The thick coat of fog bound and gathered my emotions.
I stood on the edge of the head of a cliff that had just recently been rained upon. My eyes scanned the land below the peak, at the edge of the reserve of Bear River. The fog was egging me on, provoking me to come completely undone.
‘I’ being- Alice. Sixteen. Brown eyes. Big, full mouth, which was fully equipped to say every sarcastic comment that made its way into my head. Messy bangs, to match my long brown, tangled hair. Short, curved body that I was obviously dissatisfied with. Awkward.
It’s a peculiar feeling to have so many thoughts darting through your head, carelessly and roughly striking the walls of your mind. I wanted to take off my skin, in the eerie sort of glow that was the product of the sun’s rays that did not waver, the ones which continued to persevere and break through the fog. I just wanted to shake off everything that had to do with being human because it seemed to me that I wasn’t very good at it.
My eyes moved to the tiny stain on my father’s tacky, yellow coat. I felt like the jacket, disregarded because of its obvious flaws. My father’s poor coat was never missed from the many others in his closet. I felt my fears grip me from my weakest point compressing and forcing out the moistness of tears.
I was the invisible girl. I was the unlovable girl. I was acutely aware of the pathetic nature of my thoughts and feelings. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop it. It was absurd to cling onto something that he had owned, but I had convinced myself that by wearing the coat I could immerse myself in his thought process. I had hoped I would get to know him- just a little at least. Benjamin Pictu, my father, was a man who liked tacky, cheap looking clothes. He liked ketchup and corduroy.
As I carried on with my analysis of my father, series after series of questions interfered, stealing what little confidence I possessed. How much did I really know my father? Was Ben Pictu a man who ate ketchup on hot dogs? Or was it hamburgers that he preferred? Did he really like the colour yellow?
Absent mindedly, I began to slowly remove the coat. As my anger became all consuming my movements became severe. I looked to the sea down below then looked back to the coat in my hands. My rage urged me to do it. I let my finger’s slacken and watched the coat fall. My hands began to feel empty and detached as if a part of them had been severed. I turned my back quickly and walked away.
I felt like I was fading into a ghost of who I used to be, like the cold breaths being blown out of my mouth were parts of my soul floating away from me. I was nearing the trail that lead back down from the cliff when I heard the faintest splash. My heart contracted exaggerated, swollen pumps filling to the rim. The pain pressed and pushed until it penetrated through.
I heard my feet drum and beat against the ground in a panicked state to the edge of the cliff. The rain began to softly make contact with my skin, as I boldly, without fear from slipping, threw my head back and screamed. The insanity, the frustration, the anguish inside of me rose into a climactic rush which bounced off me, meeting the air.
It was then that I slipped, away into the nightmarish sea.
*
We used to sit on a cliff looking down at Bear River, the place where I called home. We would take the ferry down to Brior Island, a small lonely piece of land treading the Atlantic Sea. It was rainy, the kind of rain that would spit on your skin leaving tiny droplets of water. Slade bent down and kissed a droplet off the tip of my nose. I felt my pale cheeks flush to a shade of red. He had never done that before.
That night, I lay in bed, in the quiet dark and felt something wet fall down my cheek. I stopped its plummet down my chin with my tongue, it tasted salty and bitter. I wasn’t prepared; I didn’t know how to handle it. I hadn’t cried for him yet, I hadn’t let myself. It wasn’t as if his death was a surprise, it had been a long time coming. I dragged my hands down my face, and imagined it creak open in my chest. I heard it open, the door to what was his place in my heart. I shut it, and without a sound it was closed again.
I furiously wiped away any evidence of that lonesome tear and let my eyes roam around the room. I used to share my room with my older sister Cecilia, but she moved away. It was a quiet morning in March when she fled. I remember the distinct smell of newness and beginning stirring in the air as it danced into our room, in from the open window next to my bed. It was the smell that always came with Spring, the breaking of the ice, melting of snow and gradual rise in temperature. I remember that the sun was only peering over the horizon, as if it was not yet decided on giving light to Bear River, when I woke up to quiet rustling coming from my sister’s side of the bedroom.
I pretended to sleep, curious to see what she was doing. She left a folded piece of paper on the bed, for me. The letter had read, “I woke up tonight and I realized I can’t stay in this place. There has to be more. Remember, I love you.”
*
My mother’s shop has this one wall on the side of it that ‘s covered in words. They’re scribbled chaotically in a plethora of colours, creating shapes that vaguely resemble letters. My penmanship has never been quite up to par.
I was weird with words, I liked them a lot, so one day I started writing words that other people had said on “my wall”. It didn’t matter to me whether or not they were famous. A lot of the quotes on my wall were from people I overheard talking while eating in the booth next to mine in restaurants or Slade, Mom, even the odd sentence my father would contribute.
Just then I rolled out of my bed, and walked the ten minute distance from my house to the shop. The air was cool around me, as I tucked my arms inside of my coat. I looked up at the wall when I reached the shop. “If I paid attention to what others were thinking the heart inside me would die.”, “Everyone is wearing a disguise to hide what they’ve got left behind their eyes.” I had written those two the year before.
As my eyes scanned the wall over and over again I spotted some quotes written from when I was younger, “The beauty parlour is filled with sailors” “The circus is in town”. At that moment I needed to write something else, something about my father’s death. I took my key to the shop out from my father’s jacket that I wore and unlocked the door. I grabbed a bucket of paint and walked out back to the wall.
My teeth began to chatter as I dipped the paint brush into the bucket. “I- AIN’T-SAYING-YOU-TREATED-ME-UNKIND”, I paused taking a deep breath and trying to make my teeth stop chattering so much, only to continue a second later, “-YOU-COULD-HAVE-DONE-BETTER” I grunted while I wrote them onto the wall, as if the words were sucking all the energy out of me. I looked back up at it, turned my back on it and walked home.
I slinked back into bed. I allowed my arms and legs to spread across the mattress. That’s the way I liked to sleep when I felt alone, at those times when it was too risky to call up Slade to spend the night (without Mom finding out). I would try and fill out the entire bed as if it would somehow help fill the void in my heart that seemed to only be getting bigger. I sighed in an unsatisfied way, a way that I was getting used to.
*
My mind suddenly flashed back to the waves pulling me under their cold, grey-blue cloak.
I was tired…so very tired. I wanted it to stop. I urged silently in my head as the waves torpedoed inside my nostrils, twisting and bending in serrated movements into my lungs. I vomited the salty water…until there was nothing.
