Foreword: Just in case you get confused, this particular chapter happens after the prologue, in the chain of events.
Chapter 9
She lets go of the balloon.
She stands on cold stone. She balances her weight on the rim of the bridge and leans over precariously. Her eyes, like pale rainclouds in old snow, seek something in the distance. And her hands, fragile as porcelain, reached with cold and blood sores, rest weightlessly on the thick slab of stone. She shivers from the encounter with the stranger.
“Are you alright?” he had said, looking so pitying, so stupidly bewildered.
The balloon floats away, briskly twirling over the river like a preening ballerina in a red satin tutu.
She stands on the edge, looking down at the star-sparkled waves created by the quickening crisp breeze. Her dark hair shines coldly in the glowing remnants of the moonlight and wrapping her soft coat more securely about herself, she lifts one foot, almost experimentally, pausing to observe the juxta position between sandal and glassy lake.
“Stop! Don’t do it!”
The cry startles her and her head snaps around, her body teetering dangerously. In that instant the darkness of the evanescing night quivers, wavers and then cracks, spraying the sky with orange, red and gold. Fireflies drown in the light and unwanted clouds cluster in dark huddles at the corners of the sky.
And then she falls, black hair spinning around her face like unravelling gossamer thread being wrenched from its cobweb on a windy day. Her wrists, thin and spiky as wine-glass stems flail about her helplessly but her dark mosaic eyes are not panicked. They are calm and unfathomable, opened wide as if she is in a misty reverie.
Her arms are stretched out wide, as if to embrace the beauty of the icy dawn; seeing the wondrous stars and the jagged stone in the few heartbeats that time had frozen. And then the wing beats of angels flutter through the passageway of dreams and she feels the glacial frost blistering her arms and the macabre darkness glazing her eyes before she sinks into – into – oblivion? No. Memories.
For this is the way the world ends…
[‘Sarah, you’re haunted. We need to break this grip your father had over your life. It’s been five years, Sarah. You’re fourteen. Fourteen.’
‘But…but I can’t.’
‘Why, Sarah? This therapy is useless. Everything is pointless until you admit that he was in the wrong and that you can let go.’
‘I can’t. Without him…without the past…I’m nothing.’
For who are we without our memories? ]
This is the way the world ends…
“Daddy…do you love me?”
Silence that stretches over the bloodied ridges of the atmosphere, the innocent question intensifying the horror and guilt that lie underneath those bristly cheeks and beer-stained vest. Until the empty wine bottle smashes against the wall, jade green glass erupting into tiny sharp needles that pierce her soft nine-year old skin with dripping scarlet thread.
“What’s this?” he bellows, wrenching the tattered book from her hand and shredding the dust cover into irregular shapes; like broken paper dolls.
“It’s…it’s a book, Daddy.”She will not face him and tries to steady her eyes on the tips of his bare feet.
They are repulsive; grimy and calloused – but anything is better than letting him see the fear in her eyes.
“I know what a book is, you little cow!” he sneers, and then tears it up with his thick-veined hands, throwing the tiny pieces in her face like a shower of paper rain. She crouches on the floor to collect the remnants of her treasure, gathering them carefully into a crinkly pile and clutching them tight.
He jeers at her, shouting abuse from a curled lip glistening with spittle. When she does not respond he kicks her, hard. Burning tears spurt into her eyes then – but she will not let him see… she – will – not – let – him – see. So she curls up on the floor, hiding her dishevelled head in her shaking bruised hands, rocking in pain.
This is the way the world ends…
[“Why, Sarah? Why resist happiness?
You have to stop clinging. You have to start being your own person, or you’ll never recover.”
Recover? Of course she could never recover. Whatever she did, in whatever way she changed, he’d always be there, a whispered word, an undelivered letter, an untold story. Or dust in the palm of someone’s hand, kept away crumbling for a very long time because it hurt too much to let it go.]
This is the way the world ends...
She ran down through dark, lush greenery and sat underneath great looming trees. Silent, blinding tears flow down her cheeks and she starts to sob; sobs like those of a frightened, hunted animal. She touched the raw, bleeding skin with trembling hands, wincing with the pain. Hanging her head in humiliation, dark curls tumble over like liquorice water. Then, a smooth familiar touch on her shoulder causes her to look up, startled.
It’s her mother, looking down at her with a terrified yet triumphant smile.
“Time to go,” she said, and no words have ever sounded more wonderful.
The passageway of memories stops abruptly at a dark cul-de-sac, an impassive brick wall looming above, daring her to remember more. She cannot.
For this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a
whisper.
So what do you call all the amazing points you've just been specifying in your critique then? I say - definetly a proper crit!
