Writing Portfolio

Going home.

I kind of want to throw my phone onto the track. Wonder if it would spark when it hit the rails. Fry the thing and get crushed by the next express. Then I wouldn’t be able to check the timetable. I’ll just assume the attendants have gone home. We can consider the price of the ticket a waste of money, and I can go back to my own bed. I don’t have a landline; it’ll be fine.

Ally would probably ask when I go into work tomorrow, ‘Aren’t you meant to be off?’

I don’t know what I’d tell her. I guess I’d have all night to think of a lie. I’m no good at lying. Always stumble over my words. When I was a kid, my dad always…

I didn’t even give them my new number, y’know? I don’t know how they found it. Martin Connor doesn’t even exist anymore. I wiped him off the web. Well, I paid someone a lot of money to. I should be demanding a refund. They promised that when they were done, I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. I’d be a new person. No one would ever find me.

I don’t even look the same! I was going bald last time they saw me! Mum insisted it was my father’s genes, even though he never had a bald patch to dream of. My doctor told me it was stress, and I’ll believe her on that. I’ve been away five years, and suddenly my hair is healthier than ever. I could probably grow it halfway down my back if I wanted.

Maybe keeping it chin-length was the giveaway.

But my face, my face isn’t even the same? I mean, it’s the same face, but I’ve lost a lot of weight. An impressive amount, impressive that I kept it off. If anyone saw my school photos, they’d tell me off for stealing them from some kid.

No one even calls me ‘Martin’ in real life. My boss doesn’t even know that I changed my name. I got my passport changed, my I.D. changed, even my birth certificate.

Oh God, did they look up my birth certificate?

There’s no way they’d go that far, right?

Either way, they got my number now.

I guess I’m glad they do. I mean, I’m not, obviously, but y’know, I’m glad I found out. Lord knows how long it would have been before I found out if they didn’t. I wanted to know, and that’s why I’m holding a God damned ticket, and yet.

I’ve missed the past ten trains sitting on this bench. Every time the doors open, the people rush off, the people pile on, the doors close and off the train goes. And every time, I am sat on this bench.

Because I don’t want to get on board that train. There is no one I want to see. There is nothing there for me.

But I know, in three days, I’ll kick myself for missing my chance to say goodbye.

So why can’t I move?

I walked here, telling myself over and over that I was brave. That I was more than what they’d say to me. That I was someone to be proud of, which wasn’t something that was defined by them. I stood at that ticket machine and told myself, ‘I will tell dad that if he could see me now, I am someone he would be proud of.’

And by the time I sat down, I was ready to break.

I wonder if he’d even want me there. We never had problems, and he was always so supportive of me. I loved my dad, and it’s not like I wanted to stop talking to him. But if I phoned him, mum would check his phone and then she’d go off at him. Then he’d have to tell her that it was me and then she’d have my number and then…

We’d be back here. Having not spoken in years.

I don’t have to go there for him to know I loved him. He knew. He had to know that neither of us wanted it to be this way. I just wish he’d left her.

No, I can’t, I can’t think like that. It’s not that he chose her over his kids, or at least, over me. He had his own problems. Sometimes it’s just not that easy.

Jesus Christ, I can’t go back to resenting him now. God, my therapist is going to make a fortune out of me by the time I’m back.

And there’s that damn sign lit up again. Train for Croy, arriving in four minutes.

Services stop after this one.

My therapist told me this would be good for me. That I could put it all to rest, and this would be my chance to ground them in my mind. I could see them for what they were, and they wouldn’t be hovering over me anymore. I could finally see them and face them and all their faults.

They’d be people with problems, just like me.

I don’t have to forgive them. I can just see them and finally realise there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.

Three minutes.

But at least if I go home, there’s someone waiting for me? I asked her not to come, so maybe I knew that I wanted that option.

She wouldn’t judge me if I went home now.

I wanted a new phone anyway.

I’ve got enough money to buy one. I backed up all my photos.

Two minutes.

But then I’d never know where they buried him. I’ve never been a fan of graveyards. I don’t want to bounce between Croy and Kilsyth trying to find the plot and risk running into them in the meantime. It’s bad manners to fight in a graveyard.

It’s the sort of thing that tears families apart. When someone ruins a funeral, you never want to see them again. You do everything you can to distance yourself from them. You finally realise they don’t respect anyone. Not you. Not even the dead.

One minute.

Thank you again for hearing my request. I have spent several months attempting to contact anatomists like yourself, but none have been willing to listen. While most ignore my letters, many universities have sent me threatening replies on their behalf. I appreciate your decision to respond to me independent of your organisation.

I also thank you for your kind words regarding my recent exhibition. While reviews were poor, I am thankful that there are some who appreciate my depictions of the body. I am glad to have found a like-minded spirit for this project.

As suggested, I am happy to come to you to see the samples. I promise you no one will know of our meeting. There are few friends with whom I could confide in such a preoccupation. I do not require photographs to work from, and all specimens will be safely stored following your directions. There will be no trace of your name attached to them. As long as everything is ready, I will not waste your time dallying. We can meet, and part before anyone could even wake.

I am sure it is in both of our best interests that this meeting goes no farther than ourselves. You need not be credited, and your employers will know nothing. While the work is not illegal on my end, I assume you have a code of conduct or ethics that you must follow.

I know you requested your assistant's presence, but I think you should only bring him if you truly have faith in him. I believe he wrote to me. The letter I received was unsigned, but the stamp and postal mark were the same as yours. I almost thought it was a follow-up letter from you until I studied the handwriting. He expressed his interest in the project and requested details you had not, ones that I do not care to divulge.

In short, I feel he was trying to set me up, though I know not why.

Please understand that if he were to attend, I would only allow his presence on your word.

I also request that you do not let him read this letter.

Yours Sincerely,

Astria Michel

Footsteps echoing in the hall
A light that flickers on the wall
Your loneliness disturbed by one
Who feigns oblivion where there’s none

A knowing smile
A tilting head
A voice that wardens you to bed
You catch his eye
And then you know
Your thoughts to him are but a show

You spend your nights here
Dreaming you’ll forget
The wide-eyed stares
The scratching nails
The nightmares that make up your tales

You look to the man at the door
His light has fallen to the floor
You tell him you won’t leave your place
As it bounces back upon his face

A knowing smile
A tilting head
A voice that wardens you to bed
You catch his eye
And then you know
Your thoughts to him are but a show

He promised he would help you
It was what you asked of him
Someone who’d work long nights
Who’d keep looking up to you despite
Every stupid mistake you would make

But his eyes are so damn judging
And you can’t help but begrudge him
The ease with which he lives his life
The intelligence with which he’s rife

A knowing smile
A tilting head
A voice that wardens you to bed
You catch his eye
And then you know
Your thoughts to him are but a show

He’s lying to you when he says
he cares about you
he wants what’s best for you
he thinks you should get some sleep
That he wants you to look before you leap

He’s better than you, you know it
Though not that you’ll ever show it
Lying’s a game you both can play
You know he really wants you to stay