Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
What took you so long? He’s irritated and suspicious, holding something in his hand, flicking it against the palm of the other. I squint in the din to see it is a newspaper clipping. Subliminally, he’s accusing me of something, but I know he won’t say what it is, so I don’t ask.
I stammer. Um, I was, well I was trying to get to the money exchange before it closed. He moves across the room to study my face for lies. I can see the black and white picture in his hand, creased and senseless and out of place in this situation. I wanted to…
Thought you could do it without me did ya? There it is; accusation number one.
No no no I say, shaking my head, comforting his worries, assuring his control. I know I don’t need him. I wanted to exchange this money for you. I smile, sweet and innocent, tugging the scrunched up note from my pocket.
I had hoped they would offer me maybe ten dollars for this note. I thought it would be worth something. As it turned out, I couldn’t exchange it at all. The place was closed. But the signs in the door suggested that the money wouldn’t be worth very much at all.
I’m keen to change the subject. What’s that? I point to the picture, and he glares at me, his eyes wide and disbelieving.
This is us, he says, emphasising the last word and handing the clipping to me. His eyes are dark and there are baggy circles around them and his entire face cracks into a fucked up laugh. I examine the static image, the white criss-crossed lines where the paper had been folded again and again. A skeleton sitting awkwardly on an art deco lounge, beside it a naked body curled up all flesh and pillowy limbs.
I shake my head in dismissal. His humour is hard to understand. I don’t get the joke.
Where the fuck did you get money from anyway? The focus is me again. He hasn’t forgotten his suspicions. He is close to snapping. He is feeling the itch. He snatches the note from my hand, turning it over and over to inspect it. His face scrunches up; confusion, annoyance. The face of Singapore’s monetary chairman is looking up at him, wistful and proud. I know this, because I too have studied that two dollar note intensely.
In the early days, I would have been worried about how he would react to me. I would have been shocked at his jagged outbursts. But today I am bored with him. It would be odd to see him react in any other way.
This isn’t fucking money he says as he tries to throw the money angrily back at me. Gravity catches it almost immediately, and it flutters delicately onto the carpet. I hide my smile at the futility, at his anger for me which is as impotent as he is.
What is your surname, girl. He says it, he doesn’t ask it.
Blake I say, giving him his own last name and forcing my gaze to my toes. There is dirt under the nails, and the knuckles have turned brown. I think about washing my feet after he goes to sleep, even though I know I won’t. It’s a good distraction in the meantime.
_
He has fallen asleep on the couch after stabbing at the tv remote and growling under his breath. He is always oblivious to me after a good mocking or an uncomfortable fucking. The stupid clipping is still on the couch next to him. I want to take it and burn it, but more than that I don’t want to wake him up. That’s why it takes me a minute or two to latch the door when I leave.
The night outside is cold. I never considered that when I left but I can’t go back. Too risky.
Fingering the Singaporean money in my pocket, I wonder if it will be any good to use at the Asian deli on the corner, though I doubt it.
His picture clung to my mind like sticky marinade. Who was the strangely disfigure skeleton? Who was the fleshy entranced body? Things went downhill quick with us. Sunshine, moonlight, good times, boogies…that was the guy I used to know.
And now he is lost in a void of incorrect adaption and mistaken identity. And I am trapped in a void of my own.
_
It takes me nearly an hour to follow the bike path in the dark to Petty’s house. When I knock on the door it nearly falls off its hinges and the window beside it has been smashed out so many times he doesn’t bother replacing it anymore. What a sad line of work he is stuck with. I think about how I am stuck with it too.
Petty has one of his girlfriends open the door. She is tall and skinny and blonde. Her eyes are doughy. Her mouth is flat-lining. There are no cheeks lining her cheekbones. She doesn’t look at me but leaves the door open so I can let myself in.
The room is hazy with about five girls sitting on lounges smoking a joint of impressive size. Petty’s in the kitchen one of them mutters, not looking away from the movie blaring at them five feet away.
I navigate through the hallway down to the kitchen, and find Petty with his bong and his xbox. I wish my life could be that simple.
We exchange pleasantries and I cut to the chase. I need tick. Petty laughs, shaking his head.
I’m disappointed in you Girl, he says. Petty was two years below me at school, but he still calls me girl. It’s his birthright apparently. I wave the two dollars from Singapore under his nose.
This is all I have! I don’t even think it’s worth anything.
I can tell Petty feels sorry for me, underneath his mask of stubble and testosterone. So I say It’s for him Petty. He’s losing the plot.
And twenty minutes later, I am back on the bike track. My heart is beating. I’m in a rush. I know there is an old abandoned corolla at the back of the carpark. It’s been there months. I’m surprised no one has torched it yet. I pull at the rusty chrome handle and shove open the door. The inside is dry and quiet and dark. I know no one can see me in here.
I search under the seat, palpitations in my throat until my fingertips graze the black plastic box I stashed there last week. I pull the ring top and retrieve the last tool in the kit.
I have a little tin can for the garbage, I drained the soup from it but left the lid mostly attached. This is where I stuff the paper rubbish that I peel methodically from the fit. I pop the orange cap off the end and place it carefully on the dash for reuse.
I wrap my left hand around my right arm, just above the veins and squeeze. They burst purple and blue. I feel as though I cannot breathe, so I take a moment to steady myself. I hate shaking this much.
When the tip of the needle enters the skin, the vein, I pull back a little and see the red mini mushroom cloud explode back into the syringe. Gently push. The warmth fills my throat, my neck and my spine. I lean back into the old polyester seat and close my eyes. I promise this will be my last taste.