disoriented, but at the same time, for the last time, secure.
Finally, speaking, his voice croaky after a week unconscious. Tears. Nurses. Doctors. Dad. Noise and bustle. Temperatures and readings. Injections and pills. And then the moment when the world fell apart . . .
âWhat happened? Whereâs Katia?â
Now, though, crunching along the track, shadowed again by the black cockatoos, memories of that other world grew slowly remote, and Vinnie could feel his perspective changing with every step. Of course they werenât missing him. That was impossible. The house, his home, had been dead from the moment Katia drove the car off the road. His presence served only to remind his parents of what they had lost.
He knew heâd have to go back eventually, of course, but when he did it would be on his terms, not theirs. Just as heâd left. And it wouldnât be Vinnie who returned. Not old Vinnie, anyway. It would be . . . someone else.
The afternoon grew warmer; his t-shirt became damp against his skin, especially where the straps from his pack rubbed. He stopped by the edge of the path and removed it, stuffing it into an outside pocket, liberated by the sensation of warm air on his exposed body. A couple of flies buzzed at him as he re-shouldered the pack, one landing on a wrinkle of grafted skin that ran horizontal across his chest. Vinnie flicked at it, stirring it into a gentle frenzy. He knew that his body was becoming healthy and fit below the patterned discoloration of scars and grafts. As he walked, he toyed with the idea that his markings were a camouflage, allowing him to blend like a lizard or a snake into the surrounding bush, helping him to hide from the world, from the predators.
It was a false hope, of course. The marks set him apart, made him different, and would never be anything but scars of isolation. Who would accept or care for someone damaged like he was? Heâd heard the men outside the shop, had seen the look in the womanâs eyes at the refrigerator.
Swinging through the early afternoon, though, with the faint-est stirrings of a breeze cooling him and his load bumping gently at his back, Vinnie allowed himself to drift away into a reverie of better times lost.
The clearing stood still and silent, much as on the afternoon heâd first arrived. As usual, the world seemed to hesitate for a couple of seconds when he entered the scarred landscape and began to pick his way down the terraces. In the gentle warmth, with his sweat cooling on his naked chest as he walked, Vinnie meandered towards his camp.
Drawing near to the silent campervan with its attendant dome tent, Vinnie pondered for a moment the whereabouts of its occupants. Heâd seen not a sign of them that morning, and the camp still seemed deserted now. The memory of the girl â Helen â sitting with him by the fire stirred something in him, and veering his course slightly carried him closer to her camp site.
As he drew parallel to the tent his calm was paralysingly shattered as the zippered opening drew itself upwards, and Helen emerged, blinking, into the afternoon light, not two metres from where he stood, exposed.
For a moment everything seemed far away, as though he was viewing the scene through a mirror of distance. Filtered, hazy objectivity removed him from the sensation of the girlâs stare, the almost physical itch of her gaze as she examined his ravaged torso, bare of hair, etched with healing scar tissue and tracked with the remains of sutures. For long moments, she allowed her eyes to travel across him as he stood, livid in the sunlight.
âVinnie, hi.â
His mind was numb, a fog of naked discomfort and embarrassment.
âBeen into town?â
God! Why didnât she say something about it? Why wouldnât she comment?
âGood walk?â
It was as though she didnât see him. See what he was. He could feel colour rising in his cheeks and neck.
âThere was a
Finally, speaking, his voice croaky after a week unconscious. Tears. Nurses. Doctors. Dad. Noise and bustle. Temperatures and readings. Injections and pills. And then the moment when the world fell apart . . .
âWhat happened? Whereâs Katia?â
Now, though, crunching along the track, shadowed again by the black cockatoos, memories of that other world grew slowly remote, and Vinnie could feel his perspective changing with every step. Of course they werenât missing him. That was impossible. The house, his home, had been dead from the moment Katia drove the car off the road. His presence served only to remind his parents of what they had lost.
He knew heâd have to go back eventually, of course, but when he did it would be on his terms, not theirs. Just as heâd left. And it wouldnât be Vinnie who returned. Not old Vinnie, anyway. It would be . . . someone else.
The afternoon grew warmer; his t-shirt became damp against his skin, especially where the straps from his pack rubbed. He stopped by the edge of the path and removed it, stuffing it into an outside pocket, liberated by the sensation of warm air on his exposed body. A couple of flies buzzed at him as he re-shouldered the pack, one landing on a wrinkle of grafted skin that ran horizontal across his chest. Vinnie flicked at it, stirring it into a gentle frenzy. He knew that his body was becoming healthy and fit below the patterned discoloration of scars and grafts. As he walked, he toyed with the idea that his markings were a camouflage, allowing him to blend like a lizard or a snake into the surrounding bush, helping him to hide from the world, from the predators.
It was a false hope, of course. The marks set him apart, made him different, and would never be anything but scars of isolation. Who would accept or care for someone damaged like he was? Heâd heard the men outside the shop, had seen the look in the womanâs eyes at the refrigerator.
Swinging through the early afternoon, though, with the faint-est stirrings of a breeze cooling him and his load bumping gently at his back, Vinnie allowed himself to drift away into a reverie of better times lost.
The clearing stood still and silent, much as on the afternoon heâd first arrived. As usual, the world seemed to hesitate for a couple of seconds when he entered the scarred landscape and began to pick his way down the terraces. In the gentle warmth, with his sweat cooling on his naked chest as he walked, Vinnie meandered towards his camp.
Drawing near to the silent campervan with its attendant dome tent, Vinnie pondered for a moment the whereabouts of its occupants. Heâd seen not a sign of them that morning, and the camp still seemed deserted now. The memory of the girl â Helen â sitting with him by the fire stirred something in him, and veering his course slightly carried him closer to her camp site.
As he drew parallel to the tent his calm was paralysingly shattered as the zippered opening drew itself upwards, and Helen emerged, blinking, into the afternoon light, not two metres from where he stood, exposed.
For a moment everything seemed far away, as though he was viewing the scene through a mirror of distance. Filtered, hazy objectivity removed him from the sensation of the girlâs stare, the almost physical itch of her gaze as she examined his ravaged torso, bare of hair, etched with healing scar tissue and tracked with the remains of sutures. For long moments, she allowed her eyes to travel across him as he stood, livid in the sunlight.
âVinnie, hi.â
His mind was numb, a fog of naked discomfort and embarrassment.
âBeen into town?â
God! Why didnât she say something about it? Why wouldnât she comment?
âGood walk?â
It was as though she didnât see him. See what he was. He could feel colour rising in his cheeks and neck.
âThere was a
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