One way ticket

One way ticket.

I have a one way ticket back to Manchester airport. I will arrive in the morning, and I get to Irkly by converting my foreign money. I will walk up the steep street, passed the hotel where I have stayed before. The moor, up the rock steps, somewhere up there is something I am searching for. (I’m bowing my head with the mental pain, holding my breath as the tears run down my face.

Carmed, I look back at the computer screen.) It’s passed the strange little house which views the town. Up further. I forget exactly were, near the strange stone display. There to my left, up the steep watching hillsides, there is an opening, unseen from my path. Found on a map which was brought the first time I visited. Inside there is the thing I’m looking for. (My throat tightens. Memories. Hand pressed against my mouth, I pause . . .
Till it’s time to resume.) Up in that cave I have been before. It fits one person. It is damp. and dark. But I have brought white candles to fight my darkness. I will be tired when I reach the cave. I will struggle in, unfolding the airline blanket. I will sit on the stone by the entrance, warped fully clothed. (My neck gives way and my head falls to the bed sheats, I continue typing, unable to read while I write this.) I will swing my bag off my back, sitting it across my knees. I will unzip the large compartment, taking out the things I want. Cough bottle, sleeping pills, travel sickness pills, my own little white pills, panadol and aspirin bought in twos in three different countries, and the large brown bottle of Irish cream bought in duty free. I will then take out the clothes and make myself comfortable on the damp ground.
I will light the candles, filling the rock with star light. I will clear a little area, and take out my wallet and passport. I will make a paper bundle of these things, and use a little wood to start the fire. As I watch the flames taking my light I will twist open the metal cap of the Irish cream and swig a taste. I will then open the packet of travel sickness pills and put them in the plastic cup I have taken from the plane. I will take out the small bottle of tequila from the airplane dinner and twist it’s cap off. I will then open my throat. Back goes the stinging tequila, then the pills. My eyes will water, and the tables will clog my throat, but my hand will grab the Irish cream and my throat will be so grateful to be rid the tequila I will wash down the pills. The others I will take in fours or more with the cough medicine.
I will then reach into my bag and take out a plastic bag holding newly bought razors. I will use my thumb’s nail to break out the metal. (The pain is past, I am carm, I have reach this same stage, a world way. I can now look at the screen and write what needs to be written.)
I take the thin blade careful not to cut myself, and place it on the edge of the blanket. I then roll up my sleeves and take the blade in my left hand. I will feel fear at this moment. I will not want to make a bad cut. It might take me two tires. I will finally cut deep enough to being out a pulse of blood. Quickly I will then take the blade into my bleeding right hand and cut the well practiced left arm. I will then put on my earphones and continue to drink, my actions will have spread blood, and I will smell blood, and feel blood and this will make me drink faster. I might start to cry. I might fall unconscious. I might die. I think I just might.

I want to leave, to be anywhere. Any fucking place but here. I'm fed up of people telling me I can't do things. I'm fed up of people treating me like a child. I want to make my own mistakes, to do it my way. I suppose I could go to Carris, at least for tonight.

Then I'll head into the city, get my own job. I'll make my own money, spend it on what I want. My parents wouldn't care. No one gives a flying fu'k. I'll travel where I wanted to, no one would be able to tell me it was too dangerous. I bet they wouldn't even notice that I'd gone.

My hand glides up to my face, and picking at spots. Shit I hate my skin. I look down at my flabby thighs, pinching the thick folds of fat. Shit I hate this body.

I'll never look beautiful. "Maybe if you were thinner, you might be pretty." The bitch teacher said she was telling me for my own good, -so I'd lose weight. Like that was a really good thing to tell a comfort eater. She must have really thought long and hard about what she wanted to say.

! You'll never be beautiful, the best anyone's going to find you is passably pretty. What God died and made her Judge? Bitch. I put on more weight eating away her comments. At least now I've learnt to take it out on my hair, but if it gets any shorter, I'll have none left. At least I stopped dyeing it. After the green. It's becoming blond in a slow, gradual process and that doesn't count.

GOD, will they stop fighting? Maybe in the morning I'll phone Daddy. Who cares how much more he is getting working abroad? Mother's not fair on Lisa. Shit, someone's whining.

I throw on some clothes, and find them standing at the bottom of the stairs. My mother is crying, whining, with my sister standing ashamed at her side. "You hit me." I can smell the alcohol even from half way up the steps.

I come down slower, on edge. Gently take Mummy's elbow, checking it for damage, but all the time looking out for a change in her mood, waiting for her to turn on me. True she's never hit me, but I've lost count of the times she's grabbed me, forcing me to stay when I wanted to run.

I don't know what happened next.

Where the fu'k am I? White sheets, pain in my hand, metal railings on the bed. My writs are strapped in white bandages. Shit. Oh shit. Let me wake up. Not here, somewhere else, anywhere else.

A woman's face appears, kind in white. But she's not the angel I wanted and I know I tried it my way and failed.

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