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CATEGORY: short story
WRITTEN:
AUTHOR'S NOTES: |
FRIENDS OF MINE
Make no mistake: letters are incriminating. Do not write letters. If you do write them, do not post them, or, if you must post them, write the wrong address, or use the wrong postage, but, best of all, do not write letters. I wrote letters, many letters. Some of these should never have been written. Many should never have been posted. One in particular should not have been posted. The information contained within it was mis-information, and it was that letter which lead to my present troubles. Heed my advice and make no mistakes, for mistakes are costly, and mistakes cause misery. This particular letter, the one I wrote, the one I posted which should not have left my possession, contained information which was incorrect, information which was acted upon and which should not have been acted upon. It contained details of an address I was to move to, but it was the wrong address. I sent this letter to my friends. I was keen to appear mature in my ways, and thus sent, ahead of time, details of my new address, so that they should not lose touch with me. I suppose you are wondering what could possibly be so awful in this mistake of mine - why should this be such a tragedy? I shall tell you. I sent this letter, saying hi, how are you, etc, and I shall be moving to a new address soon, and this is the address and telephone number. It should have been an easy thing to send another letter, with the correct information, but by the time I had realised my error, my friends, too, who all shared a house, had moved, and my second letter to them was returned, marked addressees gone, NFA. So I learned a bitter lesson: that human error is rampant, and a mistake, once made, a mistake such as this, is very difficult to right. I am to blame, for in my haste, I sent this letter without first checking the validity of its contents. A further blow was then dealt to me, as the house which I had vacated was demolished shortly after I left it, so my friends, upon trying to contact me at my old address, would have no fortune in that endeavour. I contacted my old Post Office to request that my mail be redirected, but was told that a syntax error in their computer program currently rendered that request impossible. In desperation I placed an advertisement in the newspaper, hoping that some person or persons who knew my friends would see it and contact me to give the whereabouts of my friends. I received only one response, which was that some people answering to the descriptions I had given had been seen in a restaurant in the city. Hence that is where my search for them begins.
A bitter wind is rising up from the dark concrete tunnels, pushing musty leaves and discarded wrappers ahead of it. Braving the unseasonable cold, I peer up at the grey laden skies. I am met with impassive hostility. The traffic lights flash. I am on the street: I walk. The street has no secrets: there is nothing about the street which I do not already know. I am in the city, and I am here because I am told that my friends are here. As yet I have no clues. I am on the street. I walk. If you see my friends, telephone me. This is what I tell people as I see them. I hand out pieces of paper on which is printed a description of my friends: Nancy Hayes, aged 19: shoulder-length red frizzy hair, thin, angular face, sparkling blue eyes. Matthew Childs, aged 18: short wavy black hair, pale rounded face, brown eyes. Timothy Watts, aged 19: shoulder-length light brown hair, freckles, blue eyes, very tall. David Tavaski, aged 20: brown curly hair, very tanned skin, green eyes, English accent. Jan Tollan, aged 18: shoulder-length blonde hair, pale, freckled face, blue eyes that are always laughing. If you know the whereabouts of any of these people, please contact me - Jenny Tamarind, 95-0271, after 5pm. I talk to people in the park, or on their lunch break. I talk to people sitting at the bus stop. I talk to people in department stores, but no-one has seen my friends. When I was walking through the park, I met a man whose breath smelled of beer and whose appearance was most untidy. He said his name was John, and we talked for a few minutes. He said he had no friends, and I said I would be his friend, but he said he had no need for friends because they always ran off and left him when he needed them most. I told him about my search for my friends, but a policeman took him away, and advised me not to speak to him again as he was a known child molester. If he is a known child molester, I asked, why is he then roaming the streets? As the policeman grabbed him, he threw me a rolled-up piece of paper. On this paper was his name, John, and a telephone number, 457-9463. I wondered if it was his, and stored it away in my purse. It is mid-afternoon on this cloudy January day. Spears of light fall through the canopy of brooding clouds, dissipating as soft light upon reaching the dry, thirsty grass. The leaves are dry and thirsty also, hanging listlessly from their branches or lying, crushed, on the ground. I walk through the park, remembering how I first met my friends. It was on my birthday last year. I had no-one to celebrate with me, so I went alone into the city to see a movie, and I started talking to a girl in the ticket queue, who turned out to be Nancy. Nancy was meeting some other friends, she said, and they were going to see the film E.T. I was invited along, and I was surprised and flattered because they were all a few years older than me. After that date, we made a regular excursion into the city to see films or plays or to go to the museum. I reminisce about these early days with my friends, and so caught up in my nostalgia am I that I almost pass by a piece of paper that lies on the ground. I lift the paper - it is almost hidden by three large leaves - it is a page torn from an exercise book and appears to be a shopping list. I am about to correctly discard it into a rubbish bin when I realise that the writing is familiar. It looks like Jan's writing, which is most distinctive as her letters are pointed and she does not curl the Gs, Js or Ys. I look more closely at the page and I notice a message scrawled in the bottom left-hand corner. My heart leaps as I read what is written there: Find out Jenny's new number "or else"!!! The message is underlined several times in pink texta, and there are little smiley faces all around it, which I know are Jan's classic doodle. At last I have proof that my friends are in the city! Even better, they have not forgotten me! I want to leap and shout in my joy, but instead I look around the park to see if my friends are perhaps hiding here, ready to jump out and yell surprise! when they see that I have found the page, but the park is empty apart from myself. I leave the park, a little disappointed, but still most elated that my search here is justified.
I will have a birthday soon. On that birthday I will be sixteen. There are some people who have told me that on that day I will be sweet sixteen, and that every girl looks forward to her sixteenth birthday. Why, I do not know. It seems to be some sort of tradition. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. That is not true of me. I have been kissed, once or twice, by Matthew. As for sweet, well, I simply do not know. I walk by the river, planning what I shall do on my birthday. The time between now and then is too short for me to count on my friends' company for that day, so I must have alternative arrangements. I should like to go the beach, but I have very pale skin which burns easily, and I find the application of creams and lotions a messy and tedious task, and one which detracts from my general enjoyment of the beach. My other options include the movies, a meal out, a trip to the amusement park or a shopping spree. All of these options, however, involve money, which is something I don't have a lot of, as I have only just left school and am not yet employed. So I walk by the river, which is grey and slimy with pollution, and I ponder as to my activities ten days hence. A movement catches my attention. I have been looking at my feet while walking, but now I look up, seeking the movement which distracted me. It is a young couple, walking along the opposite bank. The girl is quite short, with spiky blonde hair and many silver bracelets on her arm. The man is at least a head taller, with a black mohawk and well-tanned skin. They are meowing at each other, like cats. They skip and laugh and run, holding hands and smiling at each other. I am hit with the pang of loneliness, wishing Matthew were here with me to skip and run and laugh and hold my hand. Unbidden tears escape my eyes and I turn my back to the river so that the couple shall not see me cry. As the noise of their meowing and laughing grows fainter, I cry more freely, lying with the long grass stems ticking in the breeze beside my face. As my tears dry I stand and resume my walking beside the river, but my enthusiasm has fled for more cheerful haunts, so I leave the river and begin the long walk home.
The road is stained with my blood. I was running on the street. Blood on my face. I fell while crossing the road. It was the sandal strap which broke. I am dazed. Cars swerve to avoid me. One swerves into a newsagents across the road. A fire results. A man runs to a phone booth and starts screaming for an ambulance. People are rushing to help the two men in the crashed car, but no-one rushes to help me. I stand up, but my head spins and the ground seems unstable beneath my feet. I drag myself to the nearest kerb and wait for my head to settle. Two ambulances and a fire engine arrive, followed by four police cars. Many people are treated for minor injuries, and the two men from the car are taken off to hospital, but no-one asks me if I need assistance. The fire is put out and the police shoo the spectators away. In two hours, the only evidence offered, that an accident has taken place, is a broken, smoking car and a burnt-out newsagents with a police cordon around it. Still no-one has approached me. No-one at all. I go home and wash the blood from my face and clothes. I turn on the television and there, on the news, is the accident of which my fall was the cause. In one corner of the screen I can be seen, sitting on the kerb, covered in blood. The reporter says that the police have spoken to witnesses who say that the cause of the accident seems to have been an unidentified body which lay in the middle of the road, which the cars swerved to avoid. Watching the news, I am more than a little upset. If I were dead, I could understand being referred to as an unidentified body, but I was not dead, I was alive. I decide to ring my local police station to complain. As I left my arm to reach for the telephone book, I notice that my watch is broken. It must have hit the road and then I fell on it. The time says 3.30, and yet the report shows, and I remember, that the car crash occurred at night. Thus I must have been unconscious on the road for 4 or 5 hours. Why did not anyone see me and come to help? I am very alarmed by this realisation. I look up the number and dial the police station.
"Police. Hello." I am put on hold. I wait, wait, then wonder how long I have been waiting. There is no hold music, only a pip-pip every 5 seconds. I begin to count the pip-pips. After more than one hundred of them I hang up in disgust. I lie in bed and try to sleep, but sleep does not come. I lie on my right side and breathe as evenly as possible, but still sleep does not come. The clock ticks unbelievably loudly. Tick... tick... tick... tick... I change the speed and rhythm of my breathing to match the ticking of the clock, but it requires too much effort, so I return to my normal way of breathing. I want to roll over and sleep on my back, but my arms are covered with ointment, to quicken the healing process, and I do not wish to smear any ointment onto the sheets, so I must be content with lying on my side. In the street outside is singing drunkenly. There is the noise of garbage cans falling, and then the man swears loudly and profusely. A cat squeals and a dog barks, then all is silent again. I look at the clock. It is only 10.30. I have an intense need to talk to somebody, but there is nobody whom I can ring. But I remember John, and extract from my purse the grubby slip of paper he gave me three weeks ago in the park. I dial. The number does not ring and I am suddenly talking to a recorded message. The number you have called is not connected. Please check the number before dialling again. This is a free call. I return to bed and lie again on my right side. Clock ticks... ticks... ticks... Gradually, like a stealthy cat, sleep creeps upon me. I am grateful.
I cannot speak. I cannot think of words to say. I have seen my friends. We are in the Mid City Centre arcade. My friends sit in a coffee lounge. Nancy holds a cup in her hands. I cannot see the liquid in the cup but I know it will be black coffee without sugar, because this is what Nancy drinks. I cannot speak. Music wafts about. The song now playing is One Perfect Day by The Little Heroes. I have so much to say, but I cannot speak. The music seems very loud, but it is only an aural illusion due to the silence swelling inside me. Mewling noises swim up from my throat but no proper sounds emerge. They stand up. I see Matthew is wearing the Exploding Head Tshirt I gave him for his birthday last year. David is dressed entirely in black, as is his habit. Jan pays the bill and they move towards the door. Tim's lips are moving. He is telling a joke. I know Tim's jokes. They are good jokes. David laughs. They are walking out from the coffee lounge, walking in my direction. I am afraid. Afraid, nervous, anxious. They are getting nearer. Tim walks in front. He is telling another joke. They are now very near. It is the joke about the truck-hating duck. It is very funny. I laugh, forgetting. My friends have stopped. They are looking at me, and I at them. They look quizzically at each other and walk past. They do not seem to recognise me. As they go past, Matthew's arm brushes my hand. A tremor runs through me. My friends are out in the street, walking away from me. I cannot let them go! I run after them but the crowds are thick and I cannot go very fast. I catch sight of myself in a shop mirror and realise why they did not know me. I hair is shorter and has been permed, and half my face is scabbed over from my accident on the road. My appearance has greatly changed since they saw me last. This is why they did not know me, and thought me to be someone else. I wish to tell them this, but they are gone. I am alone again, on the street. Not alone: surrounded by thousands of strangers. As good as alone. I am on the street. I walk.
The lights from the high flats glimmer down the wet hill of the road. The traffic lights conduct an orchestra of squealing brakes and screaming horns. Screams tear the night apart. The night is old, weary. The people below seem old and weary also. They scurry from place to place, seeking sanctuary from the night. I am alone at the top of the apartment building. I have climbed up here to be closer to the stars. I talk to the stars, seeking comfort. Little comfort do I find. It seems warmer up here than it is down there, on the road. A light drizzle caresses my face, soothing my pains, stilling my fears. I lie on my stomach, looking over the edge of the building. It seems a lesser distance looking down than it seems when looking up. Heights do not frighten me. I lie here, looking down at people who must surely topple, running helter-skelter on such thin legs. A gentle breeze slips over the edge of the flats, rolls towards me, chilling the fine droplets of rain. Up here I am almost happy. Up here I have no fears, no pains, no obligations. I have come here with a purpose, one which I shall shortly fulfill. I am simply waiting for the right time to carry out my plan of action. Somewhere a clock strikes midnight. A baby cries in one of the flats below me. A dwindling argument echoes across the streets. The time is right, the stage set. I have come to the end of my resources. I have come to this decision only after much thought, after considering all other, though few, options. There is no choice involved here. It has been sixty days since I saw my friends in the coffee lounge in the city. Sixty days, and no further contact since. I rise from my prone position on the concrete. The rain has ceased, though the breeze has not, but I do not think this slight wind will affect my progress to any great degree. I rise from my prone position on the concrete. I walk to the edge of the building, look down. Reflected lights shine up at me like so many eyes in the darkness. For a moment I stand poised, perfectly balanced, with my toes well over the edge. Then I jump. Windows float past like television screens. I look down at the ground. People stare up at me, mouths open wide like endless tunnels. Mouths screaming. Brakes squeal and mouths scream. Screams tear my head apart. The ground, so wide and embracing, meets me with cold hard wetness; no warm welcome here. I feel no pain, but an unusual detachment from my surroundings. Saucer eyes bulge down at me; hands reach to lift me and carry me off. Then only darkness.
I am awake. White. I see only white. White fuzzy shapes against white blurry backgrounds with white on white on white. The whiteness is like a noise boring into my head. I close my eyes and the noise fades away. I am awake. I hear distant, muted sounds. Footsteps and voices. Furry and indistinct, like the whiteness. Hard shoes tap-tapping on hard floors. Hard voices bounce-bouncing against hard, bare walls. I drift in and out of dreams. I want for nothing, feel nothing wants me. I exist, but do not need. I feel no hunger, no pain, no discomfort, no anxieties. I dream of rain, floating gently to cover me with a warm mantle of moisture. Rain drifting darkly in the indigo night. No stars. Stars would mean light, and there is no light in my dreams, only comfortable, comforting darkness. I drift in and out of dreams. I dream of children with pure white skin, playing merry games in an endless green park. The children are swathed in black, and vividly coloured birds dart in between them, pecking out their eyes. I drift in and out of dreams. Four ancient men with brown, furled skin and grey, tangled beards sit around a blue fire, chanting songs to their gods. The gods are angry because the men have sired only girls, and will punish the men and their village unless the men take the appropriate steps to appease them. The men and their magic fire have been sealed inside an enormous labyrinth, and only the favour of the gods can release them, else they will die. A face appears in the centre of the fire. The men cease their chanting and fall to their knees, rubbing their foreheads in the dirt and ashes by the fire. The face grows larger and larger, until it fills the small room in which the men sit. The goddess whose face it is begins to speak. It is my voice. It is my face. I am horrified, angry at myself for the blasphemy I commit by imitating a goddess, but at the same time surprised at myself for forgetting that I am a deity. I am awake again. I have been dreaming, but now I am awake. Remnants of my dream dart through my mind like mosquitoes. Something to do with blood... blood settling on my face like drops of rain... blood... my blood. I am awake, and someone is standing beside me, looking down. I struggle with my unco-operative brain, trying to recall my circumstances. White. I see white. Much white. I associate white with hospitals. I turn my head, straining to focus my weary eyes. Nurse. It is a nurse who stands beside me. She is saying something to me, but all her words run together. I try to tell her to speak more slowly, but my mouth will not work. I croak and groan like a monster from a bad horror movie, but no words are issued forth. I am distressed. The nurse turns, is walking away from me, out of the room. I wait for her to return but she does not. I try to recall my circumstances, to recall why I am here in hospital. I remember slowly. I remember falling from a roof, landing on the shiny wet road. I remember my blood, settling on me like a weary bird home from a long flight. I remember hands soothing me, carrying me away, but this is the last memory I can summon. It is clear to me, at any rate, that I had an accident and was brought into hospital. I am tired. I sleep. I drift in and out of dreams. I am a small animal, cornered by two larger ones. I have long teeth and sharp claws, but I am afraid to die now. I am not sure why, but I know that there is a reason why I must live. Perhaps there is a family of small animals like myself, somewhere, waiting for me to bring them a feed. Perhaps I am the pet of some old lady who would be heartbroken if I never returned. Perhaps I am the last of an endangered species. I do not know. All that is apparent tome, in this moment, is that I must survive. One of the animals attacks me, and I bite deeply and strongly into its throat. Warm, pulsing blood covers me and stings my eyes and blocks my nostrils but I hang on, clenching my jaws. The big animal shakes its head from side to side, trying to loosen my grip, but I cannot allow that to happen. I hang on until the animal has stopped moving, then I leap back, ready for the next attack. The other animal smiles at me and congratulates me, saying Now you are one of us. I feel an indescribable loss. I am awake. A nurse is wiping my forehead with a wet cloth, and a doctor stands at the end of the bed, fiddling with an ominous-looking chart. I try to speak, but the nurse shakes her head at me, smiling. I see a jug and glass of water beside my bed and point to it. The nurse helps me to sit and to drink the water. The doctor smiles at me. "You're much better now. You'll be able to go home soon." I am tired. I sleep.
Dream: I am dreaming, and it is all very strange. I am walking along a beautiful beach. The sand is a pale pink-orange, and the sea is as calm as a lake and as green as grass. The sharks which swim in the sea are made of crystal, and I know they will not hurt me, should I wish to go for a swim. Behind me a cliff rises out of the sea. It looks to be one hundred feet high, and is completely smooth, seemingly made from flawless opaque black glass. This cliff curves around to my right, and ends at a point about four miles from where I stand, sloping down to a perfect point, only a few feet from the water's edge. I cannot stand still upon this beach. I am compelled to walk. I know that Matthew waits for me on the other side of the cliff, four miles hence, and I have only to reach him and he will hold me tight and be my friend again. I begin to walk towards the cliff, but the sand is most unco-operative, and slips from beneath my feet, causing me to fall upon the broken shells and dried-out seaweed that litter the beach. Despite the fierce sun which shines above, the sand is very cold. Many times I try to walk, and many times I fall. I seem to make very little progress each time. When at last I stay down to rest, a storm appears from behind the cliff which I strive to reach. Giant bolts of blue lightning are slammed down from the clouds, and where they make contact with the sand, perfectly round plates of smooth glass are all that is left in their wake. For quite a while I watch the progress of the storms, until I realise that I will become a piece of plate glass if I do not get out of the way. At first I look to the sea for escape, but I see that it is boiling, so that is no good. Eventually I realise that the only thing to do is to run for the cliff behind me, in the hope that I will find some place to shelter. I turn and face the cliff but the enormity of it terrifies me. The storm, however, terrifies me more. Slowly I stand and take a few hesitant steps. The sand is firm, like solid earth. I run a few steps and look back. The storm is almost upon me! I run again until my side aches and my breath is hot and dry in my lungs, yearning for just one thing - escape. My legs are in control. My eyes close. I sleep within the dream and my legs carry me onwards. Now there is no chance to stop.
At a party: people laughing, talking, smiling, enjoying the privilege of friendship. One group, however, is somewhat solemn, given the happy occasion. Two women and two men sit quietly in a corner, talking in hushed voices. Only when another joins them do they begin to talk in a more animated fashion: Nancy: Well, is she or isn't she?
I am awake, and recovered. I have been in hospital for two months, and most of that time I have been unconscious or incoherent, or both. Now I am well, and soon I will be going home, though not to my cousin's flat. My doctor has been very secretive and smug about it, but some arrangements have apparently been made for me to live with people who will look after me and be my friends so I will not get sick again. I know he is just being nice, because what he really means is so that I won't have another opportunity to try to kill myself. He is also warbling on about some visitors I am supposed to receive quite soon, but unless he means the men in white coats, I don't know what he is talking about. I am sitting in the patients' lounge sipping tepid tea and nibbling half-heartedly on a stale biscuit. Outside, the weak June sunlight makes a feeble attempt to illuminate the world, and fails rather badly. A nurse approaches me with a sickly smile, and I wonder what horrible little pill she's going to force down my throat this time.
"You have some visitors, Jenny, in the visiting room. Would you like me to bring a wheelchair, or will you walk?" I walk slowly down the corridor to the visiting room, leaning rather heavily on the support rail, but trying not to be seen doing so. I wouldn't be surprised if they did drag me away to the funny farm and feed me multi-coloured drugs through a hole in the wall. I have been rather peculiar of late. My mind wanders while my legs attend to the once-so-easy task of walking. Memories rise suddenly to the surface of my mind, like bubbles of gas in a glass of champagne. Of course, the happiest memories are the ones that cause the most pain, now. Memories of time spent with my friends...
Getting up at the unGodly hour of 5am to meet Matthew at the beach to watch the sun rise, wrapping ourselves in thick clothes and burning our fingers and tongues on steaming cups of bitter thermos tea, laughing and swelling with happiness... These memories, all I have now of my friends. I will make other friends, but none will be the same as my special friends, and certainly none the same as Matthew, my very best friend. Nostalgia gets the better of me, momentarily, and I lean on the support rail, weeping. I dry my tears hastily, knowing that if my visitors do wear white coats, the last impression I wish them to get is that I am depressed. Let them think that I have been crying due to pain. I enter the visiting room, which is empty, and shuffle to a well-padded recliner, which I collapse gratefully into. Probably nurse Rand was mistaken, and I do not have visitors after all. I shall rest here a moment, anyway, before making the long trek back to my room. I doze. I am awakened by a gentle kiss, and pressure to my left hand. I open my eyes, and they take a moment to focus on... Matthew! Matthew, and behind him are Jan, Nancy, Tim and David. Again I weep, but this time from shock and joy. I want to hug everyone at once, but I am still too weak for such a mammoth display of affection, so I must be content with hugging them one at a time.
We talked for a long time, well past the end of visiting hours, and I was told of their experiences during the time we were separated. The best thing, however, even better than being re-united with them, is that I shall be living with Nancy and David, who plan to marry next year, and with my beloved Matthew, who has asked me to marry him, but I expect I shall have to discuss this with my guardian. In one week I and my belongings shall be transferred to a house in Drummoyne, and when I am strong enough, there is a job lined up for me to go into. I will ride on the bus into the city and walk through the streets, the streets with no secrets, and watch the couples and the groups of friends, and not feel threatened any more but secure, because I too have friends, these special Friends of Mine. | |||||||||||
| copyright Madalyn Harris / all rights reserved |