Fish and Chips

I wait for my Chinese takeaway and I feel somewhat exposed, alone in the large glass shop window. Much like the fish on display in the corner. They are so still. The water is murky and rather foul-looking this time. When was the last time that the tank was cleaned? How long had it been since I had been here?

The fish are sullen and morose. Even for fish. Koi carp: one black, one white with flashes of brilliant orange; one silver ghost carp. That’s the one that I can’t quite take my eyes away from. I think of all the times that I wished I could have become invisible as a child. It is still the superhero power that I would most relish.

Suddenly, from the kitchen in the back, comes a loud voice. It sounds like a long and angry tirade of abuse. I can’t make out the words. They are spoken in Chinese; a language that I do not know. But I can sense the palpable rage and I sit up a little straighter in the red padded chair; feeling much like a voyeur as the pans bang and crash. The young girl, who took my order, rushes back through. Our eyes meet. Hers are red and tears stream down her face. She turns away quickly, flustered, upset and embarrassed. I keep looking at her, as do the fish, I’m sure of it. Are their funny little mouths trying to tell her that everything will be okay?

I wish that she would turn to look at me again as I long to send her a friendly smile. I feel sorry for her as she struggles to compose herself. But somehow the moment is lost and now she is handing over the white plastic bag of food over the counter. I can smell the spicy noodles and I am aware of my intense hunger. I thank her and leave and begin my walk home.

Home isn’t far away, though it feels like miles as my stomach roars and I imagine the moment when I will sprinkle vinegar upon the chips. My mouth is wet as I salivate. The sheer notion of the vinegar is enough to quicken my steps. But then I slow down again and I feel sick. I could vomit right here in the street. I don’t want the Chinese food. I don’t want any food. And I would happily throw it all into the nearest bin, but it’s all I have. It’s all I have to walk back into the house with.

Is it today? Did it happen today? Amongst the bank statements, the electricity bill and the fourth reminder that my eye test is overdue? Was it there? It’s a nauseating way to live life: waiting. Waiting for the glass to shatter. Watching my wife, Sarah, brush her long auburn hair, her pastel pink lips smiling at her reflection. Watching our daughter, Clara, line up her ever-growing collection of curly-haired dolls, in size order. Chatting to them as though they are familiar friends. They could do this because they don’t know. They don’t know that I’m a bastard. That I have betrayed them and our happy life without giving them a second thought.

Or do they? Is it today? Has an ominous-looking brown envelope arrived? Had Sarah opened it as the kettle boiled? Had she seen it? Has she seen the photographs? The proof? The evidence of what I have done?

I break out in a sweat, a guilty layer of moisture soaks my forehead and I collapse to the ground. Chips roll across the pavement and I watch as a couple of them land on the edge of the road. I know myself to be a coward. I wish that I was the ghost carp. I can’t do it. I force myself to my feet and I creep up our front path, leaving the bag of hot Chinese food on the doorstep. And I walk away.

By Laura Huntley.

Prompt words: ghost, vinegar, photograph.

Blue

She’s feeling blue. There are so many words, with the same meaning, that she could choose. Depressed, low, gloomy, down, sad, disheartened. But blue is right. Not a summer day sky blue. A murky, polluted water blue. A blue teetering on grey. A cold blue. Frozen. And she shivers with her misery. She pulls the blanket of numbness over her knees to soothe her aching, weary bones. A covering of detachment and remoteness. How different from last week.

Last week was anxiety. Heart palpitations and sweaty palms. It was insomnia and a tight band around her chest. The nerves grew quickly and it had felt as though someone was blowing up a balloon inside of her. Taut, expanding fear. Growing, growing, pop.

The pop had been like shaking a bottle of fizzy drink and then unscrewing the lid. The madness came then, as it always did. Effervescent bubbles of shrieks and mighty sobs. Of angry recriminations and suicidal flirtations. Of feeling as though the whole world was laughing at her, sneering behind her back. And the paranoia marched on as words whispered inside her mind and told her to cut herself with scissors.

But the regret inevitably arrived and there was a hysterical phone call to the emergency services. Flashing lights and losing consciousness. Nurses with pursed lips and sorry bandages. Talk of getting her the best help. Doctors questioning her right mind; but ultimately letting her go home alone anyway.

Home. Walls. Private suffocation. Denial and disinterest cosied up to her on the sofa and she relished the company for a little while. And it all washed over her head. She didn’t feel it as a pain now. It floated. It exhausted. Though she knew full well that she would soon have an appointment to meet with anxiety and turmoil again. Because that’s how it worked. That’s what happened when she was feeling blue.

By Laura Huntley.

Prompt words supplied: Blue, Relish & Balloon.