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NORTH WEST WORDS<br />
SPRING / SUMMER <strong>2018</strong> ISSUE 9<br />
always, swallow the desire to keep going. My feet are burning <strong>and</strong> blistered. My knock-off white<br />
converse are scuffed <strong>and</strong> filthy. ‘Those shoes have no arch support’, I hear my Mother’s voice somewhere<br />
in the back of my mind. I begrudgingly gave her this one.<br />
I turn <strong>and</strong> head back, dejectedly.<br />
I see two women in their fifties approaching. I see them most nights right around this time. I have<br />
named them Susan <strong>and</strong> Patricia in my head. The Regatta raincoats, weekly blow dries <strong>and</strong> hot yoga<br />
brigade. Walking at a brisk pace that means business they smile a ‘Hello, gr<strong>and</strong> evening now’ <strong>and</strong><br />
both nod a little too hard, not quite catching the sympathy spilling out of their eyes.<br />
Waiting until they are just enough of a distance away to murmur in hushed tones.<br />
‘Another one from that grey house, Redemption, is that what it’s called…. Poor girls, awful altogether<br />
isn't it…Can’t even begin to imagine. Yes well…’<br />
‘Anyways, am, what were you saying about your AGA, don’t tell me it’s faulty again. Patricia if I’ve<br />
told you once I’ve told you a thous<strong>and</strong> times, that bucko Eugene Maloney that installed it for you is<br />
a crook.’<br />
I arrive at the house just after 8. This two-storied somber grey house has been painted for some<br />
unknown reason the same color as the ashen limestone that it is surrounded by. God only knows<br />
why.<br />
‘Dinner’s on the table, it’s a bit cold now, these walks of yours need better timing,’ a voice scolds<br />
from another room.<br />
I slide the plate of mashed potatoes, pork chops <strong>and</strong> mushy peas into the microwave. Jesus this is<br />
grim. Not tonight. Not after what happened. I try <strong>and</strong> chew the dried-up pork chop but to no avail.<br />
Retching, I throw the plate of microwaved gloop into the bin underneath the sink, grabbing some<br />
kitchen paper <strong>and</strong> strategically covering the evidence.<br />
I grab a glass of water <strong>and</strong> head up to my room. In the bathroom, I carefully take off the b<strong>and</strong>ages<br />
<strong>and</strong> clean my arms. I am still startled at the depth of the angry criss cross slashes. I clean them with<br />
disinfectant <strong>and</strong> I press the Savlon on a little longer than necessary. The pain feels good. I bit my lip<br />
to steady myself.<br />
I am disconnected here <strong>and</strong> I feel strangely liberated. I am in a vacuum. I am safe. Having no internet<br />
is important right now, or so everyone around me keeps saying. Just until things blow over.<br />
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