Tuesday, 5 January 2010

How do you tell people they've got it wrong?

A letter?
The piece of paper is still sitting on my desk, the crease making it perch uncomfortably on it's side like a handicapped butterfly. It wavers slowly in the breeze and as I watch it I feel myself expect it suddenly to leap off the stained wood and lance it's way towards me through the cold air. I flinch and then turn away, shaking my head, berating myself for being such a cowardly fool. It sits in hungry silence and shouts it's spider-track words at my head.
I fear it. I abhor it. I crumple it in my hand an let it drop to the floor. The dog pats it with its paw. I watch as he takes it in his mouth and wanders out into the garden. That's where it belongs, with the dogs. I know who it was from. But it wasn't even signed, anyway.

A text?
My phone vibrates and I flick it open to stare in amazement at the number on the screen, then with growing shock at the words. Who do they think they are? The anger grows with the shock and I know there is more behind the simple message the text permits, but I cannot bear to think that this person, this person of all people, would dare do this to me. I slam the phone shut and throw it on the bed and clench my fists and my teeth.
Later my mother calls me for dinner and we argue, my anger taking itself out on her. Three hours later and I delete the text, do not privilege this person with an answer. But the rage has cut me deep. And for nights I do not sleep.

A mail?
The black letters shiver across the screen and I realize that it is my tears that are making them do so. My fingers dance across the keyboard and my throat tightens as I send the mail I know I will not get a reply to.

In person?
Gold glow contradicts words. My heart is in my throat and my nails are digging into my palms. Sitting opposite me, the words ripple from soft lips like poison water. I cannot understand the reasoning. Are not the painful cracks and broken pieces evident? What is it that entertains the opinion that I am wrong? Concentrating on the lecture is hard. Those hands push aside the heavy air to accentuate the words, and I think I see the slow-tracks they leave behind. Leave me alone. Go home. You confuse me.

No comments:

Post a Comment