Old Habits

Here lies the folly of another who is still unable to lie still herself, so determined is she to escape her own detection.

Old and dark

Seems like you’re feeling a bit playful today, but it seems she’s in no mood for games. She has replaced you with a device of more flexible brightness and which is far more loyal. Serves you right. She seems to be troubled this morning, curled tight around this second sun and every so often twisting and stretching only to fall like a confused tongue, yet she very decidedly says nothing. She's finally risen, I croak a greeting. Swift steps, loose jaw, determined silence.

The air is too much for you today. You shiver and shake though your body seems perfectly warm beneath all these layers. But you’re not feeling this; all you can feel is the pressure of the fabric, the intrusiveness of your pillows, the attitude of your mattress. You look at the clock above your mirror on the opposite side of the room. It doesn't work anymore but it’s a habit and so you look with polite attention. You avoid looking in the mirror at all costs, tugging on your blanket in an attempt to block it from your view. It works and you are glad of this. 10:00 AM, good. Or not, you don’t really care. You fall back into your bed, eyes closed so as to avoid meeting your reflection on the way down.

You keep falling, seemingly through the bed, the floorboards, the ceiling. It was too much, all of it, you freely admit this now. Your blankets were too heavy and your pillows wouldn’t leave you alone and your mattress had too much to say. You wished you had checked the mirror but it didn’t fall with you. You check your hand instead. One, two, three, four and five. Good. You remember an article on dreams that said a way to check if you're in a dream or not is to check your hands. But remembering is too close to thinking and that's exactly how you got here, so you drop the thought and the complimentary smile that you didn't even know was there.

A cold space. A wam screen. A screen that you recognise easily. It’s not yours, It’s the one at your parents house. Your mother wouldn’t let you take it because she uses it on occasion when she needs to relax and- You need to stop that. You made a promise and you will keep it. The film quality is awful, you remark through a grimace, it’s blurred and has too much movement. An idiot of a cameraman. And it’s so slow! In blind frustration you grab the screen so as to shake it but you remember yourself, acknowledge, carefully, the screen’s importance to you and let go. A corridor. Okay..? Not particularly interesting cinematography. With a smile you realise that you wouldn’t be able to film anything better yourself, you never had your father’s eye for things like that.

Steps taken

She has been standing stock still for a few minutes now. Too many for her purpose to have been mistaken or forgotten, too few for this to be the end of her journey. I wonder what caught her attention.

It is her you realise. You allow yourself to remember that this is the photo that was taken on your ninth birthday; you, sandwiched between your parents on your grandparent's sofa. Two pairs of eyes, one a bright blue, the other a pensive grey, smile at the camera. Neither pair belongs to you. You dedicated your greys to your favourite gift, A music box. It’s an old thing; scratched and chipped, but your grandpa would tell you that the marks only exist because you believe they do. You nodded though you thought he was speaking nonsense, but he has the same grey eyes as your smart mother so he must be saying something smart. You see the music box placed on the cabinet below where the frame is hanging; a companion or an offering, or both. You lie on your side staring at the screen, trying to hold yourself together or keep out the cold. You achieve neither and the indifferent cameraman moves on.

Polite imitation

She’s getting worse I fear. She doesn’t check anymore, just pushes past and reaches for her tools.

You’re… Speechless. This is you. This is you! You remember your complaints about the quality of the footage and remember that you are short sighted and have a limp because you apparently haven’t mastered the art of walking down stairs. A wry smile.

Ah, you see what your body has done. “There is something I want you to find. Have a look while I give you the clues.”

Sink, taps, tired face. You look awful; dull and concave. You touch your face but your vessel doesn't copy. Right, no control of your body means no control of your body. Perfect sense, nothing to translate, yet you’re still confused. You sit staring at the screen, cross legged until you feel strangely claustrophobic. Straight legged and staring it is.

The image is the same; you. Thoughts of guilt fall into your lap, “I have been serving you for 20 years without rebuke and this is how you treat me?”, and other complaints. But you are surveying the screen with acute attention. These thoughts notice this and spit in your lap before taking their leave. And then it’s there. “Yes” Your vessel awards with movement “well done”. Neck, throat, falter. “You must see this,” your vessel sighs. Collarbone, goosebumps, braided metal. It’s a simple thing which is why you didn’t spot it at first, just a string of links which meant nothing… until recently. Just an old chain from grandpa's shop. “These are my guests” he once said, waving to a cabinet where some Russian dolls reside behind the counter. You notice that there are a few missing, there only seems to be two small ones and then the largest. You tell grandpa this; “Ah! You have a ready eye, come and look over here”, he says, dramatically hopping from foot to foot in a clumsy attempt to tip toe into the back of his shop. Even at eleven you had some sense of self respect, so you let the old man hop about while you walked behind him. “And here” says the old man, almost out of breath, “are my patients”. This amazes you; dark, dimly lit shelves bearing antiques of all kinds. Some items demand your notice and snatch light to reflect across the room; constellations of age and dignity. At the furthest end of the room is a workbench with two lamps, one spotlight on each side. This seems to be where most of the light in the room comes from making the room look even more deliciously comfortable. You stumble to the table, being careful to not fall since the carpet, too, is of a dark and luxurious making. On the workbench there is a simple silver chain, far more modest than the others. A mellow voice to your left, “This is the piece that I’ve just started working on, all it needs is a good clean and it’ll be good as new.”

“I don’t want that”, you immediately turn to him and say without thinking. Your face goes red with confused passion and you turn back. The old man chuckles, “I’m sorry madam, would you like it just as it is?” You think you can sense mockery in his tone, so you check his eyes. Soft and sincere. “Yes” he says, though you don’t understand why he says this until you realise that you’re pointing at the piece in question. Tears of joy, a soft chuckle and a big hug.

Cold inside, not out

I need to talk to her about this. Her mother has charged me to take care of her health, yet for the past two days she has eaten only tomato soup, stale bread and the occasional yogurt; something has to change.

You no longer know what you’ve seen and not seen; felt and not felt. Your vessel has carried you to the living space though now it seems eerily lifeless. “Look”, your vessel demands, as it pauses in the doorway. The kitchen area is tidy but that’s because you don’t spend enough time there to make a mess. You flinch when you see last night’s tantrum on the floor so you immediately look at the table. Your latest piece is on the table, a broken silver bracelet that was handed in to your grandpa’s shop.”Go on” your vessel walks slowly towards the table and you see more evidence of the past few days; the tissue box, the small stack of family photos you took, the stamps from you coffee mug.

“Okay mum, I’m off now!”

“What, already? Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Confused, you grab your notebook out of your pocket and flick to the page which has your packing list. Outstretched arms, the rush of fabric. “You forgot that your mother hates saying goodbye”, she chimes into your hair. You laugh and hug her back, “You know where I am, I’m not that far”.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to move in with your grandfather? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind that much”.

“It’s a small place and though it is now...”, hesitation, “... a bit emptier that gives me no right to barge in and fill the space, besides, the man likes living as he is anyway.”

“Okay, If you’re sure.”

“ Of course! I promise.”

“Thank you.”

You’re on your knees, you and your vessel. You don’t know when this happened or how long you’ve been here but you know that you probably don’t have the strength to stand up again without falling, so you stay put. Your vessel however, more willing to strengthen or destroy you, you don’t know which, moves its gaze. Not to the floor where you left yourself a few days ago but up to the kitchen counter. The fruit bowl. You smile despite yourself, remembering how you put it together. Most of the fruit you got like anyone else, civilised and store bought. But the pears…

On your walk home from work you always pass a pear tree, you usually take no notice of it, Until it became useful. A week ago you were deep in your work and grandpa, as is his custom, put his head round the door and told you to go consume something. This would usually cause you to smile and put down your work, but not on that day. No, this is where it all started, isn’t it? Dad rang and told you the news and-

Oh,

that's done it.

Hands, knees and screaming; you can’t stop it. You fall out your eyes and spill onto the floor, it takes a while for you to realise the change. You rub your eyes and see you are in control again, that you can see with your own eyes instead of through a screen. You look to the you of last night; tissues, tears and a blanket scrawled across the floor. “No” you hiss and turn your back. You sit down properly, going from a defensive squat to surrendered and cross legged. You hit something smooth, your phone in your back pocket. Exasperation, pause. You get up, dust off your self pity and walk to the window. When you first moved here you loved sitting here, waiting for someone to do something and being glad that the peace wasn’t disturbed. You’ve not seen the outside world in a few days, so you take in the progress of white and blue. You see the victim of your theft blowing in the wind and flinch when you remember how you kicked and screamed and cried until the tree curtly appeased you by dropping one of its own on your head. You smile as you see it now, watching with eyes that have diluted tears. Your hand is heavy and then you realise you’re still holding your phone. As if noticing your recognition and waning attention it turns on showing your latest message.

‘Dad: How you holding up, kiddo? Your mum says she wants to see you ;-)’

You don’t think. The call goes through, “I’ll be there as soon as I can! I’m sorry, how is she? What happened to the car? Is she feeling-”, a chuckle “you’re so much like her”. Tears of joy, a soft chuckle, a broken cycle.