Escape (short fiction)

 

Emily Wilstrom fled the house in darkness. It was the early hours of the morning, although she did not dare check the time. Slipping silently from her bed, she laced her sneakers, grabbed the bag she’d prepared, and crept softly over creaking floorboards to the back screen-door where, with trembling fingers, she carefully lifted the hook and slid out into the night.

Then she ran.

She was a pale apparition flying silently through the night. The house had been her grave. A prison and death to her. Escape was her only option - if she ever hoped to live.

Before she left, she had made sure he slept soundly. Her husband could not wake. He must not wake while she was leaving him. The thought of that giant man raging like a wild bear after her … and if he caught her … his monstrous hands could rip her to shreds. She’d experience the violence of those powerful vice-like hands too many times – with broken bones and hundreds of bruises to prove it.

She knew she had one single chance to escape. He would never allow her a second try. The tiny blue tablets she’d crushed into his ice-cream would hopefully give her that chance. They would send him tumbling into a deep abyss of somnolence for the hours it took her to escape. Although, she wasn’t completely sure he’d eaten much of his dessert and, as she hadn’t wanted to hurt him, the dosage was probably insufficient. Yet it was a risk she accepted.

Emerging into the cool darkness, she sensed great danger. Its threat was attached to everything: in every sound she made, in every second she was delayed, in every mistake that occurred. It filled the air she breathed and sounded with the chirping of the crickets: dan-ger, dan-ger, dan-ger, dan-ger.

Her legs were wings flying blindly through a dark monochrome world, lifting her up and over the brick retaining wall at the rear boundary of their property, then along the pale ribbon of gravel which snaked and knotted its way across the open paddocks she knew so well, towards the yawning black opening of the forest.

A cold breeze rustled leaves high up in the trees, and it whispered through the grass: h-u-r-r-y, h-u-r-r-y…. And, hidden in the night shadows, an owl hooted a warning of threat - a repeated motif which sounded and echoed and dissolved again into silence: go--go--go …

Her arms swung ahead of her darting body, pulling away at branches and vines in her way, and her feet pounded against the hard loose dirt of the path along which she strained to see in the dim dripping blue light which filtered through the dense gnarled canopy above. Desperately, she navigated her way around boulders and fallen branches which littered the ground, and she ignored the sharp clawing fingers of thorned hawthorn branches which reached out and grabbed at her limbs, scratching them so deeply that warm blood oozed in trickling rivulets down her skin into her hands and socks. Terror numbed the pain, and her only awareness of discomfort was the burning she felt in her chest, as she ran and ran past the point of exhaustion - gasping and gulping in mouthfuls of cold air as she continued on and on.

And, through it all, her mind repeated one single focused command: E-s-c-a-p-e.

After more than an hour of running, she came to a clearing in which the moon shone more brightly, with the trees more sparsely situated around a rushing body of water. Finally, she stopped and took in a deep cautious breath of relief. She stepped closer to the beautiful flowing river, watching the moonlight gleam in dancing petals of blue across its surface. Nearby, her husband’s fishing boat was chained and locked to the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. With shaking fingers, she reached deep inside her pocket and pulled out the key to the lock. She had made a copy of the key months earlier, knowing that without a car and being so far from town, this was her only real hope to escape and travel the long distance quickly.

Using the key, she released the chains which bound the boat to this hellish place of isolation and danger. She then pushed the boat out into the water, threw in her bag, and jumped in after it, grabbing the oars but letting the strong current do most of the work for now.

As she caught her breath, she enjoyed the budding glow of freedom and safety which began to stir in her soul. She’d planned the many steps that were to follow, for the start of her new life, but the hardest part was now behind her. She knew that from here she would be okay.

Smiling with relief, she reflected on the night. She had escaped.

Responsibility (short story)

 

Jayne lugged the last crate of freshly washed beer-glasses to the front-bar and restocked the shelves. Glancing around the busy room, she wiped over the polished oak counter and reflected on the controlled chaos that was her life. It was another Saturday night, after eleven years of Saturday nights, working in Flannery’s Pub. She knew most of the customers and her routine had become so familiar she could do it in her sleep. In fact, on nights when she was especially exhausted, she often dreamt about working long after her head hit the pillow.

She was Manager now which, she knew, was less about her prowess in the job, and more about the fact her young colleagues kept leaving. They moved on to better paying jobs or, if they had studied at University, they moved on to professional careers. She, meanwhile, was going nowhere. Her employers knew it. Her colleagues knew it. The customers and everyone in town knew it. In a world which moved endlessly forward, her life had escaped this Universal Law of Physics and remained dead still.

Gradually, as the years marched forward, she noticed that her colleagues seemed to grow younger and younger, until eventually she no longer felt like she was one of them. She didn’t understand their vernacular, music, or computer-games; and their interests and worries were no longer the same as hers. Increasingly, they were leaving her out of their jokes and gossip, presumably assuming that she would find their conversations dull. Yet, she was happy enough with how things were. She liked her customers, the shifts fitted in well with the demands and responsibilities of her life, and she felt lucky to have a job in a small town with few employment opportunities.

A blast of cold air suddenly rushed across the room, sending serviettes flying, as the front-door banged open and two young women entered. Jayne looked up from her work, expecting that she would probably recognise who they were.

The young women remained standing beside the doorway, folding umbrellas and removing coats. They were scanning the room, seemingly in search of an empty table. Both were tall and pretty and appeared to be in their late 20’s. They were also beautifully dressed in clothes which could only have been bought in one of the larger cities, as the smaller rural towns, like the one in which Jayne lived, didn’t stock anything so impractical or expensive.

The women laughed loudly. All eyes turned in their direction, but they continued laughing, lost in their own amusement. The sound of their laughter was somehow familiar to Jayne. It was the first thing about the women that she recognised. But the memories were from so long ago. From a time when Jayne’s life had been very different from how it was now. So different that to think about it brought tears to her eyes and left a dark heaviness on her heart.

Annoyed at herself, Jayne reflected on the importance of stoicism. Sentimentality, after all, was for people without all the responsibilities she carried. Straightening up, she fixed her eyes on the women’s faces, which were growing increasingly familiar. It had been ten years earlier, and their faces were younger then. In fact, all of their faces were younger then, hers included. And they had all been so happy. Together. Happy and hopeful and young together.

The tears welled in her eyes once more and she wiped them away roughly with the sleeve of her dress. She shook her head in an attempt to shake away the foolish emotions. Pointless. So long ago. And I was a someone else back then.

But the memories were bubbling to the surface. Faster and faster, they bubbled around her. Memories that she hadn’t let herself dwell on for so many years. She tried – but she couldn’t push them away. They were like treasures she’d buried far away under the ocean, but now they’d worked their way loose – unexpectedly – and they floated one after the other to the surface, then on a tide back to her. Beautiful memories. Golden memories. Jewels of memories of happiness and hope.

No! That was a long time ago, she told herself. Too long ago. She had responsibilities now. People … people she loved depended on her. Those were the hopes of another life and another time and another person. A child with impossible impractical dreams … and without adult responsibilities.

But, in her head, a voice whispered: Where are you on that list of responsibilities?What about you?

Jayne felt confused. The memories had triggered some sort of mutiny in her mind. She had never considered that what she did in her life was anything other than Necessary. Duty. Fine.

Her heart hammered in her ears like a war-drum. And, the room seemed to be spinning. Jayne grabbed onto the counter, knowing that if she didn’t she might soon collapse to the floor. Her fingers were tingling and her knees had grown weak.

This was terrible. The memories. The women from her past. These successful women who had moved on so far from her that they were now worlds apart. They mustn’t see her. They mustn’t know that she still lived in this tiny town and she still worked in this dead-end job and she had thrown all her dreams and plans away. Plans they had all talked about long into the night over many years. Obviously, they’d followed through with their plans. But her ...

Why did they come back?! Things were fine, until they came back and set free ridiculous ideas and hopes and memories ...

Jayne desperately looked around for her colleague, Ned. Perspiration formed droplets on her forehead and on her palms. Where was he? Way across the room, she spotted him. Clearing tables and chatting to customers.

Oh, geez. He had to take over. She had to go home. Now! The women couldn’t see her. It was all becoming a confusing nightmare. She could phone for a relieving Casual to take her place, once she escaped to a backroom. But she had to let Ned know what she was doing.

He’s not turning around! She knew he would wander around the room chatting and cleaning up and oblivious to her emergency for ages. Too long. So, she would need to cross the room herself to talk to him.

Jayne pulled her hair down over her face and held her hand up to her forehead, like a visor shielding her from a blinding spotlight. She hunched down, scanning the carpet between feet and tables following along an imaginary trail. Almost there. She inched towards her colleague with growing confidence that it would be Okay.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her shoulder from behind and a voice shot out at her: ‘Jayne!’

Maybe it’s another Jayne, she told herself ... and continued forward picking up the pace.

‘Jayne Miller!’ the voice fired out again - only louder. Jayne raised her head and found all eyes in the room were fixed on her. Conversations had stopped and the only sound she could hear was the war-drumming of her heart. She wished the floor would swallow her completely.

Slowly, she straightened up … pulled the hair back from her face … and turned to face her accuser. Aware that her hands were visibly shaking and perspiration was now dripping from her fingers, she swung her arms behind her back and attempted to drag her tongue from the roof of her mouth - where it had become stuck – so she could speak.

With herculean effort, Jayne dragged the corners of her mouth into a smile, then managed to whisper, ‘Hello, Gayle. How are you?’ Then, seeing the other woman racing in her direction, she added, ‘Hello, Amanda.’

The young women wrapped their arms around her, laughing and hugging her in tandem. Jayne became annoyingly aware that she hadn’t felt vulnerable – taken care of by anyone else – in years. She stiffened and pulled away.

The young women stepped back, smiling at her.

‘We haven’t seen you since High-School!’ one said.

‘So, How are you? What are you up to?’ the other added.

Suddenly aware of the uniform Jayne was wearing, they both said in unison:

‘Do you still work here?!’

Oh, jeez, Jayne thought. The obvious question. The dreaded question. The question that held a huge mirror up to her life – focusing on everything she was and did in a glaring accusing spotlight.

The tears had returned and were now running down her cheeks. The word Failure repeated in her mind over and over like a jack-hammer: Fail-ure. Fail-ure. Fail-ure. She had let them down. All those years at school, together, discussing plans and careers and families of their own one day … and all their hopes for the future.

She pinched her finger to stop the tears. It didn’t work. Her emotional defences were broken and the Past was punching her in the face. She knew how scruffy she looked … and her apron smelled of stale beer. Although, her clothes had been fresh and clean at the start of her shift … but, they didn’t know that. And, so what – even if she had been wearing a clean apron …

She focused her attention on a spot on the carpet - willing her tears to stop. She hadn’t cried in ten years. She didn’t plan to start now. It was so stupid. Childish.

She thought back: The last time she had let herself cry was at her mother’s funeral, eight years earlier. She had been eighteen.

And before that - two years earlier - she had cried when she realised that despite coming top of her school, and having her teachers tell her that she could achieve anything in life she wanted - she knew that it was her responsibility to care for her mother. Her young mother who never asked to get bowel cancer … and secondaries in her bones … and pain-filled sleepless nights. Her mother … who had tried to help her with the housework. Of course, she had told her mother: No. I can manage fine. You rest. And she had managed. She loved her family. She regretted none of her choices. It was her responsibility.

So why the tears? So stupid to cry. So weak and stupid … and in front of her successful friends. A nightmare.

But the tears ran freely and her mind was so tired she couldn’t think.

The young women somehow walked her to a table, sat her in a chair, and Ned was summoned to bring them drinks. Strong ones.

Jayne felt foolish – but also comforted. Wrapped in arms as strong as her own. Women who seemed to love her and look after her as she had done for her family … And their words, which drifted to her through the night and the drinks, made sense: Responsibility to take care of yourself. Your Mother would have wanted you to take care of yourself. Your Mother would have wanted you to follow your dreams. Your siblings and father can look after themselves now. They’re old enough now. Ten years, long enough ...

The evening continued with all the words Jayne knew she needed to hear. Hope stirred first in her heart - and this was followed by relief, as the heavy burden of responsibility which she had shouldered for so very long lifted away. Her siblings had just finished high school, and her father had been doing better for a long time; he was even a pretty good cook.

Jayne took off her apron, after noticing that Ned had already called in relief staff - not needing to be told by her. She also realized that her friends were right: other people can shoulder the responsibility of their own lives … and she did have a duty of responsibility to herself - her mother would have wanted her to follow dreams and put herself on her list of people she needed to care for.

The three young women left the pub just before closing, having made lots of plans for the future: Jayne would stay with them, in the city, while she started at University and she could work part-time in a city pub. It would be fun, the three of them together again.

Jayne handed her apron to Ned, on the way out the door. She wouldn’t need it anymore. Like all the other young people she had watched move on from Flannery’s Pub over the years, the time had come for her to be the one saying Goodbye.

                                                              * * *

Morning storm

 

I awoke into a damp grey dawn. The windows were dim and vague with fog, and rain fell in big wet drops on the roof, drumming a great noise of falling water. Climbing out of bed, I padded over to one of the windows for a better look. The rain was bucketing down and, as I watched it, a heavy sense of disappointment pressed vice-like on my thoughts. You see, David and I had arranged for our friends to come over for his birthday-lunch later that day and, if the summer-storm continued, we’d need to move the party inside. While that was possible, if we moved all our furniture back against the walls, it would be cramped and less comfortable inside our tiny cottage. So, I crossed my fingers the storm would soon pass.

Watching the beach, situated at the foot of a small hill at the far-end of our back garden, I noticed the drenched pepper-brown sand was littered with black tangles of seaweed and shrouded under grey fog and battering sheets of rain. The trees heaved wildly up and down the coast and the dull green ocean was angry with white foam. From over the horizon, which merged with the sky in a slate-grey haze, low black clouds rolled towards the shore. As they neared, the rain grew heavier and louder with blasts of fork lightening splitting the sky, followed almost immediately by whip cracks and banging earsplitting bursts of thunder. The house shook and grew darker, as the storm passed over, and the windows rattled violently in their frames, while rivers of water gushed down the drain pipes and flooded the flag-stones on the terrace.

The storm raged on for almost an hour and, joining David in the lounge-room, we watched as we drank coffee and wondered at the drama and power of nature. Gradually, however, the pounding of the rain weakened, the deafening noise subsided, and finally the clouds moved away to the east, over the Willunga hills, leaving in their wake a sky scraped clear and blue, a bright yellow sun glittering fresh and white on our cottage, and the sea calmed and sparkling blue and rolling gently to shore with a shush of breaking waves.

Looking at the time, we realised our guests would soon be arriving, so we rushed away to get dressed and finish preparations for lunch on the terrace, grateful that summer storms have a tendency to fade as quickly as they flare.

* * *

Beach Holiday

I spread butter in little pats on crackers, then topped each one with cheese. David and I were preparing a light lunch to eat on the beach, which sparkled enticingly from across the quiet lane that looped in front of our rented holiday-shack.

It was only mid-morning, but already the sun blazed high and hot in the empty blue sky. Clocks and schedules had disappeared, as we luxuriated in the acres of leisure which stretching out before us. Soon we were ready to leave, so collecting together what we needed for the day - our picnic basket, beach-umbrella, bottles of water, sun-hats, towels, novels – we strolled in brightly coloured bathers and bare feet across the road to the stone-steps which led to the beach.

Skipping down the smooth sun-hot rocks, we noticed scores of other holiday-makers had the same idea; they’d sprouted mushroom-like during the morning, under their colourful umbrellas, and were dotting the beach as far as we could see. Their cheerful voices and laughter floated up to us, the words unravelling and evaporating en route.

Sunlight glinted and danced across the marbled water - rippled and swirled in blue, turquoise, green - and further out, sails flicked in and out of the light, while the horizon merged with the sky in a pale blue haze. The ocean boomed with a languid rhythm as it heaved up onto the shore and dragged back out, heaved up again and dragged back out.

We reached the foot of the steps and walked along a short pebbled path between low dunes carpeted in wild grasses and yellow flowers. The worn rocks under our feet massaged and caressed our soles as they shifted and clattered and rolled and collided. Then, emerging onto the hot dazzling sand, we sprinted to the water’s edge to cool our feet and search for somewhere to sit. In long lazy strides, we splashed through ankle-deep water - icy cold and refreshing on our hot legs.

Before long we found a patch of unoccupied beach, so we planted our umbrella to mark our territory, tossed our belongings into the newly formed shade, then turned and ran into the sea: a few leaps across the breaking waves, a few lunges against the incoming surf, and finally a deep determined plunge completely under the water - where blue coolness seeped into every pore and every care was forgotten.

 

                                                                * * *

Bike Ride Home

   A cool evening breeze flows through the grass and laps about my arms and legs and, engrossed in my novel, I suddenly realise how late it is. From the vantage point of the hill-top, where David and I spent most of the day enjoying a picnic and reading, I can see the sun is low in the sky, almost reaching the silver ribbon of ocean on the horizon; night shadows gather round us, and soon it will be dark. So we get to our feet, pack away our possessions - cramming everything into backpacks - then wade through the long dry summer grass to where we’ve left our bikes.

   Soon, we’re spinning on uncontrolled wheels down a gravel track towards the main road. Wind-tears blur my vision, although I can still discern the emerald geometric patterns of vineyards down in the valley; and the lake, which was a glistening blue on the ascent, is now muted grey-green in the hill-shadow cast by the setting sun.

   We speed on - a glittering dangerous thrill pumping through our veins - our tyres whirring over the rocky trail sending dust flying, the wind burning our cheeks and whipping our hair into a chaotic frenzy, and my thin cotton dress flapping wildly around my legs. Soon the dirt track richochets to a stop and becomes tamed into a gently undulating sealed road.

   My heart still racing, I gasp to catch my breath. The road knots and weaves through the verdant landscape, through the lengthening shadows which form pools of blackness, over a small wooden bridge on which our tyres rumble and bump and below which silver water looks up from between the boards. Soon we’re approaching the town where the roads web more tightly into friendly familiar patterns: almost home.

   Streetlights now dot the footpaths and stab intervals of warm light into the night, they draw leaf-patterns on the pale faces of cottages, bungalows, shops. We pedal on, legs aching, feet numb with cold, in a weary slow rhythm until finally we reach a neat cottage – set back from the road, dissolving into the darkness, enclosed within a ribbon of pickets: home.

                                                            * * *

  

 

Beach Drive

We drive in his warm Audi sports-car beside the ocean. Outside, beyond the cold thin glass of the rain blurred window, the beach is sullen and wintry and wild. Neither of us speaks. There is too much to say … and so we have no idea where to begin.

Beyond the wide sloping sand-dunes, tawny-yellow and smudged grey-green with low wind-blown vegetation, the ocean is restless, white-capped and grey, merging on the horizon with the darker grey sky. The rain beats a cold tattoo on the car’s roof and the tension between us insinuates an icy impenetrable barrier. We continue along in this way, on the long black wet road, for what seems an eternity before he pulls off into a gravel parking lot. He shuts down the engine and stares ahead at the stormy sea.

We’re situated near to a harbour, the neat upright forest of masts bobbing to and fro in the rocky water. There are no houses here, only a rusty shed in an otherwise empty lot.

‘So, what now?’ he speaks softly, in his insular misery gazing through the rivers of water gushing down the windscreen.

He waits for me to answer. It would be so easy to say what he wants to hear: That we can sort out our problems. That we just need to try a little harder; find more time to be together. That would cheer him up, I know. That would make him happy in this moment. But then what? More years of being wrong for each other, trying to change but realising we shouldn’t need to.

Suddenly, he turns to me, his blue eyes blazing, intent, desperate: ‘Maybe we could get married.’

I can’t believe what he’s saying. The shock of his words makes the answer to our dilemma crystal clear:

‘No,’ I say, ‘It’s too late.’

‘But -’

‘We need to break up,’ I say as gently as I can. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like this.’

Tears stream down his face and I realise he knows I’m right. He has no argument and we’ve come to this gradually, inevitably, sadly. All endings are sad – a type of death – but they’re necessary for the start of anything new.

He starts the engine, swings the car into reverse, and roars back in the rain. The windscreen wipers cut an arch in the drops on the glass, ticking away what time we have left together.

* * *

The Fair

 

People stream towards the entrance in knots, ravelling at the ticket booth then flowing easily again once through. The grounds are sparsely populated, when the five of us arrive mid-morning on this warm September Sunday; although, by midday we know the place will be packed and busy, filled with swarming, massing crowds. But for now, there’s a slower more peaceful tempo: the walkways and lawns mostly empty, the show-rides without queues, the day just waking up and getting started.

As is our tradition, my four teenage children and I stroll first towards our favourite stalls where we’ll buy hot coffee and cinnamon donuts: our show-day breakfast. Once that’s done, we’ll find somewhere to sit and plan out our day’s activities, or at least where we’ll start. But there’s no rush. So we meander along the network of pathways which wind between side-show booths, food-stalls, face-painting tents, farm produce exhibits; through pools of exotic appetising aromas, cheerful carnival music, glitter, movement, vibrant colours. We plunge in and out of the cool shade cast by the scattered gum-trees flanking the paths; they stand tall and majestic, so typically Australian, startlingly beautiful against the bold bright sky beyond their dappled olive branches.

Soon we’ve got our drinks and food and we’re sitting at a table on a raised platform which looks out across long green lawns at the heart of the showgrounds. The coffee is rich and invigorating, and the donuts coat our fingers and faces in sugar. We sit back in our white plastic chairs at our white plastic table and this is exactly where we all want to be today. Simply enjoying ourselves.

                                                                                     *