Burning Callous Hands

The world would be still but for her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The bundle under the covers beside me has more life in it than I have known in myself for quite some time.

The cool air of the early hours tells me I have been still too long, sleep is not coming. Years ago, I would’ve read until morning but tonight my eyes are as blurred as my thoughts.

I avoid the creaky steps and shut the door in practised silence. Let her sleep this is between me and the night. There is an eerie familiarity to an empty street.

You almost imagine it as living and breathing in the light, but like one of those plastic desk toys you almost forget that when the light is gone it stops. Waiting for life to return.

A reflection with nothing of its own to offer.

It feels good to walk on the road when it’s quiet. I like to close my eyes and picture the cars passing me. I can hear the horns, feel the wind as they come recklessly close to me. A police car passes me, clearly rushing to some poor soul who ventured the wrong alley. If they weren’t busy, they would stop and ask me to leave the road.

Since I was young, I’ve sat facing oncoming traffic given the opportunity to do so.

I read the adventures of Tom Sawyer and Treasure Island by the light of passing cars.

Only when the lights are red and blue does anybody try and stop me, until her.

She asked me to promise a few things, climbing monuments is off the table as is sitting in the middle of the road. “I’m not good with promises,” I told her, while sat atop a church bell tower. The sound of half past three arriving nearly sent me sprawling that night. I really do try; I just find sometimes the only way to gain perspective on life is to stand one step away from losing it.

Laughter. It rarely feels real. Only one place in town stays open this late. I would probably be a frequenter to the White Cat if it didn’t attract a group I struggle to understand. Chefs, bar staff, and people with homes they refuse to go back to. They seem like family. All together and laughing all night, but I don’t believe them.

If the laughter were sincere it would change over time, but I’ve walked past this place for a decade and it’s always the same; the single piece of variance is the coughing fits that seem to follow and those only get longer.

I’m walking to the pier; I had no destination in mind. I just follow my feet and that is where I always seem to end up. This far down the roads start to change, from potholed tarmac lined with pubs and estate agents to cobbles lined with ice-cream shops and overpriced sailing merchandise.

I can smell the sea now; the salt stings the redness of my tear-stained eyes and nose.

My friends and I used to sit here and eat raspberry jelly and ice-cream or see who could stand out in the open long enough with a chunky chip on their forehead for a seagull to swoop down and help himself. I would always win. I’ve never scared easy. It was long before I could ever articulate my lack of any emotion that wasn’t anger.

Once when a seagull came close to snatching the chip one of the spectators threw a rock looping through the air towards it. He caught it on the wing with quite the impact, and it fell to the ground in what felt like slow motion.

I remember the feeling of his school shirt bunched up in my hand as I pushed him to the floor. He was bigger than me by nearly a foot, but I’d taken a punch before so the stinging warmth on my face didn’t worry me when I placed my knees on his upper arms and rained punches on his cheeks now wet with tears and blood.

I’d never seen it from that angle before. That was the last time we played that game, and the first time I felt death up close. I placed my jumper over the gull and snapped its neck. I left my jumper behind and got a beating for that when I got home.

Tonight, the pier is empty, so nobody stops me as I hop up onto the railing that runs its full length. Walking heel to toe reminds me of my many nights attempting to prove I wasn’t drunk, many nights of failing to do so. Tonight, my legs are solid, but my world is spinning as I stare into the blackness of the still water below me. I can scarcely believe it moves. A light breeze reminds me of the precarious nature of my current position.

The only weight I can feel is the small wooden turtle on my chest; it hangs from a black thread around my neck reminding me of the promise I’m currently breaking. It’s the only accessory I have ever worn or wanted to. It feels as foreign and as much a part of me as the heart it hovers over.

A soft voice urges me down; I don’t think it’s aware how daunting that is. To my right is a dark, comforting void ready to hold me tightly and never let me go. One step, one decision that is truly mine. To my left is the certain cruelty of life, a cold creaky pier that offers no solace. Both terrifying, both telling me to go right.

“Why don’t you decide tomorrow,” she whispered to me. It was the first time she found me intently staring into the darkness. Since we met, she’s taken an interest in philosophy; many nights I have fallen asleep to the words of people who simultaneously seem to understand everything while accepting that they don’t.

I never liked the certainty they spoke with.

“If you don’t like certainty, you should stop looking for it,” she rebuked me during an argument sparked when I asked her why I’m still trying. She held my arm and looked up at me smugly aware that those words were smarter than anything I had said to the contrary, while beautifully unaware that to avoid looking at certainty would be to look away from her at that moment.

A gust of wind brings me back to the present and the brightness of her eyes sinks back into the depths. I slip, one foot hanging down to my terrifying left. I allow the wind to take me down after it. The boards creak and sag but ultimately hold my weight. The sharp pain in my hip tells me quite the force I tested it with as I start the long limp home. I limp back past the ice cream shops and cobbles back to the world of tarmac and bright shop lights that never turn off. I head back past the church as the bell chimes, one… two… three… four… times. The light warmth and laughter of the White Cat ahead of me has died down; I take a peek through the window to see people hugging and shaking hands as they settle up and go to leave. The small smiles and extended hugs meaning so much more than all the false laughter I ever heard from them.

I try to open the door as silently as I can, so slowly I can feel the paint chips on the bottom grazing the overly cheery welcome mat she brought with her when we moved in.

The lights are on, and she’s asleep on the sofa looking at the door. Her big bright eyes snap open and get bigger like she’s trying to take all of me in at the same time.

Without a word she jumps up and grabs my hands pulling me to the kitchen and without removing her eyes from mine she amasses the ingredients for tea and boils the kettle. As it whistles, she settles for the occasional glance as she finds our favourite mugs and the off-brand bourbon creams she swears are the best. I can’t help but see the mess of her hair as it falls about her face, the urgency in her step as she moves to sit me down with the tea in my hands.

I never understood how she could have drinks with so much stuff in them.

Hot chocolate requires mini marshmallows, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce. Coffee requires cinnamon and vanilla while tea has to have brown sugar and specifically unsweetened oat milk.

I put my hands around the goblet type mug in front of me and stare into the black unsweetened tea. It’s still spinning from being whisked around the kitchen in the search for brown sugar. Her cold hands wrap around mine; they are small and soft, and she can barely reach round the mug. My palms are starting to boil from the heat of the tea as I look up into certainty and feel it wrapped around my callous burning hands.

I’ve stopped looking.