Unbirth
by Zeke IddonI pull another clump of hair from my scalp. It doesn't hurt anymore. Doing that, I mean. Pulling the hair out. I only do it so I can see it better.
It clings to my scalp valiantly, but finally comes out under my determined effort. I look at it, amused, not directly but through my hand mirror.
My hair. My pretty hair. My straight hair. The hair my mother used to plait for me when I was young.
Long strands of dead protein.
In the mirror, my real eyes can see my reflected eyes. The two pairs look at each other. The smeared make-up around each is symmetrical in pattern, almost like a kiddy painting folded in on itself, and I wonder
"What the hell is it supposed to be?"
"It's - it's my painting I did in art today."
"Art? Don't make me laugh. In the bin it goes!")
if the Queen had sex before marriage. I giggle, not really to anybody. Or maybe to myself. Or maybe to the mirror. Haha, silly mirror! I can't remember where it came from. Like metal coat-hangers. Can anybody remember where his or her metal coat-hangers originate? Silly coat-hangers. Silly mirrors with its silly eyes.
I prefer metal ones to plastic. Hangers, I mean, not eyes. They cut better. Not that I'm one of these attention-seeking gothic people you see on - on the radio. Nuh-uh. They're only superficial cuts. Enough to draw blood, but I'm not trying to kill myself or anything. I just want to - oh Chr - crumbs, I've gotten blood on my white dress.
My mother is going to kill me.
I put the mirror down on the side of my dresser, in between my collection of Jack Daniels bottles. I'm proud of them. The 35cl ones, they're pretty. Anyone would think that I'm an alcoholic, but it's not true. I swear. I pour the bourbon out, down the sink. Every day I pour - I don't drink, I only had one. I didn't even like it. I was young. It was a mistake.
I accidentally drop my son's toy arrow and it bounces onto the carpet. He's dead. He died of tuberculosis, a very rare occurrence in this country. I tried to get compensation, not that it would have compensated, but it might have made things a little better. The government told me that it was my fault that he wasn't immunised, and the case fell through.
They're right. I failed him. But I still have his toys though. Lots of his toys.
I pick the arrow up. It's one of those sucker-pad arrows. I looked through the box of his stuff earlier, but I couldn't find the gun. It's probably long gone.
I like to touch his things, but this one isn't very good. I want to feel the rubber, but it's too subtle a texture to feel through my calluses. I've got kitchen fingers, you see. I'm quite the handy-lady in the kitchen. My shepherd's pie is to die for, or so William reckoned.
I lick the end and stab it at the window. It makes a loud bang. Some gentleman on the street below looks up to my window and I wave (cheerio) but he keeps on walking. Some people are very rude these days, I find. But that doesn't matter. I have to use quite a bit of force to break the vacuum of the arrow and get it off the window. I'm quite impressed at how well it works considering it's three years old. Fifteen. I mean fifteen years old.
Sometimes I get sad. I don't like living alone. I don't like it. But I mustn't keep going on like this, nobody likes a miserable-mandy, after all. Today though, I'm quite happy. Not a care in the world. But sometimes I miss William. He died fifteen years ago. Three. I mean three. My son died fifteen years ago. I get so befuddled with dates sometimes. Being in the house all day, I barely know what time of day it is. Or what day it is. The vicar says that people grieve in different ways, which is very true. Sage advice. My dad was good at giving out good advice. He often said, "Show me the company a man keeps, and I'll show you the man." Maybe that wasn't quite right - or maybe that was my mother that said that. But he definitely said
the proof is in the pudding.
I'm not really sure what that means, but I think it's to do with judging character. Like the other one. It's important to judge character, I think. It's an important skill.
What? I didn't say anything.
I play with the arrow some more. Oh, I wish I could find the gun that went with it. It's definitely not in the attic, so I can only presu - the phone is ringing. I look at the arrow. It has no answers in its red rubber. Is that the phone? Yes. It's the phone. The vicar is probably checking up on me. He's kind like that.
I pick it up, smiling.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?" I say again.
This time there is a sigh.
"Vicar, is that you?"
"Stop it," the voice comes.
It's a familiar voice. A voice from long ago.
"No. Is this - no, no. Is this William?" I respond, confused.
"Charlotte, snap out of it. It's me, sweety."
I don't understand it. I don't understand why the vicar keeps playing games with me. He can't have me again - he can't have me down there. It's wrong. Mother says it's wrong.
I cry. This is unfair.
There is a deep intake of breath on the other end of the phone. "I need you to - Charl, are you listening? I'm coming back from work, I'll be back in five minutes. The neighbors called, they're worried about you. Are you okay?
The vicar is being clever. He met William; he knows what his voice sounded like. He's clever. Very clever.
"No! Yes, I mean yes, but you can't come in again. I need mum - I need to go to mum - "
"Sweetie, we've done this. We've been through this before. Your mother di - your mum passed on fifteen years ago, I need you to stay in the bedroom 'til I get -"
I hang up. This is the last thing I need. I was having such a good day, too. I was right about what I said to the stranger who called. I do need to see mum.
I need to see her now.
I get the feeling that I've done something wrong, but I can't remember why. I take my son's rubber arrow, may he rest in piece, and get up from the bed, a bit woozy. There's no time to worry about the cat, he fed himself this morning. Silly cat.
I walk into the kitchen. My kitchen. I bought a big, cast-iron oven about a decade back. It cost a fortune then, but I needed it to cook William his shepherd's pie that he used to like eating every night. Each evening he always said he fancied something different, but I know he was just saying that because he thought I was getting bored cooking the same thing over and over. It wasn't any bother, really. My, how he ate that shepherd's pie up! That was my reward, watching him eat his pie.
Like an old habit, I turn on the gas oven. I love the sound of the gas leaking, then igniting: hsssssssssssssphwumph!
I want to make a pie, not a shepherd's pie, because I don't like those.
A fish pie. Just for fun. But I know for a fact that there's no fish in the freezer, so I take off my bloodied dress instead and drop it on the floor. It lands around my ankles in a crumpled heap and I step out of it, shivering. It's so cold in the kitchen that my nipples have perked up. I consider playing with them briefly but that's bad and I'm bad and I'm sorry Jesus our Saviour for my sinful thoughts.
I open the oven and climb in, just as somebody, the vicar, the salesman, maybe both, start hammering on the door. I have to be careful about the flames at the back of the oven because they hurt.
I stick Danni's sucker-pad arrow to the back of the glass door and use it as a handle. Slamming it shut, I sit in the heat of the oven.
I wonder whether mother will forgive me this time.
©Zeke Iddon
Zeke turns into a hat when he's scared. Zeke is a full time writer and editor of tittybiscuits.net and at litvision.org and is also in the middle of editing an upcoming novel by famous artist Martin Allen (www.differentaspects.com). Zeke is a public performer of his own material, both poetry, prose and stand-up comedy. Zeke often gets nervous before performing live. Zeke is now a hat.