Charisa wondered about the couch as she watched it bob and curve down the great river bend. It was a crisp and quiet morning, perfect for a sense of peace, yet the water was murky with a powerful current flowing. There were plenty of other more sensible objects in which to focus. Perhaps she should stare at the miniature capsized dingy-boat that two people were anxiously trying to rope in from behind the fence’s bars, or the memorial of delicate flowers that rested on the upper hill. Who knew that such a beautiful landmark like this river - a river that swirled and knitted itself so neatly into the Brisbane landscape - could cause so much misfortune.
Absentmindedly Charisa wondered about the couch’s life –its beginnings, middles and ends – much like others would wonder about their families or friends. Or people for that matter. But Charisa was more interested in the couch.
Her parents had driven Charisa, her brother and themselves to Brisbane City Central. All her brother wanted to see was the damage and destruction these floods had caused and brag about it later to his mates at school. Charisa just hadn’t wanted to be there at all. Hearing about the floods on the television the last few days had alarmed her, even though she denied it, and the journey up from Warner had been wrought with worries and fears about the chaos she would witness.
In the morning, Charisa tried everything to not go. Using all the old routines that Mum always saw straight through such as the ‘I’m sick’ method. Of course her Mother would just give her a loud laugh, drag the covers off Charisa’s bed and say in her thick, bushy accent, “Get over it, you just have the collywobbles.” Collywobbles was a word Charisa’s Mum charitably used; it explained silly things like nightmares and small fears.
The thought of her family brought Charisa back to the couch. It floated calmly, an unfashionable carroty colour, the florescent sides drooped depressingly and a definite contrast against its choice of perky complexion. No-one cared for the couch anymore, no-one wanted to save the piece of mouldy household furniture, so she decided that she would be the one to care for it. Charisa was going to save that couch.
Charisa’s eyes swept across the bankside, scanning each and every flooded house, wondering which one the couch could have belonged to. Houses slanted mournfully, their colours fading into distant hues the closer they lived to the bank, like faded denim washed out by the floods. These houses were the symbol of life, Charisa speculated, a life of painting walls, picking the perfect furniture, eating meals in front of the television, entertaining friends in the actual dining room and persisting through day in day out life of Australia. A symbol that was now sodden and drenched. The skeleton houses were close to unhinging, crumbling and sinking away as old bones would disintegrate when touched.
She followed the two-seater as it bobbed its way slowly down the bank until it became entangled with other pieces of wreckage down by the ship yard. It was in a perfect recovery position and Charisa blatantly ignored the fluro yellow warning signs taped onto the rusty gates. She climbed carefully over the corroded fence, jumbles of overturned boats and crusting pieces of metal that had been strewn around like a rubbish dump. Her carroty couch rested aimlessly against the rotting wooden planks. The fact that it had become entangled at all Charisa took as an omen that her couch was calling out save me in its weedy, distant voice.
Charisa narrowed her eyes at the couch a good 10 metres away and pursed her lips in concentration. Taking slow and steady steps, avoiding mouldy planks or anything with a flaking vermillion tone and a sharp edge, Charisa’s heart stuck in her throat and thumped loudly. It was like playing a game of Minesweeper, the point of the game was to hit the colourful numbers and move onto another step to complete the level, but each step could land on the mine and end the playing with an explosion. Charisa didn’t want to admit how scared she was but the lapping of the hungry water under her feet and the creaking, unsteady boards under her weight didn’t help her muster courage. Sad thing is, Charisa was awful at Minesweeper.
SNAP! Charisa screamed piercingly as the board underneath her feet splintered in half and the cold water greeted her enthusiastically. She tried unsuccessfully to grab the side of the dock but the fungi infested wood was slippery. Screaming again in fear, Charisa closed her eyes and groped frantically for a leverage of some kind. Her hands landed on what must have been a piece of covered material as her body stayed still in the fighting currents.
“Bloody hell. There’s a girl down there!” A person yelled.
“What was she doing in the shipyard?” replied a concerned, female voice.
“Someone get a rope!” another bloke ordered desperately.
“CHARISA!”
Charisa whimpered at her name and held on tighter to her mysterious life-saver as the current grew stronger. She heard a dull splash next to her head. Her father’s voice rang out to grasp the rope and Charisa desperately sprang from her life-saver and with eyes still shut tightly, lunged blindly for the stringy haven of woollen fibres. After 5 dragging minutes of hauling and heaving a thoroughly dripping Charisa was gratefully back on dry land and sniffling, with arms firmly around her mother.
“Crikey,” One of the earlier voices choked out, “she’s one lucky kid.”
Charisa didn’t open her eyes until that moment and when she did the first thing her gaze rested on was the ugly, carroty-old couch floating away into the distance. She hailed goodbye to the couch as one would hail a hero. She hadn’t been able to save it, Charisa thought mournfully, but it had saved her.
