Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`
The first time she rode a motorbike, things all went to shit. She thought she was so cool. She had a boyfriend who wore a leather jacket, and tight denim jeans that emphasized his arse. She loved his arse. She loved sitting behind him, feeling his strength, the humming between her legs, the smell of his leather jacket. But like I said, it didn’t end well. I told you, I warned you. it all went down the plughole fast. Like, 100km an hour around a blind corner kind of fast. The kind of fast that sends thrills right through your body, and makes you feel alive, and sexy, and desirable. The kind of fast that sends the bike spinning out of control, skidding, sickeningly along the tarmac. The kind of fast that leaves him lying next to her with his brains half out of his head and his face ripped off. The kind of fast that changes your life, forever. Like I said, it all went to shit.
The next time she saw him, it was in his father’s eyes at the funeral. The grief, raw and powerful hit her like a fucking sledgehammer. She felt guilt burn deep within her, acidic and lumpy, rising like bile until she felt like she was going to choke. She wanted to run to him and fling her arms around him, weeping, inhaling his scent, to see if she could find his son in there. She wanted to run away, far far from those eyes, those searing, sad, haunted eyes. She wanted to crawl inside of him; she never wanted to see him again. Her arms ached, a relentless dull reminder of what she had become, reminding her, taunting her. She couldn’t fucking run anywhere.
It was brilliant. Just fucking brilliant. Their eyes met, and the intensity rose within her, rushing through her body relentlessly and out through her mouth. Spew, hot, pungent, yellow, disgusting, poured out of her, over her useless legs, dripping down into her black boots, and pooling in her lap. She heard a snort and looked up. Jessica Wildman was there, posh and beautiful in a tailored black suit, a diamond necklace around her neck; face curled in disgust. The next minute, she felt her chair being turned around and she was propelled through the crowd. “Fucks sake, that’s one way to draw attention to yourself” the voice of an angel with Jessica Wildman’s cold heart. “Is that your usual party trick, or do you just save it for special occasions?”. She turned around to face her unlikely savior. Tall and scrawny, the kind of glossy brown hair that you can only find in magazines. She was immaculate, an appearance that only money and breeding – very good breeding could buy. Their eyes locked.
It got wet then, very bloody wet. It was like the entire years’ worth of bloody rainfall of NSW had decided to empty itself on us in that moment. “Fuck!”. The rain pooled in my lap along with the vomit, sending more tipping over my knees into my boots. Jessica Wiseman turned and ran, leaving me there in the middle of the field. “Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”. I wanted to die, I needed to die. I needed to get a big orange rope and tie a noose and hang myself from the nearest tree. I couldn’t face the funeral. If I was honest with myself, I would never have been able to face that funeral, even without the big chunks of spew that clung to me. Even without Jessica Wiseman’s tanned legs running away from me as fast as they could. It was stupid of me to think that it was possible. I couldn’t bear to think of him, so vital, full of life and bravado.
So tired, can’t think, can’t think. What the fuck do I do now? How do I get out of here with any semblance of dignity? I pissed myself. Fuck. Too late for that then. Can I call an Uber to the middle of a fucking paddock? Yeah, that would be fantastic. Can you please send your next driver to pick up a vomit and piss-soaked paraplegic from a field next to this funeral? That would be great, thanks. Five stars right there. I cursed him. I cursed him for being dead instead of me; but for a roll of the dice, it would have been me. It should have been me. I howled, I cried, I sobbed, snot running down my face, my eyes became like inflatable tyres, raw, scratched and bleeding. I cried and cried and cried, until finally I had nothing else left in me. I knew what I needed to do. I had been carrying them around ever since the accident, for this very moment. I was nothing if not dramatic, and this seemed as good a place as any for my final swansong. I groped around under my piss-soaked arse, under the blanket until I felt the cool thin blade of the scissors. My muscles flexed.