Words to Tie to Bricks (15 page)

I took it out. I shouldn’t have done that. The box looked out of place in my hands, in her room, in this apartment but I knew it was hers. I knew because she used to have one in her room
as a teenager, I knew it was full of her own little poisons. I cursed myself. I thought I knew what to expect when I came here. I thought she was better. I thought I had done a good job. I’d
followed all the books, I’d tried not to push, I had made sure her prescriptions were always filled and that she always took them. I thought, I thought.

I didn’t care about my runny nose or the tears on my cheek, I opened the bathroom door. I needed to get out of her room. I surveyed the area, still holding the box. Unlit scented candles
lined all available spaces along with mutable beauty products. The scale sat like the monster in the corner. And a small empty bottle of gasoline by the sink. It was a cold room. Too clean, too
much for me, this whole place. Why had she done this? Why had she done this!

I crawled into the empty bathtub. This is where she did it. This is what she saw. This. This dingy old place where she lived alone. Here is where they said she lay, here is where she was found.
Here is where she poured the liquid over herself, letting it sting her wounds, collect in the hollows of her fragile remains of a body, and here is where she took the flame and let it finally warm
her cold soul.

I cried and never returned.

S
EAN
C
ERONI

I have no mind

And no morals,

Just glitter.

C
AELEN
F
ELLER

Picture the space between two points,

A and B let’s say.

Now think of these points as places,

And the space as far, far away.

Think of these points as vectors,

Moving with mathematical grace.

Think of this distance as growing smaller,

Think of closing the space.

Now think of filling the void,

With words stretching from A to B.

Think of these points as people,

A equal to you, B to me.

O
RLA
M
C
G
OVERN

Subtle touch of eyes,

Glance, then look away,

An uncertain smile,

Frantic – what to say?

Shift from foot to foot,

Break the old taboo,

Take the leap of faith,

‘I’m new ... are you too?’

C
ATHERINE
B
OWEN

I
SHOULDN
’
T HAVE READ
that book.

It was too fanciful for me, you knew that when you bought it. I was enraptured by the prose. The long, flowery descriptions drew me in like a light attracts moths and poured ideas into my head
until they overflowed and I was forced into action. I couldn’t help it. You know how easily influenced I am. If you didn’t want me to try to frolic in the woods in a dress, you
shouldn’t have given me
The Trials of Miss Elisa.
I’m at an impressionable age.

In hindsight, telling you that I was leaving might have been a good idea but I was trying to be whimsical. I knew you would try to crush my new spontaneous attitude or convince me to wear
trousers. I crept out while you were watching the rugby. The floorboards creaked horribly with each step but apparently the referee was showing bias so all noise was drowned out by your yells of
indignation. I doubted you would even notice my absence.

Fantastic parenting skills, by the way. I’m lucky to have you.

(Why would you watch rugby on one of the five nice summer days we get, anyway? I can admit I felt certain smugness that at least one of us could appreciate the beauty of nature.)

The walk to the woods was lovely. Dappled sunlight streamed through the canopy of leaves created by the trees along the roadside and a cacophony of birdsong joined with the music of the brook to
fill the air. (Those lines may come straight from the book but I feel they are appropriate.)

I already felt more graceful, like this walk was filling my eyes with stars and giving me a swan’s neck. Maybe I would go wading in the stream or weave wildflowers through my hair. My head
was so occupied with these thoughts that I barely registered the blister forming on my toe.

You really should remind me to break in my pumps before using them for walks. Just for future reference.

I pranced onwards, convinced my footsteps were light as the mild summer’s breeze that whispered through the trees. (Yes, that was another quote.)

As I reached the laneway that leads down to the forest, I noticed a distinct difference between the novel and reality. While the elegant Miss Elisa danced among the oak trees and flowers, there
was never a mention of brambles. The trees in our woods are choked with them. Still, I was determined to be carefree so I held up the end of my dress and stomped down the thorns until I reached the
stream. I imagined myself as a dryad, seeking to reclaim her home from the sharp, blackberry-bearing invaders.

I don’t think I played the part well. I’m not entirely sure what a dryad is, but I assume they don’t curse as much when their ankles are scraped.

Once I reached the stream, I plopped down, not caring about mud or grass stains. I dipped my bleeding ankles into the decidedly not crystal or sparkling waters. It may have been the numbing
effect of the freezing water or seeing flowers growing further along the bank but my sense of optimism was revived. In a fit of fancy, I decreed that our calm stream would be forevermore referred
to as a babbling brook.

Pleased, I spotted a tall, grand oak tree across the brook. I sprang to my feet with the aim of climbing into it and looking mysterious. I didn’t get the chance.

Miss Elisa may be able to wade through her brook with ease but ours has slippery, slimy rocks at its bottom. I toppled and fell as soon as I stood and was utterly drenched in the process.

And to think I could have drowned horribly with no one there to rescue me. Not to mention that I cut my hand on a stone. We’re almost out of plasters, just so you know.

After I had stopped shrieking from the cold, I picked myself up out of the stream. (It doesn’t deserve to be called a brook.) No birds sang as I hobbled and squelched my way back up to the
road. I think I scared them off.

I was despondent. No, that doesn’t begin to describe how miserable I was. There’s not even a term invented yet. I was dripping onto the road with each step I took and the sun had
heated the tarmac enough to stick to my shoe. (One fell off in the brambles and I just couldn’t bear the thought of going back for it.) I probably looked like something out of a horror
film.

By some great stroke of luck, I had stepped onto the grass and into the shade by the hedgerow when I saw it: Michael O’Shea’s car coming down the road. I couldn’t risk being
seen in that state. I had no choice. Don’t you dare tell me you would have done differently in this situation. I did what had to be done.

I dove into the nettles patch.

I have no regrets. This probably saved me from a lifetime of total, soul-crushing mortification. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.

So you see, by the time I reached home, I was wet and in pain and miserable. All I wanted was some dock leaves and a bath. But do you know what I got instead? I got to be yelled at, laughed at
and finally lectured. I may have ‘disappeared with no word of warning’ but taking pictures was a cruel and unusual punishment and you know it.

I hope you’re happy with yourself.

S
AMUEL
H. D
OYLE

I was afraid of the past

In case it influenced my present

I am terrified of the now

As it will determine my future

I will be scared tomorrow

For I only know fear.

(An excerpt from a work in progress)

C
AHAL
S
WEENEY

Introduction

P
ROJECT PICTURES
/
FILM CLIPS RELEVANT
to Napoleonic wars during this speech. Break between each line. Narrator should stand
in the middle of stage.