Faster now, faster she moves, the sweat beading on her arms and back, her hands slap together to a bass drum fighting with a snare, a bassline having a drunken punch-up with a guitar hook, a melody caressing a two-step beat. And then it happens: up. Up, up and up, the explosion building between her legs, the heat searing at the skin on her hand, the spiral glowing at the edges, the beat hammering at her, twisting her like a lover, she explodes, time ripping open like a scream, a howling scream coming from her mouth, a smile she can't control. A laugh escapes. Yes. Fucking yes.
Chapter 15
"A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us."
- John Steinbeck
Press play
Darkness split by green lights and echoes of a distant city, soundlessly a pair of legs walk past. Black boots, bare skin, a dark blue dress swinging as she moves. Her hands move gently as she walks, one carrying a music player and headphones, the other a bottle of water. Her right twirls the bottle, momentarily revealing a black, spiral tattoo on the inside of her palm. She stops, opens it and lifts the lip to her mouth. She takes a small drink, screws the lid back on, looks around the gallery. She smiles a little, deciding where to go next. She pauses, her legs slightly open, her stance motionless, closing her eyes. She sways for just a moment, her body moving gently to a rhythm only she can hear. Her eyes open. She smiles.
A girl. Fourteen years old. Lying on a table, on her back. Shotgun shack, hospital curtain. White coats, soft hands, gentle voices. Eyeglasses peering at her, glinting, blinding her with the glare, clinical, chlorine and fear. Sheets sticking to the back of her legs, feet squirming in restraints. A hand touches her forehead, gentle, consoling, chilling her to the bone. Puke yellow light, a sickly sweet squeak of rubber gloves. Cold on her legs. Her body twitches in fear, her neck muscles spasming. Now now, they tell her, this will all be over soon. All be over soon. Nothing to fear Claudia. This will help you. Let us help you. Help us to help you. Help us. To help you. Strapping her arms to the bed. She whimpers. Mouthpiece bite down. Don't gag. No fear. Help us to help you. There's something wrong with you. Wrong. Sponge pads. End of the bed, a figure stands. Black eyes, staring at her. It touches her foot. Don't leave us, it says. Gently, noiselessly, she begins to cry. Help us to help you. Don't leave us, please. Help us. To help you. Touching her temples. A crackle of energy. And here we go. Help us. To help you. Ready? A nod of the head. No, wait, please. Go.
She enters the Parthenon gallery, her boots squeaking off the floor, enjoying the sound, the echo, the isolation. The sense of fuck you to the whole thing. The Imperial Swag Bag, hers to play with, to violate, to molest and hack at. Wrong. The universe at her fingertips, she giggles. She steps to the centre of the great hall, no camera seeing her. She stands, stretches her arms out and up, circling them around and above her, locking her fingers she stretches out her back and legs, slowly tilting forward, her hips bend and she lowers her head, pulling out her lower back. Knee-bend and up, hands circling together again. Twisting her arms around each other, crossing elbows, she makes a pose, her shoulder blades opening, legs wrapping around each other. Breathes. Breathes. Ten seconds and switches sides. With a smile, she reaches inside her bra, takes out a pill and pops it in her mouth. With a swig of water, she swallows, places the bottle back down on the floor and slides down to place her hands on the floor. Pelvis tilted, ass up, she stretches her calves out and holds. Down dog. Down girl. Sliding down into child, she breathes and smiles, the cold marble kissing her skin.
A girl. Nine years-old. In her grandmothers house, Rhode Island, USA. A spare bedroom, feet dangling off the bed. Glasses and bangs, she sits humming a tune to herself, black shoes, white socks. Over and over. Mummy will be back soon. Daddy not happy. Mummy back soon. Milk okay? Thankyou, she says, drinking in gulps, a white line on her lip. She smiles. Humming and humming, a tune she heard on the radio, a song she can't shake, a rhythm she can't release, over and over. She sings the few lines she knows. There's something beating here inside my body and it's called a heart. You know how easy it is, to tear it apart. I always liked those biscuits she says to her. Me too, Claudia says, her eyes looking to the floor. The carpet is old, but unused. Placed here moons ago but not walked on. Not loved. Not used. Wrong. Nice of you to visit, her granny says. Nice to see you, she says back, her voice small and wispy, breath catching in her throat. The door opens. What are you doing? Who are you talking to, her aunt asks. To Granny. Claudia, that is not funny. Not funny at all. You know Granny is dead. That is not funny. That's wrong.
On her knees, her back arched, arms reaching behind for her heels, she stetches over, her chest opening, breathing, pushing her shoulders apart. She hangs there, smiling, the world downside-up, blood pounding at her temples, a tear rolling down her left cheek. Swinging her arms up, her body rights itself. She can feel it starting, glances at the watch on her wrist, not yet she tells herself, wait. She spins on a heel and swivels upright, a smirk creasing her face. She takes a drink of water, feeling her heart rate picking up, the whispering in her blood, the voices at the edge of the silence. She plugs her earphones in and presses play. After a few moments, her left foot begins to tap to the rhythm. A slow smile lights up her face as a bead of sweat slowly rolls down her neck. She breathes.
A girl. Sixteen years old. A doctors' office. A principals office. A counsellors office. You make too much noise. You demand too much. You ruin your classes. You need to control your temper. The violence is unacceptable. You're wasting your talent, your abilities. What do you want to do with your life? Do you know what you want to do with your life? You must learn to curb your destructive instincts. You must learn to control your temper, your passions, your body. You must learn to control your tongue. Such a waste. Such a waste of such talent and brains. Brains to burn girl, your mother is heartbroken. Your father is distraught. Have you taken your pills? Your pills, you have to take them. There's something wrong with you Claudia. Wrong. You have to control this. You have to assume responsibility. Have you taken your pills? A hand raised, silencing the room. Wrong? Fuck you, she says. And the altar boy you rode in on.
Slowly at first, her body starts to move to the beat, swaying and shimmying, her shoulders rolling to the percussion. She lets her eyes close, her arms doing what they want. She feels the bass moving through her, from her feet, to her knees, to her hips. She senses the rush coming, the increase in the heart rate, the heat growing in waves, the twist in the stomach, the rage burning up from inside, the taste of adrenalin in her mouth. She washes her mouth with water, the drops spilling onto her chest. Faster now, faster she moves, the sweat beading on her arms and back, her hands slap together to a bass drum fighting with a snare, a bassline having a drunken punch-up with a guitar hook, a melody caressing a two-step beat. And then it happens. Up. Up, up and up, the explosion building between her legs, the heat searing at the skin on her hand, the spiral glowing at the edges, the beat hammering at her, twisting her like a lover, she explodes, time ripping open like a scream, a howling scream coming from her mouth, a smile she can't control. A laugh escapes. Yes. Fucking yes. She spins on her heel, jumping out and kicking off the wall. In an instant, she is thirty feet behind herself, the air ripping like a sheet. Twisting in the air, she flips over, her legs landing on the ground, spinning on a heel, her left hand reaches out to the the object, the link. The palm of her hand connects. And she jumps.
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Image
Prism by Dr. Joanne
Thanks
Special thanks to Carrie.
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