Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Catherine Deveny told me to shut the fuck up and write
Grandad on his deathbed (talking to me more than he ever had).
He went into details of why he was brought into hospital. That his lungs were like deflated balloons and he had to come to get them filled up again. He was so frail and vulnerable. Then he was being fed by a nurse and I’m not sure what the feeling was; pity? When his bed cover fell and I saw more of him that I ever have or ever wanted to, something else shifted and I was sad. Because this was the most conversation we had ever had and he wasn’t coming out of that hospital. He died telling my cousin all these war stories that, to this day, haven’t been shared. “Too distressing” were my cousins words. I’m not sure I ever want to hear them. But I am sad that I was never his favourite, or ever even talked about. I guess he had too many grandchildren.
Getting dropped home to bed and dad leaving to go gambling with mum.
I think I am about ten years old and my dad drives me and my sister home very late at night. He thinks I am asleep so he takes my sister, puts her in the car and starts the engine. I don’t remember past the sound of the front door closing. I start to cry because I am alone. I think my brother is in the house but I know he doesn’t know I’m home, so he doesn’t care.
I am 19 and going out with a very tall, handsome German guy.
We are at a party and his skinhead friends tell him they ought to “teach him a lesson” about being with someone like me. He is angry, I think, but he doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he remembers that.
I don’t know if what I write is interesting. I just have to keep writing. I’m not sure it will make sense. I just know it makes me feel better.
Emo
What I had forgotten was how soothing the cube actually was. Apart from being a ritual after the deed, the smoothness of the colours and the jarring of the clacking shapes actually became a comfort to me over time. I watched her not moving in my rear view and kept flicking the squares in my pocket. I had never known whether or not I had ever gotten the puzzle correct; never pulled it out to see. I just knew it had to be with me and played with it after I did what I had to do. I dialled a number, gave coordinates and hung up. I drive away and a mere two minutes later, passed an ambulance. It was all falling into place. Hopefully she doesn’t die. That was never what I intended. I just wanted her to see me… really see me. The way I wanted to be seen.
The Japanese have a saying that an incomplete puzzle is a burdened life. I never wanted to complete the puzzle. I don’t even know if I was ever interested in it. It’s always just been the ritual of having it with me. The comfort that it was a part of what I had done. Every second day I drove past her running. It was the same dirt road every time. I always gave her the obligatory wave as I drove by; friendly and acknowledging.
When they were small they were given these presents. Each of the gifts insignificant to the adult and possibly already used. But it meant something to us children. Mine was the Rubik’s. And as each adult lay a fist on me, I made sure I was holding that cube in one hand. It reminded me of pain and sacrifice. Now I hold the cube in one hand and the other hand holds a mop. I lean on the doorway and stare at her in the hospital bed. She is ok. She will know deep down why I did this but she will never know it was me. She stirs and huskily croaks something- sounds like she needs water.
Next minute I am walking towards her. I nervously look around and bring a cup with a straw to her lips. She drinks gratefully and I feel like a mother cat with a kitten at her teet. Or something. It’s very satisfying; she needs me. She looks at me with questions. “I… I’m the one who called for help” I say. She cries silently. That’s enough for today. I walk out and pick up my mop from the wall outside the room. I pass a man looking like death; pale and almost see-through. He enters the room. He takes her he and and begs for forgiveness for not protecting her. “Who are you?” She asks. The man bursts into fresh tears at the revelation that his beloved wife doesn’t know him.
The next time he is in the room with her, she is still confused. He talks about every day things, presumably about their life together, which she doesn’t know about. She is so beautiful.
Until finally she is well enough to go home. She has almost become numb to this man who claims to be hers. Of course she has suffered a great trauma. Her mind isn’t right. It will take time to remember. He lifts her into the chair and wheels her out to the car. He puts her belongings in the back, makes sure she is comfortable and sets off for home. He takes the road she might remember running along but she makes not motion that she is reminded. He’s smiles and fingers the cube in his pocket.