KattyZee...

Please don’t.

Don’t say hello.

Don’t smile at me.

Don’t smooth the hair from my forehead.

Don’t slip your palm into mine.

Don’t place your hand at the small of my back.

Don’t hold me at night.

Don’t kiss me in the morning.

Don’t do everything I’d gladly let you do.

Don’t do everything I long for you to do.

Don’t convince me to believe again, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Don’t ask me to open.

Don’t ask me to leave the ledge.

Don’t ask me to love,

Only to leave me again.

Because I don’t want to shut me away from you.

But I must.

So I do.

So please,

Don’t.

He had never smelt just her, he realised, as he pulled her out of the bath.

He had no knowledge beyond the perfumes, the make-up, the moisturisers, the shampoo, the scrub, the soap. He couldn’t name her scent beyond the bottles and labels. When he lay next to her to breathe her in, he couldn’t extract her from the false, cloying, stifling substance she lived in. A chemical smokescreen. An olfactory house of mirrors.

He wondered then, in his bewilderment, is that what it is to know someone? Until now, he had thought that it was enough to hold; to know the contours of their body, the simple small individualities that formed them, the particular temperature of skin. Or maybe enough to see them; to look deeply, openly, inquisitive and searching. To hear them; to experience the idiosyncratic inflections and expressions, the laugh and the scream and the cry, the morning voice distilled to the evening whisper. In these ways, he thought he knew.

The water was cold, and translucent, and red. No bubbles. No soap. The shampoo and toothpaste were capped. There were no freshly laundered clothes. He reached down and pulled out the plug, heard the suck and gurgle of the drainpipe, draining all the falseness and veiling away. He knelt, and breathed.

Later, her mother would, in pain and confusion, adopt an accusatory stance as she questioned why he didn’t call the ambulance for a full thirty minutes. Later the police would ask the same. Later, her friends would share, in hushed whispers, the suspicions they had always had of him, unpicking minute invented details to prove he was unhinged, because of this very moment. Later, it would all come tumbling, splintering down. But for now he knelt, breathing.

Knowing.

Original piece of creative writing. Author: Kat Zibell.

The question is: will she take the jacket?

In recent weeks, she has tested every myth her mother told her, every rule imposed arbitrarily. It began when she burnt the toast - and ate it. Cancer be damned, she thought. Then, the dishes left in the sink overnight; hard, encrusted in the morning. She scrubbed with satisfaction, the thrill of rebellion. She ignored the red man’s order and stepped brazenly onto the street. She went to bed with teeth unbrushed. But would she stray so far as this?

It moped, abandoned on the tram seat. It longed to be lifted, seams extended, buttons slipped through holes. To stretch over shoulders, arms, breasts. To warm, to hold, to comfort. To be hung at night; to be eased off by a lover. She felt desire.

Who would know? The old lady in the seat diagonally across, staring, knowing, judging. The old lady had seen her get on, and sit opposite the jacket. The old lady was suspicious. Enclosed in a woolen skirt suit and stockings, sensible shoes, even in the heady heat. Hands upon leather handbag. Bony fingers eliciting the truth, creeping to her thoughts even as they remained rigidly still. She glanced at the jacket. The old lady glared fiercely. Tension pulsed.

The old lady rose and pulled hard on the cord. Relief - persecution would be over soon. The old lady took a step closer, leaned down, and quietly, intently, said:

“I know what you are up to.”

And then the old lady was gone.

At home, she scrubbed the salt and sweat from her skin. She rolled the toothbrush over her molars. She stared at her mirror self, and it gazed back, asking:

Did she take the jacket?

(Original piece of creative writing. Author: KattyZee)