Beth – Winter.
I am in a barren land, frozen dusted, frost ridden earth that hardens the ground, makes the soil tough and dark. The pressure of my foot forces the ground beneath to yield parting the particles of compacted soil. I crouch down by the frozen river Devon take a fallen twig and pick at the ground. A sense of futility soon sets in: these childlike actions no longer fit my adult frame. There is something I remember. I want to smoke.
I feel as frozen as the earth. The ghost of my former self stands beside me. I watch her move to the very edge of the river bank. Legs bare, hip slunk to one side, Harrington jacket loose around her slender shoulders. She looks cold. She looks alone. I reach with my hand to touch her and a cleaver falls from above our heads; I am blinded by a white light. I am holding an impossible weight. I cannot see to fathom what it is. All I know is: it hurts like fuck.
There is thin line that I walk in my head. It runs from the front of my skull to the back – a tributary between my existence and my former self. For sure: I am not like other people.
I am walking down Regent’s Street, feet along the exact lines of the pavements. Perfectly poised, one purposeful step then another. Arms outstretched, my black hair wafts in the November morning. In my left palm is a tiny blue speckled egg. I glance over to see if it is safe. My job is to get to wherever I am going with the egg intact. People pass, some jostle. The bounce of their bodies causes me to ripple . The egg rocks gently but remains undisturbed. By the time I reach Oxford Circus dark clouds have formed and dropped low in the sky. A gust of air forces dust into my eyes causing me to falter. My hand reaches into thin air to steady my fall. The blue speckled egg falls from my palm. I rub cold dust from my eyes, kneel down. The cracked broken aqua speckled shell at my feet. Splinters of shell and yellowy liquid sink into the grey pavement. Crack.