Underground

As the tube doors swoosh open, she steps onto the empty platform and checks the time. One o’clock. It’s later than she thought. An hour ago, it was another day. And she was another person. An hour ago, she’d still been planning for a future which, now, is as shattered as the glass he’d smashed against the wall.

His words echo in her mind as she walks towards the exit, her hands stuffed in her pockets, her head down. She bites the insides of her painted lips, swallows back tears. She won’t cry. No, she won’t cry. She won’t let strangers ask what’s wrong. She can't bear their misplaced kindness.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she emerges on the street. The lively, hustling, bustling street. The air smells of hot dogs and fried onions, a stench that makes her gag. She starts walking to Neon. She needs a drink. More than one. Two drinks, three drinks, four drinks. More. She needs to wake tomorrow and have a moment, just one moment before she opens her eyes in which none of this ever happened. A moment in which it’s nothing more than a dissipating dream.

Only it’s not a dream, is it? It’s real. It’s as real as the towering concrete buildings around her, the broken bottles on the floor, the bitter stench of urine in the doorway, the animal shouts of a fight about to start. It’s as real as the beat, beat, beat of the nightclub she passes, as real as the beggar asleep in the phonebox, the money a drunken girl spills on the pavement.

It is as real as her infidelity.

Rain begins to fall and she feels a tear roll down her cheek, doesn’t even wipe it away. It’s too dark for people to see, to care. No one sees sadness in darkness.

She thinks of him now. His face, his shock. She thinks of him and their love. That was real, too. Once. That was born between them, cherished, nurtured. Alive.

And now? She stands at a crossing, waiting for the speeding traffic to stop, watching the blurs of headlights in the slow drizzle of rain. And now it is dead. Buried. Underground.

Shattered

As the mirror shatters into the bathroom sink, the hand with which she holds the hammer drops to her side.

Staring at the empty space before her, she feels a smile lift her thin, pale lips.

'Done,' she says to the empty room, then walks into the lounge, swinging the hammer like a child with a toy. 'Done, done, done, done, done.'

She slumps into the sofa and catches her reflection in the blank television screen.

In a heartbeat, she's on her feet again, and the smash of the screen makes her cry out for a second before the room drops again to silence.

That’s it now, isn’t it? She looks at the broken window glass on the floorboards, feels the city breeze on her skin. That’s them all gone now. She won’t be seeing her again. Never, never, never.

She laughs, an alien sound, and clasps her hand over her mouth immediately. There's the metal taste of blood on her tongue. She looks down at the cut in her hand, drops the hammer on the floor. How had she not realised she’d cut herself? Still, no matter. She rushes to the kitchen and runs cold water over her hand. It was worth it. It’s all been worth it.

Her heart stops for a moment as she sees her distorted self in the curve of the metal kettle. She looks closer and sees the doppelganger. Her tormentor. She gasps, runs back into the living room and picks up the hammer again.

The kettle makes a noise like a metal drum as she beats it.

And then silence once again. Blissful silence. No more of the voice in her head. All those can’ts, don’ts, won’ts, shouldn’ts, wouldn’ts, couldn’ts. She’d always suspected she could silence her forever. And now she has.

But that night, she wakes to the same mocking voice in the corner of her mind.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,' it says. 'Silly bitch. You shouldn’t have done that.’

And she reaches for the hammer once again.

But this time it is bone she breaks.

Bone after bone after bone.

The Lottery

Her eyebrows raised and her forehead creased into lines of wrinkles when I told her she'd won.

'Are you sure, Janelle?' she asked, reaching for the ticket. 'Check the numbers again. Are you sure?'

'Yes, Mum. I'm sure. You've won!'

Tears rolled from her blind eyes down her cheeks and she took my hand in hers.

'Can you believe it?' she asked. 'A lucky dip, not even my usual numbers. And I've won.'

I smiled, unsure when I'd last seen her so happy. Not for years, not since her eyesight began deteriorating.

'I think this calls for a drink,' I said, switching off the television and walking to the kitchen.

'There's a bottle of Asti in the fridge,' she called after me. 'Let's open that. It's a celebration after all!'

I poured the Asti into the crystal glasses Mum and Dad had as a wedding gift, then walked back into the living room.

'This reminds me of your father,' she said, feeling the engraved lines of his initials. 'I wish he was here now. I wish he was here to celebrate with us.'

'I know, Mum,' I said. 'I know.'

There was a moment's mournful silence, broken when I said, 'But he is only at the pub. He'll be back by nine.'