the rhythm of the music and my body – the instrument.
I had practised my choreography for weeks. Everyone in the audience had seen me dance at some point, everyone except him. Besides, it’s different when you dance for the person you love.
Did I just say that?
Yes, I guess I did.
I love him.
I don’t know when that started, but somehow I’ve found myself right in the middle, not even realizing that it had begun.
It’s too late now.
I saw James yesterday. He still wants to talk about why we broke up. I just don’t have anything left to say to him. He was my friend before he was my boyfriend, and I really want him to be my friend again. Me, him, Em, we were inseparable at one time. We did everything together, went everywhere, shared everything.
But it’s not realistic to expect everything to stay the same. Because people grow up. They aren’t the same. They change. I’ve changed. And so have my feelings towards him.
But I want my friend back. I never said goodbye to him, just the relationship that had blossomed from the friendship. I want to go back to where we started.
I guess change scares me a little too.
But when it comes to the future, I need change. I need to break free of this place, of this character I’ve moulded into.
I haven’t told him yet about London. I don’t know how to tell him. It’s still so new. I enjoy spending time with him. I love him, but I can’t stay here for him.
There’s so much I still want to do with my life, so much I want to see. With James, it was so easy. But with him, it’s different, not so easy. I can tell him anything, but I can’t tell him what to do, what to feel.
He’s going to want me to stay, I know he is. He can’t come with me. He has too much here. He sacrificed everything for his last relationship. But that’s over now. I can’t ask him to sacrifice all over again. This is supposed to be a new beginning for us both.
I want him to come with me. But I can’t say those words. His answer might devastate us.
Because if he doesn’t come, I won’t stay.
I know my little sister Alex doesn’t get it, why I want to leave so badly. It’s not that I hate it here. She thinks it is. She thinks it’s too small for me. It is a small island, but it’s not too small for me. I just have this fire in my stomach to go. I want to start in London, dance. Then I want to travel around the world. I want to see it all, and not miss one moment.
I want to go to Switzerland, Italy, France. I want to kiss a stranger in New York City in Times Square like in the old photo of a sailor from the 1940s. I want to take a surfing lesson in Australia. I want to explore a sulphur cave in New Zealand, and ride a camel in Morocco. I want to walk along the Great Wall of China, watch the sun set in Hawaii, ride in a cable car up to Sugar Loaf Mountain in Brazil. I want to scream as loud as my lungs can cope over the Grand Canyon.
My sister is always talking about the flower that blooms just once at midnight – the kadapul flower, which is only found in Sri Lanka. When I told her I’d go there and pick it for her, she laughed and said I couldn’t, because it withers almost as soon as you pick it. And when I told her she should go there then to see it in person she laughed even harder.
My sister will never leave this island.
And she seems to be OK with that.
I don’t get it. We’re so different in that regard. But I guess she knows what makes her happy. I just hope she’ll come visit me in London.
London.
I don’t know how to tell him about London.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to him yet. But I’m not willing to say goodbye to my dreams either.
I dream about stepping on to that aeroplane. I’ve never been on a plane before. The furthest I’ve ever been to is Aberdeen, and we took the ferry.
Sometimes I lie in bed and think about being up in the air in that plane. Passport in hand, bag beside me, watching Orkney fade into the distance. Knowing that when I return – and I will return – that I would have explored the world, seen so much, felt so much.
That plane will soar so high in the sky, and for the first time I will feel free.
Free as a bird.
I hear noises in the fog, calling to me, beckoning me out of the dark. I feel lost, confused about whether I’m awake or sleeping. I’m dreaming because I see shapes and shadows. They merge together and form new configurations, but none of them are familiar or comforting.
Somewhere in the fog, I see hair. Brown strands weave in and out, flowing like a gentle ocean wave. I reach out and feel the strands touch my fingertips, but it feels damp, sticky. When I release my fingers, letting the hair drop and flow back into the dense greyness, a red residue remains on my skin. Rubbing my fingers together, it spreads down my skin and to my wrists. It’s warm, thick, and moves like a snake twisting and coiling its way up my arm.
I open my mouth to scream, but it’s too fast. The liquid is inside me, filling my cheeks. It’s then I realise that it’s not hair, it’s blood, and the veins are moving like they’re alive within me.
The fog thickens, the voices getting louder, stronger. They break through the blanket of emptiness and pull me from its grasp. A jolt hits me, and a hardness cups my body. I feel heavy, but empty at the same time. A low buzzing fills the air around me, and I feel myself sinking. I know now I’m not awake, because my limbs start to come alive, wakening and pushing my mind out of the deep slumber.
A throbbing sensation fills my body, and targets my head. I feel warm, too warm. A stream of lighting pinches at my eyes as I slowly blink them open. Where am I?
I open them wide, and see Birkens sitting in a chair. He’s slumped with his elbow propped and his chin resting on his hand. A small pendant or keyring dangles from his right hand. It looks like a figure in a red cloak. A superhero of some kind. Superman. He holds a Superman keyring in his hand but I don’t know why. He’s not moving. At first I think he’s sleeping but as my vision clears, sharpening everything around me, I can see his eyes are open and he’s looking at me. His eyes are slightly glazed, and his jaw is tensed. He looks like my dad when he’s worried about something.
Dad.
Mum.
Who’s going to tell them? Or maybe they already know.
‘Where am I?’ I ask.
‘You’re at Balfour Hospital.’
‘What happened?’
‘You collapsed. I was worried.’
Suddenly it all comes rushing back – the standing stones, the body, the birds. My back arches as I bite my lip to stop myself from crying out again. I put my hand over my face so he can’t see me cry. But the tears don’t come. Instead, I feel empty. As if my body can’t grieve any more. But it shakes as if it’s still crying.
I feel his hand on my hand. ‘It’s OK. Alex, it’s OK.’
I move my hand. ‘Where are my parents?’
‘They’re at the station. We needed a positive ID on the body so we know for sure it’s your sister.’
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. ‘The body.’ My sister was just that now: a body. Nothing more. An empty vessel. Has her soul really left her body, or does any part of her remain in that shell?
Is she gone?
Olivia.
I