wildscape. literary journal

I Didn’t Want This
by Laura Marre

            Take me to the highest point you can, on a day when the wind blows your hair over your face and the birds circle frantically in the sky. Early in the morning would be best, so that each breath will fizz and tingle in your nose, and the scent of freedom, of what is still to come, will hit the tip of your tongue and linger there like the heat from the chilli flakes I like sprinkled on my pasta. Make it a day when you can’t wait to get back inside and clasp a cup of hot something between your hands until the cold dissipates from the tips of your fingers and the liquid burns away the cold in your throat.

            Once you are there, please don’t rush. Hold me close to your heart for a while, warm my cold shell with the heat from your body and let each beat of your heart tell us a story. Pick your favourite and wrap it in a soft woollen blanket, care for it as you would a new born baby. Take its scents, its sounds, every tiny detail, and let them meander over your skin and lay down roots in the most ethereal realm of your body. That untouchable place that holds immunity against the ravages of time; your eternal flame, the magic that created you and will never disappear. Do that, and I will never truly be gone.

            Be sure to wear gloves, so that your hands will not struggle to turn the lid. Not the fancy ones at the bottom of your drawer, but ones with a good grip. You won’t want your fingers to slip and fumble, to spill me all over your shoes. And take a picnic blanket with you, one of those ones with a waterproof lining. Lay it on the grass, sit down on it, and get comfortable. You should probably do that first. You could even take along a bottle of my favourite prosecco, the rosé in the pretty bottle that you always admired, pour us both a glass and let its bubbles slip over your tongue and down your throat, let it soothe and blunt the sharp edges.

            You will know when it is time. Do not be afraid. Perhaps take a deep breath first, allow it to give you a glimpse of the freedom you will be gifting me, and the burden you will be freeing yourself from. Then, when you are ready, do not hesitate like you did that time when you jumped off the waterfall at the lakes. Remember the exhilaration of the fall when you eventually leapt, the satisfaction of the plunge into the cold water, the intensity of your pride.

            Do it sitting, or do it standing. Do it whilst leaping into the air or spinning around, arms outstretched and coat flaring like the princess dress you used to wear, even when you grew too big for it.

            Throw me to the wind and let it carry me away. Let it take me to all the places I never got to see and all the places I would wish to return to. Let it whisk me in spiralling circles and take me to dizzying heights. Throw me to the wind and give me the greatest gift I can imagine when I can no longer have you. Toss the dust of my dreams into the air so that I may dance all over the world, lighter and even more magical than a dandelion’s whispery seeds.

            See my virtuoso turns and jumps. Marvel at them. They will be the best I have ever done.

            I cannot say how you will feel afterwards. I cannot know. I will not be able to hold you and make your pain vanish with a kiss. But anyway, it has been an awfully long time since I could work that magic with any kind of ease. What I do know is that while I will be flying through the clouds and treetops, I will also be in you, as I have always been. And you will be with me. After all, we are made from each other. No goodbyes then, and I’ll come and visit you in the spaces between dreams.

*

            That is the letter I wrote for you. I wrote it on beautiful, pale pink paper with fine silver patterns traced at its edges. It lies crisp and neat and safe within its matching envelope, within a folder, in a drawer, in an office somewhere. I remember it word for word because I toiled over it for weeks in search of perfection. With my eyes closed, I can see the words running across the sheets of paper. Neat and controlled to begin with, then gradually sloppier, as my handwriting slid into its usual scrawl.

            As I lie here, on the cold, hard floor, I wish that I had never written it. Because now, when you read it, it will only make things worse. Now, you will never be able to send me whirling into the sky. I will never be able to dance forever under the sun and among the stars.

            He asked me what I preferred, this elegant man still wearing his tuxedo. An impossible decision, so he made it for me. He has begun with my extremities. First, the little finger of my left hand, next, the smallest toe of my right foot. I don’t know what he injected into my neck, but it has rendered me motionless. I wish it had also taken away my ability to feel. Not only the sharp knife that he held before my eyes and tilted to and fro beneath the harsh fluorescent strip lighting until it shone; the one that he is using to slice me to pieces. Not only that, but the sandy grit beneath the back of my body, the freezing air on my skin, the one jagged stone digging into the small of my back. The utter terror running through my veins. The regret. The pain. All of it. All of the agonies, real and imagined, past and present.

            I am crying, and he thinks it funny. How much joy he is getting from this. Look how he smiles.

            He is telling me that the pieces of me will be so small, and he will scatter them so far and wide that no one will ever be able to find enough of them to put me back together again.

            He is laughing, basking in his own ingenuity like the neighbour’s cat basks in the heat of the sun outside my back door. An intrusion, both of them.

            You will never take me to the highest point you can, on a day when the wind blows your hair over your face and the birds circle frantically in the sky. I am so sorry.

about the author // Laura Marre