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Authors: Johnny Vineaux
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by
little-the exact contours of the key. When the lights went out, I
scratched by the dim moonlight my own out of a wooden spoon I had
stolen from the kitchen, and when it was complete, I escaped.
Chapter 6
The washed-out lights and
plastic floors induced a kind of waking coma in me as I browsed the
aisles of cans and refrigerators. I still felt a little uneasy,
however, and—with that absence of thought that comes over people in
supermarkets—allowed my mind to turn melancholic. I found myself
contemplating things I wouldn’t normally.
It wasn’t even the middle of
November, yet the Christmas adverts were imposingly omnipresent;
like warnings of an imminent event that only stringent preparation
would enable you to survive. I had never liked Christmas, the ones
I could remember were tinged with sadness: Vicky and I sitting on
the floor of our apartment, too full from turkey to enjoy the sweet
deserts I had bought too much of; tired, stupid jingles emanating
from the TV, and then Vicky playing with whatever I had bought her
alone as I watched oppressively conventional families on TV. Before
that, when mum had lived with us, there were arguments. Her getting
drunk by ten am, random people coming by the house, awkwardly
sitting around and her trying to construct within minutes the
pretence of a long-term stable family.
It wasn’t long ago, when the
tentative first adverts and warning shots of red and green had
first began appearing, that I had considered this year could have
been my first good Christmas: Josie, Vicky, and me. Cooking
together, eating together, a few more presents under the tree,
laughter: A Christmas that felt like the start of things, rather
than an end to another drab year.
I had hoped in a way that Josie
would have been some kind of good female role model for Vicky.
There were times when it seemed I was surrounded by women, that my
life had been dictated by them, and as much as I resented those I
didn’t like, I was deeply defensive, perhaps dependent even, on
those I did.
Monika—and I would never say it
out loud—was maybe right about Vicky. I wasn’t blind; I could see
Vicky wasn’t much like me, she was social, outgoing, caring. I was
proud of her for it, but at the same time afraid that I wouldn’t be
able to provide what Vicky needed. Afraid that soon I would stop
understanding her, would stifle her simply by being who I was, and
being the only real person in her life with any authority. I didn’t
want to be like those parents that over-thought everything their
kids did, the ones that tried to contrive their entire lives. All I
wanted was for Vicky to be happy, confident in herself. To support
her and let her find her own way. It scared me to think that
finding her own way might mean abandoning me.
Ironically, it was Josie who had
seemed to bring Vicky out of her shell. Who got her trying the
things she read about in books for real. Who gave her cds and books
from another world. I was more optimistic then. It had felt like
Josie would guide her in those things I could never understand, and
eventually I trusted Josie to do that. Now it was like Josie had
opened the door and Vicky was running through it and away from
me.
How could anyone who knew these
things think Josie had committed suicide? I felt almost angry when
I considered the notion. Angry, then angrier still when I thought
about who had taken her away unnecessarily. That thought stuck in
my chest like a stake. That, but for someone out there, Josie could
still be here. That everything could be better, for me and for
Vicky.
Numb from the shop lights and
self-pity, I paid for my shopping and left the supermarket. In my
self-absorbed mood I almost didn’t noticed the sudden, strange
gesture across the street. It happened in my periphery, and I
turned to it immediately. For a split second I made eye contact,
before some instinct pulled my head away and told me to act
naturally.
As I made my way down the
street, I tried to
little-the exact contours of the key. When the lights went out, I
scratched by the dim moonlight my own out of a wooden spoon I had
stolen from the kitchen, and when it was complete, I escaped.
Chapter 6
The washed-out lights and
plastic floors induced a kind of waking coma in me as I browsed the
aisles of cans and refrigerators. I still felt a little uneasy,
however, and—with that absence of thought that comes over people in
supermarkets—allowed my mind to turn melancholic. I found myself
contemplating things I wouldn’t normally.
It wasn’t even the middle of
November, yet the Christmas adverts were imposingly omnipresent;
like warnings of an imminent event that only stringent preparation
would enable you to survive. I had never liked Christmas, the ones
I could remember were tinged with sadness: Vicky and I sitting on
the floor of our apartment, too full from turkey to enjoy the sweet
deserts I had bought too much of; tired, stupid jingles emanating
from the TV, and then Vicky playing with whatever I had bought her
alone as I watched oppressively conventional families on TV. Before
that, when mum had lived with us, there were arguments. Her getting
drunk by ten am, random people coming by the house, awkwardly
sitting around and her trying to construct within minutes the
pretence of a long-term stable family.
It wasn’t long ago, when the
tentative first adverts and warning shots of red and green had
first began appearing, that I had considered this year could have
been my first good Christmas: Josie, Vicky, and me. Cooking
together, eating together, a few more presents under the tree,
laughter: A Christmas that felt like the start of things, rather
than an end to another drab year.
I had hoped in a way that Josie
would have been some kind of good female role model for Vicky.
There were times when it seemed I was surrounded by women, that my
life had been dictated by them, and as much as I resented those I
didn’t like, I was deeply defensive, perhaps dependent even, on
those I did.
Monika—and I would never say it
out loud—was maybe right about Vicky. I wasn’t blind; I could see
Vicky wasn’t much like me, she was social, outgoing, caring. I was
proud of her for it, but at the same time afraid that I wouldn’t be
able to provide what Vicky needed. Afraid that soon I would stop
understanding her, would stifle her simply by being who I was, and
being the only real person in her life with any authority. I didn’t
want to be like those parents that over-thought everything their
kids did, the ones that tried to contrive their entire lives. All I
wanted was for Vicky to be happy, confident in herself. To support
her and let her find her own way. It scared me to think that
finding her own way might mean abandoning me.
Ironically, it was Josie who had
seemed to bring Vicky out of her shell. Who got her trying the
things she read about in books for real. Who gave her cds and books
from another world. I was more optimistic then. It had felt like
Josie would guide her in those things I could never understand, and
eventually I trusted Josie to do that. Now it was like Josie had
opened the door and Vicky was running through it and away from
me.
How could anyone who knew these
things think Josie had committed suicide? I felt almost angry when
I considered the notion. Angry, then angrier still when I thought
about who had taken her away unnecessarily. That thought stuck in
my chest like a stake. That, but for someone out there, Josie could
still be here. That everything could be better, for me and for
Vicky.
Numb from the shop lights and
self-pity, I paid for my shopping and left the supermarket. In my
self-absorbed mood I almost didn’t noticed the sudden, strange
gesture across the street. It happened in my periphery, and I
turned to it immediately. For a split second I made eye contact,
before some instinct pulled my head away and told me to act
naturally.
As I made my way down the
street, I tried to
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