Je ne croyais pas aux anges, mais ils marchent, aptères, parmi nous…
Amanda Thomas - 08.10.2009
* * *
Not long after I turned fourteen two girls started to appear in every hidden corner of my imagination; and I was drawn to them like a magpie to diamonds: their names were Margot and Lucy. Through the forest of my thoughts they ran daily, playing an eternal game of catch, ending always with the loser entrapped within the hollow trunk of a great Oak. There the disheartened child would remain (often, and unfortunately, this was Lucy) until she found the strength to break free - and the game would recommence.
.
As I grew older the children stayed with me; two perfect little soles, until aged nineteen (and fast approaching twenty) they grew tired of incessantly running and hiding, became lifeless porcelain figures, cracks slowly appearing amongst their rosy smiles. Intruders tried to take over the forest and shelve the fading dolls. Too scared to know where to turn, they turned instead on each other, attacking both themselves and the attackers of the woodland. The war of the children had begun and a visible end was not in sight.
.
As I grew older the children stayed with me; two perfect little soles, until aged nineteen (and fast approaching twenty) they grew tired of incessantly running and hiding, became lifeless porcelain figures, cracks slowly appearing amongst their rosy smiles. Intruders tried to take over the forest and shelve the fading dolls. Too scared to know where to turn, they turned instead on each other, attacking both themselves and the attackers of the woodland. The war of the children had begun and a visible end was not in sight.
.
When the children took rest, they did so in separate parts of my body. Lucy was housed within the chambers of my heart, whilst Margot planted herself and her temptation in each and every one of my senses. Usually at night the game stopped, and I slept. But sometimes the attacks were so fierce that they pierced through the night’s sky, and so to any other being they were well hidden amongst the starry blue. On these evenings sleep was not welcome in the forest; the quarrelling children scared it away until they too wanted rest but could no longer find it within themselves. Slowly, relentlessly, the sleep, stronger than before, crept, armed with dreams, hope, peace, across the wooded border of my mind, until my eyelids closed, and the dreams, sang lullabies, to calm, the young ones' spirits.
When the children took rest, they did so in separate parts of my body. Lucy was housed within the chambers of my heart, whilst Margot planted herself and her temptation in each and every one of my senses. Usually at night the game stopped, and I slept. But sometimes the attacks were so fierce that they pierced through the night’s sky, and so to any other being they were well hidden amongst the starry blue. On these evenings sleep was not welcome in the forest; the quarrelling children scared it away until they too wanted rest but could no longer find it within themselves. Slowly, relentlessly, the sleep, stronger than before, crept, armed with dreams, hope, peace, across the wooded border of my mind, until my eyelids closed, and the dreams, sang lullabies, to calm, the young ones' spirits.
.
As days past, such a routine rooted itself firmly into the earth, growing and twisting, until no discrepancy could there be found. It would take a large gust to stir the leaves and uproot the poisoned trees from the enchanted forest.
.
* * *
As days past, such a routine rooted itself firmly into the earth, growing and twisting, until no discrepancy could there be found. It would take a large gust to stir the leaves and uproot the poisoned trees from the enchanted forest.
.
* * *
.
The one who has always been known to wear a smile; be it genuine or fraudulent makes another matter. The girl in the bright coral coat with the outrageous lime lining, the girl with golden locks and dark green eyes, the girl with the floral tights and oft spotted sporting a Mr Men skirt; they are all jigsaw pieces of me. I am Amanda. But you will have to piece the puzzle together to find me.
.
* * *
.
I love food. I want it all the time. Cookies, ice cream, toast with peanut butter... I adore it all. But I won’t share. I have to gobble it all up before anyone else sees that I have it. Make it gone to pretend it was never there. Then she won’t chase me. Nope. I can run all day, she won’t catch me now- I’m already gone.
.
I never much liked her, you know. She always wants to be perfect. Who wants to be perfect? I just want food. I want it all the time. I don’t ask to sparkle, not like her. I don’t ask to shine and step from star to star, like she does. I am happy running around, picking up bugs and chasing butterflies... and her, of course.
.
Underneath the wardrobe lives my pet. He doesn’t have a name, so I call him There.
.
Hello There, are you ok?
.
He’s silent at the moment. He must be sleeping. There wears a clown mask- I am not sure why really... but he tries to give me everything that I dream of. I never see anything but his scary face and the objects he produces. He just stays there, wriggles and casts shadows onto my wall, and sometimes sneaks under the rug to get a bit closer to my white metal bed. Once he gave me a pair of scissors. I was angry at her, you see. I wanted revenge. She knew very well what I was doing, yet she took no action to stop me. She just let me attack her. Five times. On her left leg.
.
Looking back at it, the act was rather harsh – but I would do it again. I know this, because the clown face dream deliverer often arrives at my feet with the shiny sharpness of revenge. She asks for it really: she does absolutely nothing when I am in full control of her body and mind. Sometimes I think that she lets me hurt her so that one day I will hurt myself, and be gone forever more from her senses... it hasn’t worked yet. I am very much alive. I am her eyes, her ears and her nose... the passing whiff of freshly baked bread: I bring that to her. The colourful gems of Smarties in a bowl: I make this an irresistible artwork to her hands. I am not too young to see her perk up at the sound of a passing Ice Cream Van; I see it clearly, for I control her ears.
The one who has always been known to wear a smile; be it genuine or fraudulent makes another matter. The girl in the bright coral coat with the outrageous lime lining, the girl with golden locks and dark green eyes, the girl with the floral tights and oft spotted sporting a Mr Men skirt; they are all jigsaw pieces of me. I am Amanda. But you will have to piece the puzzle together to find me.
.
* * *
.
I love food. I want it all the time. Cookies, ice cream, toast with peanut butter... I adore it all. But I won’t share. I have to gobble it all up before anyone else sees that I have it. Make it gone to pretend it was never there. Then she won’t chase me. Nope. I can run all day, she won’t catch me now- I’m already gone.
.
I never much liked her, you know. She always wants to be perfect. Who wants to be perfect? I just want food. I want it all the time. I don’t ask to sparkle, not like her. I don’t ask to shine and step from star to star, like she does. I am happy running around, picking up bugs and chasing butterflies... and her, of course.
.
Underneath the wardrobe lives my pet. He doesn’t have a name, so I call him There.
.
Hello There, are you ok?
.
He’s silent at the moment. He must be sleeping. There wears a clown mask- I am not sure why really... but he tries to give me everything that I dream of. I never see anything but his scary face and the objects he produces. He just stays there, wriggles and casts shadows onto my wall, and sometimes sneaks under the rug to get a bit closer to my white metal bed. Once he gave me a pair of scissors. I was angry at her, you see. I wanted revenge. She knew very well what I was doing, yet she took no action to stop me. She just let me attack her. Five times. On her left leg.
.
Looking back at it, the act was rather harsh – but I would do it again. I know this, because the clown face dream deliverer often arrives at my feet with the shiny sharpness of revenge. She asks for it really: she does absolutely nothing when I am in full control of her body and mind. Sometimes I think that she lets me hurt her so that one day I will hurt myself, and be gone forever more from her senses... it hasn’t worked yet. I am very much alive. I am her eyes, her ears and her nose... the passing whiff of freshly baked bread: I bring that to her. The colourful gems of Smarties in a bowl: I make this an irresistible artwork to her hands. I am not too young to see her perk up at the sound of a passing Ice Cream Van; I see it clearly, for I control her ears.
.
* * *
.
My first term at Durham starts much like any other to follow: the autumn leaves engulf the thin pavement that leads down from College to the city centre. It is bliss here: do not believe what anyone else may try and tell you. In my Sugar Boots and rosy pink tights I walk down this orangey-red carpet that crunches softly beneath my feet, I stare at the cold blue sky that bears no trace of the slightest passing cloud. For a few moments a gust of wind takes me in its arms and lifts me above the tree tops and then it passes, dropping me gently down. The harsh reality interrupts the dreamlike trail with the impatient frowns that bib their horns, or the tiny wellingtons that run past me, kicking the leaves and awakening the puddles with their splashes.
.
When I arrive at the Modern Languages Department and join the queue to resort out my classes for the year, the hubbub of academia surrounds me and enters my existence. Lucy sits next to me outside the office as I wait.
.
“This will be a good year, just wait you see” She reassures me. “First year, a fresh start and you will not lose me. We are going to be the best of friends and together we will ace this.”
.
I feel a surge of excitement fill my bones as she places that cheeky grin just above my chin. This will be a good year, I tell myself: a good year.
.
That was when just before the fights began. Lucy and I stayed in our rooms, sometimes she sulked when I tried to make friends in the canteen at shared meal-times. But generally, peace was as common as the stars in the sky. It wasn’t until a fifty calorie sickly sweet strawberry containing chocolate wrapped in fuchsia foil that shined to perfection allowed for a second child to reappear. I cannot remember when exactly that Margot showed up for the very first time. I guess it is fair to say that she introduced herself some years ago, but she awoke from her slumber at the sight of this poisonous offering... fairly unfortunate; I was hoping it would be at least a few weeks in. The days flowed on by; Firework Night, the Christmas ball, New Years Eve at home working at The Feathers, second term, Easter, revision, first term exams. Of course, all was not lemon and honey. The thinner the calendar grew, the more the girl’s rivalry for my attention became apparent. In short, the three of us were together a great chameleon to reality. We ate, we studied, we smiled; anything else that made us stop and think was liable to begin the chase. Forced to return to my room to preserve the hum of my normality, the girls would run riot around my mind. Margot’s actions would lead to Lucy’s tears and me making temporary eye contact with Medusa.
.
It was at the Christmas market in the town and the journey back to College where a large bag of Pommbears, a pack of caramel slices and 6 glorious homemade mince pies found their onto my taste buds.
.
It was just a little blip, a little blip. You couldn’t concentrate. You wanted sugar. It was a teeny tiny blip.
.
Sure, because she worked so much better with her screaming ideas.
.
At the time I thought nothing of it because I wasn’t thinking. Margot was holding the controller and had no intention of stopping my obeying hands robotically entering the bag of teddies to massacre their salty bodies with my teeth. The mince pies were a clear tug at Lucy’s plaits, which had been offered an M & S branded mince pie paradigm by my Barbie of a roommate and gracefully declined. I vowed that nothing would pass my lips until I fell, until I could hold a red balloon and float up past the sun, the moon and the fairy light stars.
.
I never fell: I had begun the game of chase.
.
* * *
.
If I close my eyes tightly enough, I see Red Square, and when I open them I see Paris; tiny fuchsia and coral flowers amongst backdrops of green that fill up windows, held back by tiny black bars. I see white walls and mauve roof tiles and above those, that blue sky streaked white by passing planes. I see my Paris, yet I dream of Red Square. From behind the blackness that shudders with my eyelids, a blurred Russia emerges. I walk around it, I turn my head, I see GYM, I see the Kremlin, I see brides and clowns. My breath. And then the shower turns on, and the French music plays, and my eyes open, and I see my laptop, these words, and I see, from my window, behind the orange taffeta curtain, my little Paris.
My first term at Durham starts much like any other to follow: the autumn leaves engulf the thin pavement that leads down from College to the city centre. It is bliss here: do not believe what anyone else may try and tell you. In my Sugar Boots and rosy pink tights I walk down this orangey-red carpet that crunches softly beneath my feet, I stare at the cold blue sky that bears no trace of the slightest passing cloud. For a few moments a gust of wind takes me in its arms and lifts me above the tree tops and then it passes, dropping me gently down. The harsh reality interrupts the dreamlike trail with the impatient frowns that bib their horns, or the tiny wellingtons that run past me, kicking the leaves and awakening the puddles with their splashes.
.
When I arrive at the Modern Languages Department and join the queue to resort out my classes for the year, the hubbub of academia surrounds me and enters my existence. Lucy sits next to me outside the office as I wait.
.
“This will be a good year, just wait you see” She reassures me. “First year, a fresh start and you will not lose me. We are going to be the best of friends and together we will ace this.”
.
I feel a surge of excitement fill my bones as she places that cheeky grin just above my chin. This will be a good year, I tell myself: a good year.
.
That was when just before the fights began. Lucy and I stayed in our rooms, sometimes she sulked when I tried to make friends in the canteen at shared meal-times. But generally, peace was as common as the stars in the sky. It wasn’t until a fifty calorie sickly sweet strawberry containing chocolate wrapped in fuchsia foil that shined to perfection allowed for a second child to reappear. I cannot remember when exactly that Margot showed up for the very first time. I guess it is fair to say that she introduced herself some years ago, but she awoke from her slumber at the sight of this poisonous offering... fairly unfortunate; I was hoping it would be at least a few weeks in. The days flowed on by; Firework Night, the Christmas ball, New Years Eve at home working at The Feathers, second term, Easter, revision, first term exams. Of course, all was not lemon and honey. The thinner the calendar grew, the more the girl’s rivalry for my attention became apparent. In short, the three of us were together a great chameleon to reality. We ate, we studied, we smiled; anything else that made us stop and think was liable to begin the chase. Forced to return to my room to preserve the hum of my normality, the girls would run riot around my mind. Margot’s actions would lead to Lucy’s tears and me making temporary eye contact with Medusa.
.
It was at the Christmas market in the town and the journey back to College where a large bag of Pommbears, a pack of caramel slices and 6 glorious homemade mince pies found their onto my taste buds.
.
It was just a little blip, a little blip. You couldn’t concentrate. You wanted sugar. It was a teeny tiny blip.
.
Sure, because she worked so much better with her screaming ideas.
.
At the time I thought nothing of it because I wasn’t thinking. Margot was holding the controller and had no intention of stopping my obeying hands robotically entering the bag of teddies to massacre their salty bodies with my teeth. The mince pies were a clear tug at Lucy’s plaits, which had been offered an M & S branded mince pie paradigm by my Barbie of a roommate and gracefully declined. I vowed that nothing would pass my lips until I fell, until I could hold a red balloon and float up past the sun, the moon and the fairy light stars.
.
I never fell: I had begun the game of chase.
.
* * *
.
If I close my eyes tightly enough, I see Red Square, and when I open them I see Paris; tiny fuchsia and coral flowers amongst backdrops of green that fill up windows, held back by tiny black bars. I see white walls and mauve roof tiles and above those, that blue sky streaked white by passing planes. I see my Paris, yet I dream of Red Square. From behind the blackness that shudders with my eyelids, a blurred Russia emerges. I walk around it, I turn my head, I see GYM, I see the Kremlin, I see brides and clowns. My breath. And then the shower turns on, and the French music plays, and my eyes open, and I see my laptop, these words, and I see, from my window, behind the orange taffeta curtain, my little Paris.
.
Carrot cake will not make me happy, I have come to realise this. I tasted it for the first time only a few days ago, in fact, but each new gusts of Parisian wind brings a new perspective. Carrot cake will not make me happy. That sweet icing, those shreds of carrot and orange will only play chameleon to my act of sadness. It will only sweeten the bitter fear for an ephemeral moment, and then the wind will send a chill through me to my bones, wake me up, make me see the light. You shouldn’t have done that. Now you will suffer. And so I shall stay here, my carrot cake dreams will shortly pass with another gust of wind, until something else drifts into my path.
.
Carrot cake will not make me happy, I have come to realise this. I tasted it for the first time only a few days ago, in fact, but each new gusts of Parisian wind brings a new perspective. Carrot cake will not make me happy. That sweet icing, those shreds of carrot and orange will only play chameleon to my act of sadness. It will only sweeten the bitter fear for an ephemeral moment, and then the wind will send a chill through me to my bones, wake me up, make me see the light. You shouldn’t have done that. Now you will suffer. And so I shall stay here, my carrot cake dreams will shortly pass with another gust of wind, until something else drifts into my path.
.
Fear of what? Failure. I do not fail. In the words of an amazing girl that I have got to know and love, “I refuse to fail, fuck you, Failure!” I’m sorry; that is just not a possibility among our kind. We dream and we see and we starve and we cry and we make friends with toilets and scissors, but we do not fail. Yet the fear of failure shakes me to the point of nausea. “You can’t do it,” “YOU’RE TOO STUPID,” “you will NEVER make it”: White, blinding fear. A bright torch light shone in my eyes. It is there. It is in the distance. I will run, hide, cry but I will not meet it.
.
.
A Mr Men skirt has wandered the pebbled streets of the city for seven weeks now, found the hidden roses and diamonds that lurk beneath the touristy sheen. But as Mr Happy laughs, Mr Noisy smiles and Mr Greedy rubs his pink belly in contentment, the wearer cries and closes her eyes, dreams of Moscow. She is further away from failure there. Far, far further away.
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