Escaping Life
Authors: Michelle Muckley
Escaping
Life
Michelle
Muckley
Text Copyright © 2012 Michelle
Muckley
Cover Art 2012 Michelle Muckley
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any
similarity to actual people, places, or events is in every respect coincidental
.
This work is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied, resold, or lent without the
author’s prior permission.
For extra copies, and further
information about the author, please visit:
This
book is dedicated to those who chose to escape. I try to understand.
“Of
all escape mechanisms, death is the most efficient”
Henry
Ward Beecher 1813-1887
Other
work by Michelle Muckley
The
Loss of Deference
“The
novel races to its finish in a white-knuckle ride, and more than once I wanted
to close my eyes so that I might not see what I was sure was coming.”
“A
devastating thriller!”
“Even
as the events reach their climax, though we know what the characters are
capable of, the ultimate decision is still riveting and heart-wringing.”
“Michelle
Muckley created a believable dystopian world inhabited by intriguing
characters. The main subject matter is very emotive but doesn't overpower the
story or the development of the character's lives and how they interact. I
can't wait to read more from this talented new writer.”
“From
the moment I started reading, I was hooked; I could not put it down!”
“I was
disappointed I had reached the last page.”
“Imaginative,
clever and thought provoking book; it had me hooked from the first chapter.”
If I was still
alive, I would be able to feel the smooth pebbles in the early morning tide
brushing against my feet. I would know that there were a few stuck between my
toes as the waves washed them up onto the shore. My skin would soak up the
early morning sun like the ripe fruits of the raspberry bushes growing in the
nearby gardens, rather than remain blue and lifeless to the touch. It is a
comfortable resting place that I made for myself. I wriggled my body around a
little once I was lying down, shuffling the rocks beneath me into place, a
perfect imprint of my body. The pebbles and stones have formed a soft cushion,
and it is here that I will lie until the time I am found by the beach comber,
his dog excited and eager to share such a finding as he sniffs around me and
barks his excitement. What a find I am. The beach comber will not know what I
am at first. I will look like just a small mound in the distance. I could be
rubbish, or discarded clothes, the scent of which has sent his companion into a
sensory frenzy. Even upon seeing me, he will not believe his own eyes. He
will walk cautiously towards me, certain that I am asleep and scared to wake me.
He will convince himself that I cannot be that which his mind is telling him.
He will see the items at my side, and my feet in the water. He will tell
himself over and over that I am asleep, but he will know that I am dead. Waking
up this morning he had no idea of this fate before him as he pulled on his
summer walking shoes. He dressed whilst his Golden Retriever excitedly paced
back and forth standing up onto his hind legs, front feet scratching high up on
the door and nuzzling at the cracks as if he can already smell me, my scent
drifting along on the early morning breeze. I do not know this man, but I know
he will do the right thing. I have learnt to trust my instincts. He will put
the lead on the dog. He will quickly struggle his way across the beach to call
the police using the coins that he had stowed in his pocket for the morning
newspaper, and which instead would
now
be pushed with shaky fingers into the metallic slot of the payphone at the end
of the road where it sits like a lighthouse before the stormy ocean of sand
dunes beyond it. He will return to my body and guard me until the police arrive.
Of this I am certain, for I have watched him every day this last month. He is
always here. He is a good man.
I am dressed in
my mother’s clothes. My skirt is loose and blowing around as the wind has
whipped up underneath it like an expectant parachute. The edges have become
wet and look dark against the light mocha brown material. I have tucked the
shirt into the high elasticated waist, a cap sleeved flower print vest. I am
also wearing her necklace. Just cheap beads, white, large and chunky, like
bone fragments strung together and draped across my neck as a voodoo talisman for
my sacrifice. They look old and out of place against my face. I would have
been thirty three in a month’s time. I would not have celebrated my birthday.
The last time I celebrated was for my twenty-eighth birthday: I ate dinner
with my family and friends; I drank wine; I had a cake and blew out the
candles. I stopped celebrating after this. There is no celebration alone. Perhaps
I would have cooked my dinner, sat on the settee, and watched the television.
Later, when I missed her, I would have taken out the photographs. I have only
a few now, but I look at them each day, enjoying them as if they are new and
just picked up from the developing shop in that moment of excitement when they are
still warm and stuck together, and still smell faintly of chemicals. I lived
for such memories. I keep them safely in a drawer and look at them each day.
I do not display them. I do not want this house to be mine. I shouldn’t
pretend for it to feel like home.
I have placed
my mother’s sandals neatly to my side. They match my bone necklace with the white
leather crisscrossing across their open toes. My mother always wore these sandals.
They were her favourite pair and she would wear them in the house, shopping,
school sports day, and to the beach. She didn’t let things go to waste in a
cupboard. There was no day to save for. No Sunday best. Every day was for
living. What did she know?
In my left hand
I am clutching a photograph. It is old and tatty, battered from its daily
use. In it my mother sits, staring at the camera with blank eyes. She always
tried so hard not to blink. I am sat opposite her. My face is open, wide-eyed
with a big toothy smile, too young to be self conscious about my crooked teeth
and before I was old enough for braces. There are candles on the table too. We
are celebrating. You are sitting next to me, propped up with a frilly
cushion. We are wearing the same dresses. Red corduroy A-line dresses with a
small white frill at the neckline. It is too childish for me. You are only
four years old. You are not looking at the camera. You are too interested in
the toys that Santa Claus has brought for you. I am trying to get your attention;
I am grabbing at your arm trying to get you to look in the right direction. He
got fed up with waiting for you and took the photograph anyway. He will scold
me for this. I love you so much already.
Next to my
mother’s shoes there is a packet of cigarettes. It’s a small white carton with
a blue band across it. It has an emblem of a sailor, a fine looking man
standing proudly with his blue sailor’s hat on. The cigarettes inside are
different. They are my cigarettes. In my right hand I am holding a bus
ticket and a key. It is dated April fourth, two thousand and six. It’s the
day you think I died.
I came here
once, with you. We ran wild like caged animals released, uncertain what to do
with our new found freedom. We built a fortress and fortified the walls. We
claimed this beach as our own. We sat here in this spot, and ate ice creams
quickly before they melted and ran over our skin. You weren’t quick enough
though, and your ice cream dropped like a freshly laid egg into your lap. You
cried so much that I gave you mine. I would have given it to you anyway. I
was in awe of you. I first saw you when you were only minutes old, our mother
still recovering, with beads of perspiration sitting on her face. She called
me in. She said that you had asked for me. I was so young, I didn’t realise that
you couldn’t have. To me you were perfect. You are still perfect. When I
came back here to our beach for the first time, I sat on the bench by the phone
box. I didn’t expect to see any
body
so early on in the day walking along the beach. I heard the dog first. He was
here every time I came. I knew he would be the one to find me. I understand
why he comes here every day. It’s beautiful. It’s a beautiful place to die
.
It was seven
o’clock when Elizabeth Green woke up. It was a Sunday, but she never slept in.
These were her hours. She could hear the seagulls screeching above the Bay of
Haven, cawing as they flew in for the first pick of the day’s catch, the
fishermen trying desperately to protect their prize. Graham was still sleeping
next to her, as he surely would for at least another two hours. He wasn’t
bothered by the noise of the gulls or the sunlight that poured in through the
bare windows. Peeling her sticky skin away from the bed sheets, she wrapped
her robe around her. The sun was already high. It was going to be a beautiful
day.
It was a
wonderful summer this year that had brought with it long hot days spent
outdoors, and a rich influx of tourists into their usual
ly
sleepy Haven. There was a gentle
breeze as she cracked the first of the windows open. She stood on the landing
in front of a small square window, separated by wooden cross panelling, and
breathed in the first view of the bay. It was this view that had first enticed
her here three years ago. The house was small and old, but it had a charm that
she couldn’t resist. She knew as soon as she had first found this place that
living here would be very different from her city apartment. She had felt
stifled and trapped and unable to breathe properly in the thick clogging air. Summers
were always unbearable in the city as the pollution clung low to the ground
becoming locked in by the cloud of humidity which itself would cling to you,
drenching you in fumes. She needed space and air, and room to breathe. She
had found it here on her first daytrip to Haven, turning into any road that she
didn’t recognise until she eventually found herself sitting in the car park
opposite the water’s edge. She had taken the turn into the long country lane,
following the twisting turning road as uncertain as Dorothy as to what she may
find in her final destination. She found her own pot of gold as she arrived in
the quiet little village. She breathed in the clean air and found that sense
of hope and possibility that the ocean brought with it as it rolled into the
sweeping bay, and which had been missing from her city life.
She had been
sitting on the bench looking out to sea when she first saw the house. At the
end of the dirt road it sat, old and derelict, shamefully waiting for the right
person to nurture it back to life, its previous glory lost to hard winters and
paint-eating frost. She knew she was that person. She had ignored the signs
that told her to keep out as she snooped around the house, drinking in the
sweet smell of the unruly rambling roses and the sound of the waves rolling in,
crashing against the sharp rocks below as she peered over the cliff edge at the
end of the garden. It was enough for her and she could see its old charm when
it once stood proudly as a fisherman’s cottage. In her mind she was already
living here, building, or rebuilding her life. Graham hadn’t needed any
encouragement. He knew that she needed a fresh start after the year behind them.
When the sale was completed, and the builders had finished the major work, they
moved in straight away. They painted around the furniture; they laid tiles
that Graham had found in the reclamation yard; they painted the outside walls
brilliant white, which the locals said contrasted so beautifully with the old
stone gable and roof tiles as they passed by to welcome the new couple from the
city. They found a life here that they had missed. They found a peace.
Staring out of this small landing window every morning, was a daily reminder of
why it was that life had drawn her here.
