat until I hit the sign. And return. This is only sign on this<br />
never-ending damn stretch of road. The carefully emblazoned letters have been painstakingly<br />
etched onto the rotting sign beside a small purple flower. Maybe a lavender? I pause <strong>and</strong> like<br />
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