Untamed

I sifted through some old writings of mine I had kept in a drawer from previous years. Story upon story with notes written upon several pages and additional notes written in the margins and arrows running all over the place, leading to new sections, directing sentences elsewhere; it all seemed to familiar, yet felt so different but I was sure that things hadn’t changed all that much since then – I was the same person, surely I would be the same writer? I stared at the book lying on my desk, my own name plastered on the top in large point font. So much effort poured into that book, and none of it felt the same way as it used to when I began, or when other stories would pour out of my creative stream of consciousness. So had I changed, or was I just imagining it? Perhaps I shouldn’t have let myself go idle while I waited for things to be published and perhaps I shouldn’t have focused too much of my time an attention on my children. Steven is sixteen, after all; he is of the age where he can look after himself fairly decently.

My sweet little Anita, my precious little girl, she always manages to distract me from my work and I suppose that was why I found things so easy to put off, so easy to ignore. She’s so young that hours could be spent with her, and she’ll still feel as though they have only been minutes; her eyes always light up when I open my study room door – she knows mummy’s stopped writing for the day. It always makes me smile to see her little eyes light up like a Christmas tree, with a smile on her face as she sits in front of my door clutching her teddy bear that her father bought her. “Teddeze” was the name she gave the soft plush bear and her only way of remember her father after he died of terminal cancer several months ago. Every day I stop and wonder if she’ll ever fully be able to deal with that and come to some kind of period where grief doesn’t plague her. His death hit us all hard, I was struggling just to finish my book on time and I found less and less enthusiasm for it the more I continued on without him.

Mornings weren’t the same, either. He was never there anymore on his days off to make breakfast for us as a surprise on his days off, he was never there just to occupy the house with his voice, his presence and his laughter. As insane as it is to think of it, the house doesn’t even feel as warm as it once did – could death truly affect a house, could it too perhaps feel a loss in some kind of way? I hit hurdles now that I find almost impossible to jump, and it used to be he who would encourage me to continue, to push out those few extra ideas onto a notepad and come back to them later. The idea that anyone can invest so much of their life into someone else that it becomes almost inoperable when that person is gone seems so ridiculous. Surely I am not the kind of person who would rely on someone else to live, to breathe, to do and to be? I still have my angel, my Anita, and my man of the house, Steven. Why wouldn’t life still feel full, why wouldn’t my heart still feel enriched?

I write now out of guilt, out of pity for myself because I hadn’t since my book. I know that this is what he would want me to continue to do, with as much passion and livelihood as I used to possess. Yet this all still feels like complete shit, as though I can never be the writer I used to be, the inventor of stories I used to adore, to know where I was taking them and understand they had a purpose, a meaning and a detailing point to them. This all still feels like shit.

When will the questions end?

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Fantastic.

That is all. For now.

Feelings of anxiety stirred within, anticipation and hesitation. The sound of the crowd’s chanting, applause and bursts of cheer made their way down the backstage passage, into the dressing room. It sounded even more daunting, even more loud than it possibly could have been; from this distance, it should have been no more than a soft echo. Yet it felt more than that, as though the vibrations of many vocal chords were coming from within the room, only inches away from one’s ear. Oh, how it would make a head spin and stomach to twist and leap with giddy recluse. It had been a while since the operation, a while since the uncertain return; the days were supposed to be over, or at least, that was the thought which occupied many a mind.

A smooth application of deep plum lipstick lightly covered the surface of lips both full and sensuous. The shade emphasised the perfect appearance of the expressive flesh, and exsentuated the finer features elsewhere. Hands, though ready, show signs of nerves, weakness and slight suffering with their tiny jittering of unsteadiness. A brown curled lock of hair fell slowly out of place, just near the fringe, resting beautifully beside the coloured lips as eye liner, eye shadow and mascara was gingerly being applied; a light shade of purple mixed with a skin-tone cream. It made a point of showcasing brown eyes. “Ladies and Gentlemen…” came an amplified voice, drifting into the room and into the eardrums which anticipated this precise moment.

“…the incomparable…” the smooth voice continued, familiarly and dauntingly. The entire community knew what to expect, they greatly loved what they paid to see, yet the community of such supporters is tiny, close knitteded and just as ‘out-cast’ as everyone else they surround. They too felt the bearing eyes of the world, even if it was not exactly in such a similar way. As always, there will be a few who pay to view, though not to support but instead to entertain themselves with their own performance of humiliation and taunts. Oh, world, would it not be more simpler to merely feign death and start a-new? If only that option were possible. Not now, though, time has expired and the ability to renew has died. Unlike the phoenix, it shall never be reborn within its own death. Not for I.

“…Lucilia Foxtrott.” A burst of cheer errupted, with the occasional booing mixed well within the audience. The light shone only on a lavish red leather thigh-high boot as it stepped out onto the stage, followed by another as the slowly introductory music began, and a sweet voice wonderfully crafted its song, “Where have all the good men gone and where are all the Gods? Where’s the street-wise Herculese to fight the rising odds? Isn’t there a whight knight upon a firey steed? Late at night, I toss and turn and dream of what I need….” the lights turned on full and the music picked up the pace and intensity, to show Lucilia Foxtrott. Not entirely woman, and not entirely man.

Ah, yes, the small community of transvestites. We are the freak show, baby.

Formal occasions always created a little bit of spite within me, and every occasion I attended only happened because someone diligently convinced me that my appearance there would be beneficial and good. “We’d love to see you there, you know how influential you can be, you hold a lot of power at times and there’s no better way to get our message across than through you,” they’d always tell me. Yeah, I was well aware that they were using me for the most part, treating me as their ticket to success. I had power, voice, and probably one of the finest abilities to be very convincing with the greatest of ease than anyone has ever known.

That and the fact everyone enjoys a highly successful writer.

Of course, I submit to their request and turn up every time that they ask me to, always wearing a dress that many women can do nothing more than envy and compliment me on, out of fear that I might dislike them. These women know when to keep their opinions to themselves, or at least, their husbands know how to keep these women in line. One wrong word to the right person and their husbands could be losing fortunes; wealth and self loathing wives never really did mix, especially at functions which mattered largely. Mind you, what those women could say about me would hardly be of a concern, especially considering that my means of income are, dare I say, more creative and justified than their own.

They are societies finest though and the idea that being lazy covers sitting at home daily whilst maids clean a house isn’t particularly in their field of knowledge. To them, anyone who isn’t married to a wealthy man and has no job is automatically lazy. Hand these women a mop, and they would ask you what it’s for and how to use it. Still, these functions made excellent means of obtaining copious amounts of wine, usually rather vintage drops, also. Who am I to turn down great wine and a bit of a laugh if all it asks of me is to talk about something I care little about, wear a beautiful gown and look like a high-society lady for one night?

‘Seems odd of you to be here,’ said a smooth voice, as I stared into the glass of wine, swirling it. I saw his reflection in the dark red liquid, and I looked up to see a well represented man dressed in the finest suit money could by, with his hair slicked back neatly. Regardless of whether this man earned a penny or not, he had the ability to make anyone believe he was worth billions, just by appearance alone. Usually I am one full of words, able to respond quickly to anything, but he left me breathless for a few moments. I bought some time by sipping on the wine, before finally replying, ‘Doesn’t seem that odd at all, I’m always at these stupid fucking places. Do you even know who I am?’

He nodded as smoothly as he spoke, as flawlessly as his appearance before he held out his hand, silently requesting a dance. ‘It seems odd of you to be here,’ he reiterated, ‘in that dress, with that hair and that overall look.’ He was right; the dress is uncharacteristic of me but necessary to fit in with the sea of women who think designer means power, knowledge, ability and status. We made our way to the centre of the room saying very little to each other, yet we held the other abnormally close, our hands seemed to do the talking. It felt as though everything that could ever be told about him could be read with his touch.

‘How about you? I hardly imagine you’re half of what that suit makes you appear to be. I can tell by your feet that you care for this dancing as little as I do,’ I said, ignoring the stares of many. He smiled and looked over his shoulder to a woman in a white dress, the kind that parted from her neck down to her navel to reveal the cleavage that she had – or didn’t have. Her arms were folded, an expression on her face that showed annoyance as her foot tapped in some ridiculous diamond-riddled high-heeled shoe. She didn’t seem too impressed that the attention wasn’t being showered on her.

He looked back at me, giving a gesture that said “that’s life for you” and with that, he left without even taking his impatient date with him. I watched as he left the front door into the car park, where he began fussing with his clothes and hair, which was curious all on its own. It seemed even odder that he made no real attempt to leave, or get his date to leave with him. I walked out the doors, alongside the white van parked beside his own car, and leaned against its rear doors, watching him silently as he continued to adjust his hair and outfit. Minutes passed as his sleek and neat appearance shifted to his casual and slightly scruffy appearance.

I admired his short and slightly spiked hair as a smile spread across my face. It wasn’t much longer before he finally noticed me standing there, and began acting as though he had been doing nothing the entire time. ‘Oh, shit, I was there watching the whole time,’ I said playfully as I approached him, my smile changing to a grin. ‘It could have been much worse,’ I continued, taking the last few steps before standing directly in front of him, ‘you could have been playing with your dick instead.’ A shade of red flushed through his face as he tried to hide his nervous smile, ‘Well…’

Without allowing another moment to pass, my hand grabbed him closer by the back of his head until our lips infused into an electrifying kiss. In all honesty, neither of us noticed that she had been standing there for quite a while, observing us in a fiery embrace, heat surging through our veins as hands became lost in the canvas of each others body. Soon her presence was too difficult to remain unnoticed, her pseudo attempts to clear her throat, her precious shoes stomping into the ground and our attention eventually turned to her, with small fits of giggling emitting from us both, whilst poorly acting as though nothing had happened.

‘I was just…’ I said, searching for a plausible excuse for being outside with a man I didn’t even know, yet possessed strange physical attraction. Nothing came to mind and the raised eyebrow on the impatient date’s face suggested that I shouldn’t even continue trying. Another laugh passed through him and me as we leaned against the car and looked at her. ‘She was just telling me about the new book that she’s writing,’ he, to my surprise, excused on my behalf as his gaze looked at me, smiling and trying desperately not to laugh.

‘I don’t care,’ she said, although we could tell she was clearly annoyed, ‘just take me home.’ She walked around to the other side of the car and opened the door, getting in and sitting silently inside the vehicle. I bit my lip softly as I looked at him, and he laughed slightly once more, knowing that life’s turn of events can be amusing. By now we had realised we weren’t so different from each other, that we were just as much outcasts to the level of society as one another. ‘I’ll…’ he said, letting his sentence trail off as his hand grabbed to door handle. ‘…find my number by calling my publisher, pretending to want more information on my writing,’ I said, finishing his sentence for him.

‘Exactly,’ he said.

My heart pounded, my head raced at a million miles an hour, my hands became sweaty as my ears ran hot. Every nerve within me was on high alert, more sensitive than they had ever been. Even normal breathing had to get in on the action and doubled itself, as if to compete with my heart’s persistent thumps against the cage of my chest. No other feeling ever felt quite the way this did, no other feeling was ever as irrational and uncontrollable as fear. Anyone can be so happy that they’ll cry, anyone can stop those tears and feel just as happy. Fear takes a hold of you by the throat and threatens to sever the vital connections that run along your spinal column and to your brain.

Nothing can ever happen fast enough when one is driven by fear – feet can never be fast enough, accurate enough and the mind simply forgets to send important signals to everywhere at once. “Run” is the command given, and only half executed. Yet there’s a weakness with fear, a weakness that fights a battle with curiosity and stubbornness. Unfortunately for fear, curiosity and stubbornness make an excellent fighting duo force and more often than not brings fear right back into my face, asking me to relive it “just once more.” Foolishly, I used to listen when it asked, pleaded and tempted me, but not anymore.

My senses are dead, disconnected not fear but by me. As I walk this lone path in a mountain of heavy trees, I am blank. The sound of gravel crunched beneath the rubber soles of my sneakers, the light struggled to make its way through the canopy of leaves. The wind was cold, and I hadn’t made any effort to bring a jumper – I wouldn’t need one where I was going. The option to turn back came and went many meters back; many footsteps have since been made, carrying me closer to what I had planned all along – a warm body, a cold grave. No thoughts crossed through my mind, and it felt as though bodily functions had disabled themselves already.

At last I came to a clearing where a part of the mountain became a small cliff dropping down to a pool of water. This place was familiar to me, I came here daily, and I saw a lot of things here that probably should never be seen and some things that I wished I hadn’t seen. So my feet stood on the edge, gripping onto the ground as much as I used to grip onto any reason for living that would pass my way. Wind screamed eerily through the narrow spaces between the land as my arms held themselves outwards, as though they were wings and I felt the rush of air flow through my hair and attempt to overpower my weight.

With a small twist of my foot, my weight shifted and I became unbalanced, descending downwards toward the water. Panic did not come, fear never set in, adrenaline was dead, excitement didn’t exist; nothing was there anymore, not even time, it seemed as my fall seemed to pass slowly. Calmness was all that stayed around for the show, as the number of meters that came and went started reaching the hundreds – I felt like a feather. I had listened to fear after all. Then finally: nothing.

All I saw last was the sky.