hello all : ) for anyone that read any of my previous thread (re Dali Bird) I have gone for a completely different start as I took on advice and he isn't the main character. Would really appreciate any feedback fir the last time before I get stuck in / chuck it all in the bin : )
There had been a peculiar change in the weather that evening. A subtle frost and a clear sky which for the first quart of March seemed nothing out of the ordinary. Yet in the short time it took for me to cross the lawn, a thick cover of fog descended over the pool that lay smooth and still at the bottom of our garden. The far side of water had been obscured entirely leaving only my memory to determine the fields beyond it. I had looked upon that scene countless times from the seat of my bedroom window but being there in that moment felt foreign, magnified, distorted somehow.
I had waited past one until my father was sleeping before going downstairs and throwing his old waxed jacket over my nightdress, slipping the little brown bottle into the waist pocket. The collar smelt of him and I took a moment to appreciate the unexpected sense of comfort that followed. On reaching for the latch I caught my reflection in the glass. The resemblance to my mother was undeniable, even more so given the slightly dishevelled look I had become accustomed to. Wild, untamed hair and lost look of sadness in the eyes - a sharp pang of guilt for remembering her that way. There had been fond memories too but the sour notes clouded the sweet and it was tricky to get past that since she had gone. I looked at my feet to feign distraction and opened the door to the pinch of winter, night air numbing my exposed features and limbs. Hard crumbed earth nestled unevenly between my toes as I made my way down to the water and away from the sanctuary of the house. It had not occurred to me that putting on shoes or perhaps boots may have been more appropriate, but I didn’t enter this world with warm dry toes so why would departing it be any different?
The plan had been to finish mother’s acid orange pills and snuff out what was left of my idle little life. The past few months had been rotten and ugly, my death could be beautiful at the very least. I had pictured something worthy of a Millais painting, submerging my body to the inky depths and drifting to the surface amongst the water sprite and lily pads. Fingers gently cupping a rose in each hand, grown from a seed by my father as was I. It would be a romantic, poetic and tragic end, a little more enchanting than reality that is. The thought of being found that way seemed somewhat more determined than simply slumped on a bed where I could be mistaken for sleeping. I pictured Lilla at my door with her sanctimonious tongue. “Hibernating for winter Cissie? Your mother’s legacy lives on” before sauntering off down the hall, “I think your daughter may be having another episode Dali. She’s been in bed an entire week and there’s a god awful stench coming from her room”. I would be there until spring no doubt. The assumption of slumber would not be made in the water of course, of that I was certain. With any luck Lilla would be the one to find me and the ghostly image of my puckered skin would be etched on her mind for eternity.
I pulled the brown container from the pocket and pushed down the lid with a twist letting the neon pool flow gently into my palm. ‘Tangerine dreams’ as mummy had called them. I slipped back into another memory of her, the first time I realised she required a panacea. I had been sitting alone at her dressing table admiring the collection of perfumes that adorned it when she suddenly appeared at the door and began flitting between there and the adjoining bathroom. Pulling out drawers, rifling through cabinets and frantically searching bedside tables before finding the bottle buried deep amongst fathers briefs. The look of panic on her face melted away into a sound balance of joy and relief. I remember wondering how on earth she could forget putting something in fathers sock draw, and what a curious place to put an item so clearly precious in the first place. I went unnoticed as she snapped off the lid and took an ample swig from the bottle. It took a tiny pill to fall on the floor before I noticed that what she was drinking wasn’t actually a liquid at all. “What are those mummy?” I asked. She lowered the bottle from her mouth and covered it swiftly with her palm, looking just like a child that had been caught looting sweets. “They…umm,” then gaining composure, “my tangerine dreams darling. Mummies magic medicine. We mustn’t tell daddy because I don’t want him worrying. So it’s our little secret. Okay?” She walked over to where I was sitting and took the perfume from my lap, spritzing a fine mist above our heads. Taking me in her arms we twirled round and around, faster and faster in the delicate scent of amber and bergamot. She sang softly;
‘Measuring a summer's day, I only finds it slips away to grey
The hours, they bring me pain.
Tangerine, Tangerine, living reflection from a dream’
We fell in a dizzy heap on top of her bed, cocooned by pretty pink pillows and quilted shams. “Marshmallow Mountains and cotton candy clouds, never grow old my sweet Cissie Bird”. Before I could speak she had drifted off, cutting me short of my promise. I watched til her smile slipped slowly away before putting the bottle back in its hiding place.