Pieces of Marion

June

These are the good times. These are the best times. I could sit here and think back as far as I can remember; I could draw out memories of the past; of my past self and past experiences, and I know this with certainty- these are the good times. I try to envision the future as far ahead as I'm able to. I think of all the places and people I could meet and visit; I try and imagine every possible tangent and digression in my future narrative; and still I know this with certainty- these are the best times. I suppose in some ways it's sad, knowing I'll never again be this happy or content, but in this moment I give myself over to this sensation of bliss. The feeling is almost like weightlessness, this feeling of love.

Grey clouds roll quickly over the skies, like smoke from a distant fire. The wind whips up the lighter debris found across the vacant boardwalk. The few trees standing alongside the roads have all lost their leaves; their skeletal forms bowed by the winds blowing in from the sea. The smell of salt hangs in the air while a gently rain falls from the heavens, soaking the earth below. What is usually alive with the laughter of children and the chatter of families during the summer months, has been forgotten for the winter. It's here in this desolate strip that Benjamin and I gather, at the end of the boardwalk; we watch the waves rise and break against the wooden columns of the pier.

'Are you happy?' I ask, while brushing pebbles into the ocean.

He leans against the rusted railings, smoking a cigarette while staring into the horizon. ' I think so. I mean, I don't think I'd want to be anywhere else right now. I mean, nowhere without you. Is that what happiness is?' He flicks his cigarette into the ocean.

I rest my head against his leg and light a cigarette of my own. ' I think so.'

I know all too well that he's happy, just as he knows that I am. What we both know, but will never tell the other is that we hate ourselves. We hate the feeling of being in our own skin, the reflection that stares back at us in the mirror. Insecurity, regret and guilt are the emotional crosses both of us bear, and both of us are too broken to bear them in anything other than silence. In this mutual knowing we both find a kind of solidarity, in being with one another we no longer need to struggle against ourselves. In this way our love is rooted in the other, a love given to each other which we cannot give to ourselves.

I  get onto my feet and stand alongside Benjamin, mimicking his stance; arms rested on the railings, while I stare into the distance.

'I don't want to freak you out or anything Benj, but I think I might be falling in love with you. It's like when we're not together, the time between is just a pointless interlude to me seeing you again. I love just... being around you. Knowing that you're there. And most of all, I trust you. I don't think you'd lie or do anything to intentionally hurt me. I think that's love.'

As soon as the words leave my mouth I feel a little embarrassed. I turn to him and let out a little chuckle.

'That sounds bad, doesn't it?'

He turns to face me and puts his hands under my jacket, then pulls me toward him, holding me tightly, while resting his chin on my head. Over these past months I've given plenty of thought about what exactly it is the draws me to Benjamin. All the usual definitive characteristics are there, he makes me laugh, he's easy to talk to and I find him attractive. What characterises my budding love for him is the trust I feel growing between us. I trust in the fact that for him to hurt me, he would only be hurting himself, it would mean a return to the lonely and destructive solitude that both of us have come to know all too well.

He lets go of me and looks at me with a soft grin. The rain has started picking up and water droplets are forming on his face, they start running down his face, and eventually drip off his nose and chin. He locks his little finger into mine as we walk across the boardwalk, the rain and wind howling at our backs as we make our way to the parking lot. These are the good times, of this, I am certain.



February

'Style, form, rhythm and pacing. These are some of the basic elements of prose that we hope to teach you in the coming months. They are present in any example of significant literature, used in different ways, but these fundamentals are required if you ever hope on getting yourselves published. These are the tools we hope you, with enough commitment and resolve, will have mastered by the end of the course. But one cannot rely on tools alone. You will also need to plumb the depths of your imagination to find the creativity needed to write a meaningful piece of fiction. Natural talent is also important in this regard, however this is something that cannot be taught. But the most vital element to storytelling is perspective. A unique look into the world and the way in which it operates, in both the social and psychological. Individual and collective. You need to be able to pour yourself out onto the page, truly express who you are, and why exactly it is we should give a damn in the first place. These are what we call the raw materials of writing. Should you master the tools of the trade, you then get to work on applying them to your raw materials, and well...that's how novels are born.'

The professor takes his eyes off the page he has been focusing on to survey the class before him. How many times has he looked out into faces just like these, giving this same exact speech? Is this part of their unique perspective, I wonder. They have been guided throughout their lives to this very point. They have always been the outsiders, the moody ones, all of them with their "unique perspectives". They sit here because they have been categorised using the simplest possible definitions.

The professor starts moving between the rows of desks, with his head held high, as if addressing his constituents.

" Your exclusive outlook, eccentricities, your traits. Your strengths and flaws. All of these need to come together in a single, coherent process whereby you express yourselves. We're only interested in what YOU have to say. But finding that voice is up to you."

The class listens with rapt attention, hanging on to every word and lesson. A boy with gangly brown hair eagerly takes down notes, looking up intermittently to absorb more of the professor's words. He has appearance of someone who is shy and soft-spoken, those kids without many friends who spend their time alone, earphones pushed deep into their ears. I think this boy's name is Travis.  I remember this because he attended one of the induction classes earlier in the semester. Travis had been awarded a scholarship by winning an essay writing contest. His work had been described as 'moody and isolated' while Travis himself had been dubbed a 'rare talent'.  Good for Travis. He had found his voice, and I doubt whether he ever had to look for it. I doubt any of the kids in this class had to search for too long in finding their voices. The question is not whether they will ever find a voice, but rather, is there anyone willing to listen.



April

'I like your shirt'

That's all he says as he hands back my lighter. He's dressed in too much black and when he leans forward his fringe hangs just over his eyes. He looks as though he's stepped out of a movie from the eighties.

I smile and nod, taking the lighter. His name is Benton and I'll never forget him.



February

I remember a particular week when I was a little girl. During this week, I would go to bed, turn off all the lights, and after a minute or two I would begin to hear the soft drone of a mosquito, and when I woke in the morning my feet and legs would be covered in red, itchy sores.

On the first two nights of being visited by my mosquito, his buzzing would keep me awake, and I would lay awake, frustrated, until finally getting up to turn switch on the lights, grab a shoe, and try and hunt him down. But as soon as I would switch on the light, the sound would stop. It was almost as though he knew what the flood of light signalled, that danger was coming. He would land and hide until I finally gave up the hunt, switched off the light and returned to bed. Clever mosquito.

On the third night I felt a sense of relief and familiarity as he flew around my head, the humming sound a kind of catharsis. I would listen to his movements as he circled my still form, trying to feel him landing on my legs, trying to feel his stinger pierce my flesh.

On the fourth and fifth nights I felt no doubt that he would be back, we seemed to have routines in perfect synch. I would switch off the lights, pull the blankets up to my chin, exposing my legs and wiggling my toes. Sure enough, it was only a matter of minutes before too long I would hear the familiar hum, and the pauses which signalled his landing on me. The next morning I would awake and my feet would be covered in red sores, like kisses from an old friend.

On the sixth night I approached our relationship in a more philosophical sense. We existed in a kind of symbiosis. I took comfort in knowing that every night, at the same hour, he would be there. This was the first time in my life that I knew what it felt like to trust, and it always left me feeling at ease. Conversely, I knew that he relied on me just as much as I did on him. I pictured him hiding in darkness during the day, patiently waiting for nightfall, for the time when I would arrive. I imagined him feeling the same ease that I felt every night, while he took me in, sucking on my blood and as he became a part of me, the same blood coursing through both our veins.

On the seventh night he did not come. I turned off the lights and lay in bed, waiting. The sound of silence was all encompassing, and the dark all the more blacker. I lay awake desperately trying to stay awake, waiting for the familiar sound of my mosquito. As I drifted into unconsciousness I knew he wouldn't return. This was the first time I felt the weight of abandonment. The way it pushed me down, and how I would struggle to lift that weight.



July

She stands hunched over the sink, a look of complete concentration on her face. I know that she has heard the click of the door opening, and that she feels me staring at her.

She would have received the letter from the university some time ago, but rather than tell me she instead kept it to herself. Fully aware that payments had fallen behind, she must have thought if she ignored the letters for long enough, the university would forget in the same way that she tries to forget. Forget about money, forget about the family, forget it all. But they didn't forget. Instead, I was subjected to the humiliation of being called out of class into the deans office, then asked if I was aware of the letters they had sent. After stammering and being unable to reply, the dean could see the sincere look of shock on my face. Then the further humiliation of having to hear, in his most sympathetic tone, that my tuition had not been paid, and that I could not complete the semester. He said that he was very sorry.

'Hey, Mom'

'Hello'

She doesn't look up. The look of concentration does not fade, as though it's meant to repel me.

'I spoke with the dean today. I've been kicked out of school. The payments had fallen too far behind.'

She looks up with an expression of carefully simulated concern on her face.

'They can't just kick you out, Marion, You're one of their top students. I'll speak with them after the weekend, don't worry sweetie, I'll get it all sorted.

Her words are meant to be sympathetic and reassuring, but her tone is dismissive. As if we ended the discussion, my problems with the university would end too.

'Mom. This is serious. They won't take me back.'

She drops a plate into the soupy water. Her hair is frizzled, the sleeves of her shirt are wet and bits of wet food cling to her fingers.

'What do you expect me to say? I've tried, Marion. All I do is give my best for you. I'll speak to them on Monday and sort it out, can we please just drop this. I'm exhausted and I have to leave for work soon.'

And just like that she's become the victim. The poor overworked mother who only does her best.  I can't ask anymore than that of her. A familiar sense of exhaustion and defeated rinses over me, and I can't say anymore.