Aching bodies

The shop was an aching space, too big and curved. It felt like it was too old, too worn, like it wanted to give up and cave in. Monday 08 till 17, Tuesday 08 till 17, Wednesday 11 till 17, Thursday 08 till 17, Friday 08 till 17, Saturday 11 till 16, not on Sunday. Most of the time. In theory. It made the other bodies shiver and groan when the times changed, when they were late, when it didn’t run to plan, and no one knew what was happening. But don’t ask, then you just got shushed. 

Time to go

The world continued to go by, but she just sat there, heart pounding, trying to control the low wail escaping her lips. Movement up, movement left, movement down, movement right. Time passes both slowly and like a shot. The low night rush crept up as the sun dimmed. She had gone past the point of hunger now, but ever limb felt heavy and useless. Sharp breezes caused slow jitters to run up and down the spine. She bit her tongue and slithered down the rough brick wall. Feet on cold pebbles. Jolt, run, before people notice you.

Grey Days

The darkest days were the grey days. Grey days; when there was nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to feel. To be given paper, to be told to colour inside the lines. To be told no, the tree can’t be purple, or yellow, or blue. To be given 1+2=, 2+2=, 3+2=, until even the crunching boredom of nothingness was better. Sheets would be left unanswered, bodies would wander and wail. “Come on” the red one would say, “you know this!” You do, you do know this. You have known this a long time. And its mind crushing.

Stay high above it all

People scuttled past in the noon sunlight that made its way through the cracks between the blocks of buildings looming. Hats dancing in lines. Stopping. Starting. An unknown game. Hunger made her shrivel into her skin, but too many people and no destination. People move so unpredictably, erratically, quickly while internal organs jostled and creaked. She played out going down in her head, but the scene kept changing and the people kept turning. One foot out, quickly now, but a dark blue newspaper man’s hat whisked past. That one was new. Jolt back. Stay safe.

Dinner slops

The room always felt full and anxious at dinner time. Bodies gurgled and flapped, and cried for food. When the breads came, or the grains, or the pastas, with the meats, they were observed, poked, and flipped. They were thrown and stolen and re-stolen. But seldom eaten. Confused corpse like being turned their noses up and sobbed for anything else. The quieter ones, the less ‘sever’ ones, ate quietly, picking up the bits they liked, curled up in corners, hoping that they wouldn’t be the victim of an unexpected outburst of anger. They left without saying thank you.

Safety

Pipes clinked in the pervasive breeze that started to invade under the skin. Her limbs flew around, unaccustomed as they were to such movement. Too quickly breath escaped her and she had to start walking. Strange roads and soft damp paper and small sharp green glass. She couldn’t miss it all but her feet were blocks of ice, unaware of attack. Pink light started to build shapes on brick walls. Bones ached and shook. She needed a spot. She looked higher than people look and saw an information pipe sticking out. Tired armes managed the impossible. She curled up.

A Joke

A chicken, a weasel, and a pipe walk into a bar. The barman asks the chicken (imagine your best grumpy voice) “What can I get you?” The chicken hisses, so he gives him a balloon to empty. He then asks the weasel “What can I get you?” The weasel chatters, so the barman decides he wants a chattering thing, so he gives him a cricket.  Finally he asks the pipe “What can I get you?” the pipe says nothing, so he gets nothing. I think I told the joke wrong. I can’t remember, it’s supposed to be funny. 

Silky soft

If you ever get the chance to stand bare food in cold, soft, silky mud, promise me now that whatever the situation, whatever you’re running from, however far you need to be, you stop for a second and enjoy the way in slides through the spaces between your toes. Give yourself the time to feel yourself attached to the world before pulling yourself out and going on. The uneven pavement felt warmer than the stone floor. She felt her stomach start to rise again, remembering she had to press on. She looked writing-hand-left and broke into a run. 

Red

She had once tried to talk to one of them. They had said “feel free to chat to any of us about absolutely anything that’s on your mind.” Given that had been at the beginning, when loved ones had come and observed the clean labyrinth corridors, the smiling guardians on every door post, and the fogged eyes of the older bodies. She had tried to talk to the round one, with curly red hair and small, wide set eyes. “Do you like red?” she asked. The women's small, wide set eyes turned to cracks. “Don’t be rude” she said.

Round and round and round

The air hung, bone cutting. Every movement felt like an unnecessary expenditure of energy. But she pressed on. The corridors stitched together in unlikely ways. She traced and retraced her steps, feeling hot wet rise in her chest. Someone was coming. No they weren’t. But they would be. A door? No it’s locked. She tried another. And another. She went up stairs, down stairs, took all lefts, took all rights, trying every possible door, chest tightening. Sun would be coming. A window, an open window. She pushed through and slipped onto damp, dew droplet mud.

Names

“It’s better just to go, whatever name they shout” he said. Him, every-bodies-closest-him, every-bodies-confident-him, every-bodies-comforter-him. “It’s worse if you don’t, ‘cos if you go, and they didn’t mean you, you’re just daft. If you don’t go and they mean you, then you’re dis-o-bed-i-ent, an’ that’s worse than being daft.” He grinned at that. Later he told me “Names don’t really mean much anyways, you know what your friend looks like.” He wasn’t right about that one. He didn’t know what his friends looked like. He let them put the blame on him. And then we all lost our closest.

A most dangerous night to be out

Soft clear moonlight distorted the ladders snaking up the walls as far as she dared look up. Slivers of rickety shelving held stone pillows, crackling blankets, and crusty sheets. Every toe lightly placed on every rung unleashed a new orchestra of creeks that resonated centimeters away from the sleeper. Maybe she should just go back up? Like last night. And the night before that. But no, nearly there now. Cold stone finally met stiff feet. She glanced back. Whether she made it or not, she wasn’t going meet the morning with these bodies.