Outsider
I'd heard a story once about an aristocrat who made a bet with his friend at his stately home regarding which of two raindrops would make it to the bottom of the window first. It is rumored the stake was £3000. I'd always thought of this as pretty reckless but lately I have come to view it in a more light-hearted manner. Rather than an example of the man's frivolousness, I see it as him having the intelligence to know money is worthless. Most things are, now that I think of it. Everything is up to chance.
I picked two raindrops on the window and made a choice. Watching them both race to be the winner I wasn't sure which one I wanted to win. I suppose deep down it didn't really matter to me. Not much from this moment on did. But when the raindrop furthest to the right reached the bottom window pain first I couldn't help but feel a little bit relieved. Then I picked up the phone.
"Hello? Yes, ambulance please. My husband has just fallen down the stairs. He isn't breathing and his head is bleeding. Please come quickly."
-
I found the funeral somewhat awkward. That seems really silly to say. Are funerals supposed to be awkward? Or just sad. I wasn't sure what was appropriate. Most, if not all the people who attended were people I hadn't seen in years. They felt like it was okay to ask me things and hug me when I didn't even want them to touch me. I didn't want to miss him. I winced when they talked about how happy we were together. It was unfair of me, how could they have known? They knew him as the toddler just learning to walk. Who was always happy to see them. The teenager who didn't work hard enough at school but worked hard at everything else. They knew him as he was, a human being. With redeeming qualities and glaring flaws. But a beautiful, worthy human being. Who was now dead.
I tried to focus on this one fact, despite what had happened there was something in me wanted to survive. Even before that day. There was something made me wake up in the morning and get out of bed. Something more than the threat of pain, stronger than that. I knew, on some level this was a good thing. But how could it cause this much pain?
That part of me, it spoke to me. It reminded me of the tenseness in my shoulders every day as his car parked up on the driveway. The questions with no right answers. Hands across my throat. Isolation from everyone. Heartbreak. My life, our life together, the funeral was all an echo chamber of pain. Not a pain I'd encountered in a long time though. Not a pain that shouted and spat poison or brandished weapons. A pain that was completely and utterly human. But another voice, another voice reminded me that when I pushed him, he was holding a bouquet of pink roses.
On my way out of the funeral to an empty bed. His sister tapped on my shoulder. She told me she was sorry which almost made me smirk. Said it was a real tragedy, people fall down the stairs everyday. Why did it have to take her brother? I agreed. She told me if I ever needed anything to call her. Didn't want me to be lonely, as if that had mattered before. This is why I hated small talk, I'm pretty sure on some level everyone does. It's so banal and insincere. I still felt this even though I hadn't experienced it in years. It was somewhat nice to be reminded. She asked for my phone number and told me that she was having friends over from Australia in a couple of months and that I should go meet them and maybe spend some time together. I nearly smirked again, but to my surprise it was genuine.
-
When I got home that night I went straight to bed. I kept thinking about what his sister had said to me and found myself mentally planning. I was thinking about hairdressers, manicures, makeup. It excited me. I hadn't been able to think about myself in this way for a long time. It reminded me of my old self. Then I realised, my main thoughts after my own husbands funeral were for how excited I was to get a haircut for myself. Suddenly I didn't care about a haircut, I didn't care about a party. Now it was all over, I couldn't avoid the fact that he was gone. I couldn't avoid the fact I missed him. I missed the bruises so much.
That night I had a dream that I was dressed up in a green dress walking to his sisters house. I could hear dogs barking in the distance and suddenly I felt like something was wrong. I grabbed onto the nearest fence post and leaned over to wretch. But no vomit came out, only pink rose petals.
-
A month or so later his sister called, she asked if I was still interested in going for dinner and a few drinks at hers. I told her I was, and thanked her for checking up on me. I couldn't quite put my finger on why I had been so excited for her to call, but I was just glad she did. I spent that afternoon on the phone to different salons making appointment after appointment. I had never been in charge of my own finances before but had found I could save up easily. I hadn't left the house since the funeral and clutter was really starting to pile up but this didn't bother me. I had always found the house so sterile and uncomfortable before. I had spent most of my days making microwave meals and waiting by the phone.
My first venture out of the house was to the local pharmacy. Their makeup selection was decent and I thought it would be a good start. Although I had been excited I found myself dumbfounded looking at all the colours on display. I realised then that I had little to no idea who I was or what I liked. One of the workers caught me looking confused, she must have recognised me as she had a sympathetic manner about her as she asked me if I needed help. Normally this would make me feel somewhat uncomfortable but I used it to my advantage, playing up to it until she'd helped me pick out a whole new makeup set that would suit me.
That night I decided to test out my new makeup. I pushed all of the used cans and plates off of the dressing table and sat facing the mirror. Looking at myself from a superficial angle was a novelty. I liked that I was thinner but I definitely looked empty. I wasn't sure how one could look empty until now, despite being inside my own head I couldn't read the face looking back at me. There was something eerie about it.
I started with my foundation and was happy to see it was the right shade, the lady at the pharmacy had really come in useful. I dabbed it on gently across my face and saw an instant improvement. The more makeup I put on the better I felt. My application skills weren't the best, but I definitely liked what I saw.
For a moment I thought about grey skies. I heard the same dog barks from my dream and felt a chill come over me as if the breeze had made it inside the house. When I looked back at the mirror, there was lipstick all across my face, drawn into a giant, clownish smile. Eyeliner scribbled across my forehead. I decided to wipe it all off and go to bed.
-
At some point I decided what I enjoyed about all of this beauty regime stuff was the escape. I didn't mean escape in a bad way but I had the desperate need to leave the old me behind. I felt I'd been given a chance to do so via raindrop. I liked the idea that this new me had been invited into this women's home, possibly even invited to be a part of her life. This warmed my heart.
I liked the feeling of changing, I tried to think of it less as escaping and more as progressing. I had been growing worried about myself in the days spent alone in the house. Time seemed to escape from me. I had nightmares every night. I saw that as a sign that I definitely needed to do something, to reach out and escape/progress. A new, tanned, blonde haired 2.0 version of myself.
That night I had a dream of myself in the back garden of a house. My face with the clownish makeup was watching me from one of the downstairs windows. I tried to walk towards it but my feet were heavy. I fell over and the grass engulfed me until I drowned in it. It reached into my mouth and my nose choking me. I woke up struggling to breathe.
-
At the party it became immediately apparent how behind I was in terms of social skills compared to everyone else there. This had really worried me at the beginning of the night but as it went on I felt more connected with them all. His sisters friends were very funny, interesting people. It was easy to see why she was friends with them and kept in contact, and vice versa. They were a couple named Shaun and Gina. This feeling of connecting with other people filled a hole in my being. I felt that whatever had happened, I was happy to be there. They were welcoming to me, receptive of me. They appreciated the hard work I had put in to conform.
I clocked his sisters role as the group party animal pretty early on. She definitely drank the most out of everybody, not unlike her brother. Shaun was a joker, Gina sat not drinking the whole night. I didn't question it, I somewhat understood. She always included me in conversation and I appreciated it. I liked watching them all interact, being happy in each others presence. Genuinely laughing at each others jokes.
His sister ended up getting very drunk. From Gina and Shaun's reaction I could tell this was to be expected. Shaun made a joke about having spiked her drink causing Gina to raise her eyebrow at him. His sister leaned over the coffee table and asked how she did that. She seemed really impressed by the fact her friend could raise her eyebrow. She turned to Shaun and asked if he could do it. But he already was. She asked if she could do it herself and as well she could, with a little effort.
Then they turned to me.
His sister asked me if I could and I giggled out of nervousness and realised I was trapped. I wasn't sure if I could or not. I furrowed my brow in an attempt and they all laughed at me, not with me as I had felt before.
"I guess you're the outsider here." Laughed his sister. My heart dropped. I felt breeze across my skin and shivered. Next thing I know his sister is slumped in her chair crying her heart out.
"What happened?" I ask her friends. They told me she was just upset about her brother. Apparently she had been talking about him for the past hour. We all decided she had had too much and it was probably time for her to go to bed. I took my cue to leave. They told me to stay but I said I couldn't. They asked if I wanted them to call a taxi but I told them that was fine. I was used to the cold.
-
The outsider. I didn't like that at all. Outsider. Walking home outside as an outsider. Dogs barking. Grey skies. Long grass. Rose petals. Outside. An open space you can't escape. Looking in. I felt cold. I needed to get home. I didn't want to be outside any more.
When I arrived home, I went upstairs and grabbed the mirror. I put it on the floor against the wall and sat in front of it. I could do this.
Furrowing my brow I willed my eyebrow to go up. I did this again and again. I did this until I had a headache. I did this until the sun came up. I did this until all I was doing was staring at myself from the outside of the glass.
-
You've never mentioned their names once. His or his sisters. Does this mean you don't care, or that you're a coward? Neither of which are new to you though are they. No, not at all.
But then there is her. Not only have you not mentioned her name. You haven't mentioned her at all. It's not surprising that you would want to forget. That's typical, cowardly you. But you do remember. You remember her coming home from school crying every day. You remember the rumours. The infamous photo. All of your friends at school used to tease you. The girl in the photo's sister. Whatever they thought of her, they thought of you by proxy.
Most of the kids in your year at middle school had never seen that kind of thing before. Imagine that, your own sister being the first pair of tits and pussy most of the kids you went to school with had seen. How mortifying. She felt bad though, she felt so bad.
After coming home from school she would always go up to her room wouldn't she? Your parents stopped asking how school went because they already knew the answer. They would spend a lot of time in her room talking with her. Trying anything to cheer her up. They talked about moving. They talked about GP's and counselling. They talked about getting the police to do a talk in her high school. But would that make it worse? How could it be any worse.
One day while your parents were at work you both had an argument didn't you? What was it about? It seems to matter so little now doesn't it. But you just had to have the last word. You called her a slag, nothing she hadn't heard before. You told her to kill herself. And she did. You got the last word.
When you came down from your room to find the body hanging in the kitchen you almost didn't recognise it. It didn't register as real. It still doesn't. What did you do? You sat down. You sat and cried, not moving for hours until your parents came home. They found you passed out in a puddle of your own piss beside their swollen blue faced angel.
You told them what happened, and for some reason you expected comfort. But it never came. It never came at all. From that moment on you were an outsider. You and your sister had shared a room but your parents wanted it left completely untainted. Untainted by anyone, especially you. They wanted to cling so desperately to what little comfort they had left. So they put a mattress in the shed outside. There was a sense you were lucky to even have that.
When the skies went grey at night that's when you knew it was time to go outside. It was cold. It was always cold. You'd have to wade through the tall grass to the shed. The whole of the back garden had been completely forgotten about. Just like you. At night there was no escape from the demons. You slept to the sound of the dogs barking in the distance. You would wake up in the night to see a bloated blue angel hanging above you in the dark.
Meals were eaten in silence. Birthdays were uncelebrated. You came in from the cold outside but found no warmth inside either. You were clearly begrudged. You don't blame them, you never did. It was a haunted house and they were ghosts too. The kids still teased you at school but it was somehow worse now that she wasn't going to be home when it ended. To these kids she wasn't a human, she was a commodity. You were an outsider.
That's why you really pushed him down the stairs wasn't it? It wasn't the beatings. It wasn't the constant mental torture. That's the product you'd bought. The problem was it wasn't enough any more. He just wasn't hitting hard enough to keep up with the pain. He couldn't reach your heart with his words, good or bad. He didn't love you enough to make it hurt any more.
-
I came to with my forehead against the glass. As I pulled my head away I felt the wound and dry blood tear from each other. Dragging shards of glass out of my skin with it. I looked at myself in the cracked mirror. Most people don't know this but breaking a mirror in itself isn't bad luck. But looking at your reflection in the cracks is. But it looked better this way. A true reflection. I watched two beads of blood make their way down the mirror, watching which one would win. Again, the one furthest to the right. Bad luck.
-
I'm washing the dishes when I realise, I haven't heard from Kate since the get together at mine. I instantly feel guilty for not making more effort. I should really have made sure she made it home okay. I feel like such an idiot for whining on and on about Greg. That was probably the last thing she needed to hear. I go to the phone to give her a ring but there is no answer. I think perhaps it is better for me to pay her a visit in person. See how she's coping.
It gets to around six o'clock and I decide I should visit her before I have my tea or it would be too late. It seems a shame I don't know much about her. In the car on the way there I think about the last time I saw her. It was a definite difference from the funeral. I suppose it's good that she is looking after herself and getting out. She had seemed rather shy but I guess that was to be expected. I hadn't seen her since her and Greg's wedding. She never talked much even then.
As I pull up and walk up the garden path I notice the door isn't fully shut. She probably hasn't realised. I open it and an awful stench hits me. I suddenly feel very nervous. I continue to open the door slowly calling on Kate but there is no answer. I decide to go in and I find myself absolutely horrified at the mess.
Now, I'm no domestic Goddess myself but it is obvious to me that Kate is definitely not coping at all. There are piles of clothes and rubbish stacked all over the place. No wonder it smells so bad. I realise I should have definitely checked up on Kate earlier. Obviously nobody else is making sure she is okay. I check round all of downstairs but can't see her so I head upstairs. As I do I can't help but imagine Greg's last moments being right where I'm stood. Something about this place has a very bad vibe.
All the doors upstairs are open except the bedroom. I hesitate for a moment as she is probably asleep. What if she has work or something the next day? I don't want to frighten her. But then again, I really want her to know I popped round. Perhaps she'll be more inclined to ask for help when she needs it if she knows I do care.
I creak open the door and all I can do is stand there. Kate is sat slumped against a mirror leaning on the wall. The room stinks of stale urine and I notice the stain on the carpet surrounding Kate. I wrinkle my nose and call out her name but she doesn't respond. I take a deep breath and hold it as I walk towards her. I shake her shoulder but it is cold. She is pale and not breathing. It clicks in my head what is happening and I go numb. For some reason I feel I should lie her on her back. I pull her away from the mirror and I see it is smashed and there are shards of glass in her face. But then I notice something else. There is a sewing needle and thread in front of her, and through the blood I can see she had stitched a part of her face. Her right eyebrow is sewn upwards into a permanent arch.
