On The Edger Of Reality by Davina Marsland

by Davina Marsland

Have a corner I sit in. Corner of Mind. Almost free from madness and fear. Can explore every inch but day to day it shrinks. Darkness creeps in and gobbles up more space. Then when return to reality, am in little corner. This has a bed, a locker, a wardrobe, a door. Locked door. To keep me safe they say. Keep them safe they mean. Have no keys to the room. None for mind either. Push against gaping holes where the memories leak out. Fill them with something. Have this pen, this paper, can write. This way have right for something. Control pen. Don’t control life.

Would like to scream, cry, shout but this would only result in a needle. For my safety. When needle comes, I go. Into the dark. Where voices wail, hands stretch out for flesh. Can’t cry. For my safety, mustn’t make a sound. Instead I tell you a story, my story. Pretend it’s Oprah Winfrey. Pretend you can see me. Some can. Watching me. Mustn’t make a sound. Write story for you. Used to be like you. Had job, home, family, children. Katy and Peter and husband John. Happy. Played Happy Families. Then changed. Not like you now. Not happy. Have nothing except room in head. Live there. Edge of reality. Reality fading. One touch and it turns to dust. Katy and Peter dust. Killed. Dead. Waiting in dark. Not right they said. Not normal. Have to die. John said yes. Yes kill them and let him live. But killed too. Took me...

Want to know my story? Want to see my mind? Only blackness. Dust shrouds memories. Remember though, war coming. Not just guns. Chemicals to kill. In cans like hairspray. Not hairspray. Deathspray. Not us, our village safe from spray. But not water. Drink to survive. Drink to change. Not like you anymore. Contaminated. Flesh grey and all hair gone. Am thing, not person. Have changed, not for better. Change is not always for best. After war, cleansing. Had to be cleansed. Cleansed village. Everybody dead. Not me. Study me. Poke, probe, lift skin. ? Find out truth. Why I’m like this. Don’t talk to me much though. Scared of me. Touch with plastic gloves and cold eyes. Could catch my disease. Like to lock door and throw away key. Curiosity is the key, so keep turning lock. Can’t write now. Must go to my room. Pretend I am normal. Pretend I am like you.

Could call this day Tuesday, Monday. Anyday. Now all the same day. Have to keep writing. Writing keeps me sane. Every letter I form, makes me real. Room in head so small now. Scrunch into little ball and squeeze inside. Room like museum. Store faces and times. Dusty. Do the watchers see me writing? Is this an experiment? Give me tools to see if I can write still? Can write. Can feel too. Want to die. Think about John. He wanted life. See children dead for his life. Daddy. Daddy was scared. Daddies are meant to be brave. Not bargain with babies. Did they understand? Please God, let them not have understood. Only three and five. Not normal, they said. Normal to me. Beautiful to me. Mummy’s little bundles of joy. Not normal enough for this world. Did anybody escape? Friends, neighbours with their grey flesh and hairless bodies. Do they live in secret? Perform in a circus act as freaks? Are there reports on T.V. about monsters? About my friends? Or are they all dead? Ticked off the list, one by one. Stop now. Door opening.

Frightened. Frightened when hair started falling. Didn’t know what was happening. Couldn’t find out. War was everywhere. Had to keep in Village. Katy’s hair first. Baby hair. Then skin. Rough like sandpaper. Grey. Knew it was bad water. But needed water. Had to drink. Ugly. Became so ugly. Shocked when saw neighbours. Shocked when saw self. Broke mirror. Seven years bad luck. Bad luck happens in threes. Bad luck just happens... To anybody. Left alone at first. Months of wondering. Then came. Wearing clothes to protect. With guns. Came to help they said. One soldier too scared. Peter’s friend ran towards him. Shot him. Then we knew. Too late. Rounded up like cattle. Screams. Blood. Not red blood anymore. Yellow blood. Spewing over the ground. Took me. Who else? Is this place full of us? Or is there just me left.

Have to live. Can’t die. If die they can pretend. Pretend nothing is wrong. Crawl into hole and think. Can’t think now. Have to live. Am here to tell story. When I was child, lived with mother. She said I could do anything. Believed. Believed in good. Got big. Got job. Did what wanted. Taught. Taught English. Taught good things, not violence. Taught love. Soldier killed Peter’s friend, my pupil. Best marks in class. Nice boy. Did he know me? Did he see his teacher? Or did he see monster? Am monster. Still believe. Sometimes. Still think that there is good. Sometimes. Not reality. Only pretend. Like child who makes believe. This is end. Sick of life. Sick of people who look at me. Like you. Am like you. Could have been you. Feel. Think. Cry. Like you. Different but same. Stop now. Think now. Mourn loss.

Looked for room. Room gone. Cry for room. Mustn’t cry. Big girls don’t cry. For my safety. Mustn’t cry. Mustn’t make sound. Can’t see faces now. Can’t remember face from before. Only grey face. Fall down. Mustn’t cry. Fall down and stay down. Mustn’t cry. Teeter on edge. Then fall. Can’t tell what is truth. Am I mad? Can’t tell. Only tell this story. You decide.

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