Outside

Outside

Outside.

One step.

I blinked into the gleaming sun and the gentle caress of the breeze touched my cheek like the breath of God.

One step.

It was a world I had almost forgotten and I felt I had no right to walk into it again.

One step.

All the lovely twittering birds stopped their song to hold their breath and see what I would do.

And what would I do? What would I do after fifteen years inside of this place – inside of myself?

The car at the curb threw open a door and my sister sprung out of it.

Beatrice!

The wild little sister I had always loved, as feisty and magnificent as a thousand tornados charging across the sky. There she was, with her dizzy love and outstretched hands – she believed in me and her eyes flashed at me as I stood above the step.

“You can do it, Cynth,” she whispered, and it sounded like a majestic roar.

I didn’t fully understand that the last decade and a half had swept me under the rug of life like a forgotten crumb. I didn’t realise the parity of my existence until the knots that bound me slithered away and the lifeblood of freedom came rushing into me, urging me forward. But like a deer trapped in the lights of an oncoming car, it was difficult to move, to act, to finally believe. It was the flimsiest of webs – silky and soft, and like a mother’s breast it held me close to its beating heart. I could not wrest myself from this place yet I knew I had to. So many years, so many shattered moments strewn like pebbles at my feet. And far too much unkindness folded over me again and again like neat blankets on a shelf.

One step.

He was the man I always knew I would marry. One part larrikin, two parts charmer - his words were butter-smooth and whisky-strong, sweet, low and rough. He swept me along, all dazzle and charisma; before I knew it, I was a married woman with no experience of the world but great faith and trust in the man who was now my husband.

Things had become unstuck quickly, but the turning point was when I was bitten by a dog just outside my front door. It was more of a nip really, but the ridicule heaped upon me by my husband was more than I could bear. I’d always been a little afraid of barking creatures great and small, and my husband had scorned me for it – in fact, he derided me for just about everything I did. I had quickly crumpled in the wake of him; he was not a force to be reckoned with and I walked on eggshells, meekly observing his wishes and wants, dimming the light of me so that he might not notice me as I padded by. But of course, he would, and I became a plaything for him to grab and poke at, like a little rubber chew-toy given to a pacing dog.

I never went outside again. I somehow preferred the tether of my house’s interior, of him, because maybe in my heart of hearts it was the only version of myself I knew well. To scrub and clean and lay out sparkling tables of well-prepared food to be devoured by a self-proclaimed king. It was at least purposeful and it became my kingdom as well as his.

Until now. Until this one step I had to take.

One step.

Beatrice stood at the bottom of the step with her arms held out towards me. So many times she had visited me at the start of my marriage, until my husband had begun to shoo her away. She fought him at first, standing up for me in various battles big and small until I became too distressed. I admired her for it – but I was also terrified. She couldn’t see that the light of her love for me shone too brightly for him, that he would retaliate in ways I could never speak of, the moment she left our house. In time there was an awakening within her; when she stopped coming, I always knew it was because she loved me, not because she didn’t.

Some steps can’t be taken by others – they need to be taken by one's own self.

Outside, the light of the day is a floating spectacle of wonder which lovingly baptises the world. It illuminates everything – trees, sky, houses, people – and the dancing cavorting rays have more freedom than I have ever known in my entire life. I watch the gentle sparkle of sun bounce off Beatrice’s hair, still dark where mine is threaded with grey. She is even more beautiful than I remember and I suddenly believe that if I had a mirror, there would be nothing lovely in it at all. If a mirror reflects light, perhaps, with me, there would be none to capture and throw back. The mirror-world would skip me, pass me over, and the light that leapt down to kiss everything else in the world would never plant its feather lips on me. The step before me suddenly feels like an enormous cliff-edge, but still, it is only one step.

One step.

I had never imagined leaving him. The proposition of unfamiliarity and open-endedness made my skin prickle and chest tighten, so I always thought that I was better off with the devil I knew. My house was winsome - shells in jars from my collection as a girl and a pale aquamarine rug which covered the floor of our living room. I loved to smooth out the tassels at each end so that they lay exquisitely straight and symmetrical against the floor. There were simple pleasures in my house to be counted on, and I snatched at them whenever I could. In and amongst the spectre of him, I had my silent rituals, my scenes of refuge and respite. When he seethed at me, I would put on loads of washing and add my favourite scented oil, lavender, to the rinse cycle. When he raised his fists, I would wash away the blood in the shower then wrap myself in a huge fluffy warmed towel for an hour. It was a treat, my world, and so much of it was woven into the fabric of my psyche I dare not dream of leaving it behind. This was my place and I would make the best of it.

One step.

To leave behind the deepest imprint of me, to have the remnant dust of him and I scatter westward with the wind.

One step.

To reimagine and relish a different portrait of myself. To rebirth as a woman and find the light that no mirror could yet capture.

One step.

In the blink of an eye, I stepped down into Beatrice’s embrace, wobbly-kneed and cheeks wet with tears. She sobbed harder than me and her arms around me felt tender and warm – I never wanted her to let go of me. When she did, I felt giddy with joy and emotion – I had taken a single step and the bluest sky above me shone like a glittering crown I could wear forever and ever. Birds fluttered off in a chorus of twitters and the smell of lavender – oh, lavender! - flooded my senses. I had forgotten about the lavender plants in the front garden which were blooming and gloriously fragrant.

“Cynthia, I knew you could do it.” Beatrice’s kind eyes held onto me as tightly as her hands. “Are you ok?”

I breathed in fresh, sun-soaked air.

“I think I’m ok.” I took another deep breath of magnificence. The swirling scent of lavender was so strong I could taste it. “It’s good to be outside.”

Beatrice beamed at me then paused and said “It’s time to go. His funeral starts in forty minutes.”

Before responding, I waited to feel all the things a wife should feel - but those things never came to me. My husband had passed suddenly; one minute he was resting in the large leather recliner, the next, a massive cardiac arrest had brought his life to an abrupt finish. It was shocking and traumatic, yet I couldn’t tap into those feelings at all now. It was time to let him go, and yet, with one step, I already had.

The car was a dark blue sedan with shag-pile seats and a knitted steering wheel cover. As Beatrice slipped behind the wheel, I closed my eyes and listened as the engine rumbled and roared to life. The whole car thrummed and I rattled too, right down to my very bones. Tiny vibrations, pockets of air twisting and twirling, the stuff of life. I felt it all and so much more, because one who steps into the first glow of dawn after a cold, dark night soaks up the warmth more effortlessly than one who has lived their life bathed in sunshine. As we drove off, I glanced back at my little house, my kingdom, and all I could see were the windows that faced outwards. I wondered why I had never taken the time to look out them, past the lavender bushes, and into the world beyond.

But I knew why.

The smaller you imagine your world to be, the more brightly you can paint it without running out of paint. The particles of light bounce off the walls and in an instant the room seems limitless. For fifteen years I had lived this, but in Beatrice’s eyes I saw shimmering rainbows, beautiful kaleidoscopes that would lead me onwards to a place with no boundaries. And so much love and kindness that I felt I could fly away with the birds.

Sometimes the smallest step is a leap to the moon. And with one leap the world becomes a distant relic, and the sky becomes a new and limitless playground.

One step.

***