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Creative Writing: A Sunday

Creative Writing: A Sunday

The leaving was easier than she thought.

All those nights practising it in her head. Just wanted to look at the gardens,
so pretty in the spring. Just wanted to see the gardens. Except in the end
nobody asked. She simply put on the good blue dress, combed her hair and walked
down the corridors, taking care over those polished tiles, and pushed out
through the heavy double doors.

Outside. Out through the garden. Trying not to run but wanting to. Outside. Out
through the gates and here she is walking along the footpath looking at the
daffodils. Just like anybody else.

She breathes in the air. Sniffs it. Sucks it up and rolls it around in her mouth.
So different out here. Different even than in the garden. Sitting on those seats.
Sometimes she takes off her shoes. Rolls down her rights so that she can feel
good rough ground under her feet. She digs her toes in, and rubs her soles into
the earth. They say, look at that Jessy getting herself all dirty, Jessy you
naughty girl you'll get a chill. Time to go inside, girls.

ÐFunny that. Being called girl. Naughty naughty girls wetting themselves and
pinching. Quiet good girls slumped in the seats in the garden with their mouths
open. Waiting for it. Drinking in death.

Her voice shakes when she asks for two sections. She wants it far too much.
Practised that too in her head over and over in the nights. Listening to them in
the corridors. If Mary shits herself again tonight she can sleep in it.
Listening to the cries and the calling, I have to get home. I have to, the
children want their dinner. She sits in the bus away from the window. Afraid to
look out. Cars and people on the footpath. People watching. For her. Tom says
it's a nice place, Mum. Warm and clean and friendly and plenty to do. Except
that everything to do there ends up with dying and there are better places to do
that and better people to do it with.

She grips the sides of the seat with her hands and they are hot and sweating....