creative writing, Allen Austin-Bishop, Page 5

May 14, 2019

The Marriage Certificate

‘Fuck off and don’t come back!’

I think that’s what she shouted. Or is it ‘don’t come back and fuck off’? Whichever it was, she bellows it each morning.

At lunchtime, always at 1pm precisely, she stands in front of my window, crazed, and yapping some undecipherable rubbish. Today, and for the past couple months, it has been ‘go home, no one wants you here!’

And as for my dinners, I get ‘you’ll only be lonely if you stay here.’ And in that regard, she’s right, my dinnertime, for the past two years have been pretty lonely. She’s seen to that.

Looking at her through the window, I see her face contorted, dripping drool from the corner of her mouth, her eyes, ruby-pink with rage. I’m not sure what I have done to get her in such as state – although I could rattle-off the many things I did for her. But that is not going to answer the question of why she hellbent on whatever she is hellbent on – getting me to leave? or getting me stay? I don’t know. It’s all too strange and bizarre. What I do know is that she works like a clock. Tick, tick, tick.

I once tried to talk to her. But you cannot make much sense of a person, who, finger-pointing at you, says over and over again, ‘J’accuse, j’accuse. Je jure, je jure.’ No, she is not French. No, she has never studied French. Maybe she read Zola?

To make matters worse, for me at least, I work from home – as a writer (yes, I know, terribly clichéd) – allowing her to deliver her walk-by missives whenever she wants. I found that eventually, you get used to it – I had no choice. She integrated herself and became part of my daily routine, which I’m sure was part of her plan. She clings. She clings to me every day. Each day starts and ends, starts and ends with her on my mind. If she cannot not move on, neither can I. If I could not move on, neither would she. We are married. Married, without a marriage certificate.

About a year ago, I travelled, thinking I would have some respite from her daily onslaught. And on said travels, I met someone – which, dare I say, was the point of going travelling. We go back to my hotel, back to my room. But her presence was now firmly planted in my mind. No matter where I went, her voice was still there.

We kiss; I hear her voice.
‘Go home’.

We take our clothes off.
‘No one wants you here.’

We have sex.
‘You’ll be lonely.’

If she could not move on, neither could I. If I could not move on, neither would she.

A friend suggested I should call-in the police to file a complaint of harassment; that she needed to hit rock-bottom and maybe if I helped her to hit rock-bottom, I could be the one to help her rise. I personally thought she needed therapy, or a hug – both of which I could not, nor wanted, to provide.

I eventually called-in the police, relieved that, for once and for all, it was going to be resolved. I watched, from the window. As she spoke with the police, her demeanour crazed, and mad as ever. After about 15 minutes of taking to her, she walked away. ‘It’s over,’ I thought. When the police officers finally came to speak with me, they said, ‘Sir, there is nothing we can do. Just forget about her, as much as you can, move on with your life.’

That was six months ago, and not much has changed since then. She still marks my mornings, my lunchtimes, and my dinnertimes. And while I have chosen to move on with my life, we are still married, married without a marriage certificate.

April 27, 2019

Sliced Bread

Telling someone with Celiac Disease that they are the best thing since slice bread is not romantic…apparently.

April 23, 2019November 30, 2023

The Barrister

supergirlarse She is a lawyer.

No, to be precise, she is a barrister. A distinction she is always quick to point-out, ‘We wear the wigs, darling,’ she scolds with her deep, husky voice. That bit – wearing wigs – always makes me laugh. A white wig, on-top of her weaved, black Caribbean hair. Yes, she is a barrister. I didn’t see how it was possible, but then again, I barely finished high school, and know nothing about the law, except what I’ve watched on Judge Judy. She was a stunner, my friend, not Judge Judy (sorry JJ), and when she initially spoke, she sounded the part (of a barrister that is, not a stunner). But once you scratched her surface, (or her veneer), you realised that she really was a bit, well… dim. But I liked her company. And she had a decent heart.

Not too soon after meeting her, I would find out that she had a bit of a reputation for her courtroom antics. What she lacked in legal finesse, she made up with such theatrical flair that judges and opposition alike, loved sparring with her. Rumour has it, that during a trial involving a cosmetic company, she purposely shouted out, Mascara! rather than Objection! banging her hand on table so hard, she almost broke it. The judge, use to her theatrics, did not miss a beat, and quickly retorted, Lipgloss – duly satisfied that she did not pull a fast one over him. The whole courtroom laughed. Levity. She brought… levity. She lost the case. She loses a lot more than she wins, but as she says, ‘you grow accustomed to losing. It helps you appreciate winning a lot more. Never get to use to winning.’

She found out about a year ago. A routine examination caught it. Caught early enough, but it was terminal all the same. She swore me to secrecy and refused to tell me how long she had, ‘That’s not important to know, I even wish they hadn’t told me.’ She carried-on living the life she had, until it, the cancer, took its toll. Month by month, she slowed down until she came to a near standstill, the secret impossible to be kept secret. ‘This is the bit I hate’, she told me, ‘everyone showing me their pity, reminding me that I’m dying. Show me the pity when I’m dead. Show me the pity at the funeral, I’ll appreciate it a lot more then.’

In her last two weeks, it was just she and I. She had no family – none that I knew about. Alone together for the last two hours. Alone for her last words. She opened her eyes and said, ‘rosebud.’ She laughed, theatrical the very end. ‘You get used to losing. It helps you appreciate winning a lot more. Never get to use to winning.’

1 hour and 37 minutes later, she was gone.

April 17, 2019

Rhyming Rhythm

I wanted to write rhyming poetry,
but realise I have no rhythm.

April 14, 2019

The Ring

This message was deleted

That was the last thing I read from you. Having come home to find nothing of you left, besides your ring on the kitchen table. I sat at that table for sometime, before deciding to write you a simple one-worded message, ‘Why?’ This message was deleted, was the response. Deleted? How can you delete a memory? How can years be simply, deleted? That ring sat on the kitchen table, in the same spot, for exactly three months, with hope that its orignal owner would come back to claim it.

Three months and one day later, I decide to call your bluff. I take my ring off, placing it side by side to yours, and go to work. On my way home, there is an excitement and anticipation that I have not felt for some time. I rush to put the key in the door. And as I turn the lock, I expect something new, something different, some kind of change. But the truth, still remains the truth. There the two rings sit. Side-by-side.

We see each other out and about, neither one acknowledging the other. Each time, walking in our separate ways – which is exactly how it should be. I have no bad feelings towards you. None. Time, as they say, does heal wounds – old and new. And you know what? I still wear my ring, taking it off only and when I sit down at the kitchen table.

April 9, 2019