Of all the things that haunt me, it’s the images my mind can produce. Some of them are memories - my dad, and the things he and I did; my mum and the hateful things she said to me; my Nan and the way she said my name with that light shrill at the start. But then there are the ones that my mind makes up all on its own. Thoughts of bad things that I think to do. Thoughts of actions I might perform. They come around like memories, although I know they are not real, but they are clear all the same.
My mind thinks of Will as I stand at the sink and stare at myself with a look of something between disgust and hate. I picture him strapped in a car with me. He’d be in the back for some reason; maybe because he’s a child and that’s where he is meant to go. I think about the pipe coming in from the exhaust and pouring fumes into the car. I know what it would smell like. Would it make us cough? Which window would I use? The one closest to Will so that he gets the fumes and goes first. That way, I know my dad won’t get him.
But what if the fumes took Will and not me. What if they didn’t build up strong enough for me and in some weird twist, I lived. Of course, it wouldn’t matter all that much. There are other ways and I could do those afterwards. But for moments, I would have to live and die knowing that I had killed my son. Would that make me worse than my own father?
I stare into the eyes in my mirror. Really stare until they don’t look like eyes at all, and the face looking back at me is not my own. It’s just the reflection that everyone else sees. It’s a lie - a mask that people get fooled by. Oh, of course it looks innocent enough. Bright blue eyes, blue enough to light up when I smile at someone. But how do they not see the sadness that’s in there? The darkness that lurks behind them. Why are people just so god damn blind all the time?
Can I risk Will dying and I don’t? Or the other way - I die and he doesn’t. I’d want him to die first, of course. So that I know he is safe.
Safe.
The word hovers in my mind and I let out a huff.
“Safe.”
It would have been so much simpler if my dad had simply gone too far; or maybe even one of the many men who took their share of me, too, and what they wanted. They could have let me die. It would have been the only humane thing they did for me. I hate them all for not doing that part.
I pick the cider bottle up and turn to leave the bathroom. It isn’t that I have decided not to do the car thing - I just haven’t yet decided if I will. I leave the idea in the back of my mind like a comforting safety net that I know is there if I need it. I can call upon it any time I choose, but until then, I’ll take my bottle and go to the lounge, sit there and drink it and hope that sleep decides to take me and keep me all night.
I think about Donna. I don’t know why I do, but she pops into my mind as I take myself into the lounge. I haven’t seen her for a few days. She hasn’t come around, and I don’t blame her for that. I wouldn’t come and see me either. We could go out. She’s working, I think. She works at one of the clubs in town. Not a night club, but one of those go-between places. The places people go to after they have met up with their mates in the pub and they aren’t drunk enough for the night club yet. It’s kind of the same - loud music, dance floor - but it shuts early just as the clubs start to open.
I could bundle Will up; he’d stay asleep. I’m sure, and then I could take him to his mother’s house. She hasn’t seen him in a few weeks. She’s pregnant again. Says it makes her feel too sick to go out. Perhaps she’d be thrilled to see him.
The images start in my mind again, playing it out, assessing all the possible outcomes, and none of them lead to anything bad other than a hangover in the morning.
