PERSISTENCE

 Very rarely for me do story ideas start with a concept rather than a plot or a character, but at the time I wrote Persistence, I was obsessed with the idea of non-linear storytelling, and once I tried to imagine what it would be like to literally go back and retrace your steps to solve your own mystery, I was off. This kind of storytelling isn't new, I know, but it was interesting to explore.

PERSISTENCE 

You can only bleed so much.

You can only bleed so much. That just popped into my head and I don’t know why. I think someone’s here.

My mouth tastes like salt and blood and barbecue sauce, and I don’t know why. I’m sure the sore on my hand must have bled more when I first started picking at it, whenever that was. Now it just weeps a little. You can only bleed so much, I suppose.

I hate the heat. It makes everything stink like filth. The hole in the centre of the sore on my hand is really filthy. Really big, too. Too big to have nothing in it. I licked it because it looked like a Burger Ring. It didn’t taste like one. I wanted Foghorn to try it. He wouldn’t.

I’m eating Burger Rings. Tried sharing them with Foghorn. He didn’t want any. There’s a yellowy-orange crust around the hole in the centre of the sore on my hand. It looks like the hole in the centre of a Burger Ring. I’m tempted to lick it. See if it tastes like one.

I can fit almost a half a Burger Ring into the hole in the centre of the sore on my hand. Just did it. Stung a little. It was nice. Better not waste them, though.

I’m holding a broken Burger Ring in my hand. I don’t remember taking it out of the bag. Foghorn hasn’t come over to try to take it yet. Don’t think he’s hungry. Would it sting if I stuck it in the hole in the centre of the sore in my hand?

There’s an open bag of Burger Rings on my lap. I don’t remember opening it. I am hungry. Think I’ll take one.

I must sit down and open this bag of Burger Rings. Can’t remember where I got it.

Just took my cardigan off the back of the chair and found a bag of Burger Rings in the right pocket. I don’t hide food. Someone must’ve come in and put them there. Took the bag out and threw my cardigan on the floor. They won’t be coming back for it now it’s dirty.

Cardigan feels bulky. I don’t like it. Draped it over the back of the chair. Must clean the pockets out later.

There are bags full of shopping near the front door. Also, a bag of Burger Rings. Stashed them in my pocket, just in case I need them later.

My cardigan has big pockets. I like stashing things in them. I keep them for later. I’ll probably need them later.

I’m wearing every piece of clothing from my wardrobe, but I don’t remember putting any of it on. Was I cold? Took it all off, except my shirt and skirt and cardigan.

All the clothes in my wardrobe are missing. I think someone stole them. There isn’t one single piece, not so much as a stitch, left.

I just opened my wardrobe door. The rack is full of jumpers and jackets and cardigans and dresses and shirts and pants and coats. It is getting colder. Must put something on.

I’m standing in front of my wardrobe, but I don’t know how I got here. I must’ve been looking for something. Wonder what it was I needed?

I need a coat hanger. I’m not sure why.

Why is the sore on my hand hurting? Where did that blood come from? I don’t remember hurting it. I’d remember something like that. I’m sure I would.

The hole in the centre of the sore on my hand looks like the one in the middle of a Burger Ring. Not hollow, though. Also, not quite the same size. Maybe if I dug at it a little…

I’m feeling hot all over and breathing very hard. I don’t know why. There’s a big tub of Ponds moisturiser in my hand. What did I need that for?

There are tubs and jars and bottles and tubes all over the bathroom floor. The mirror is broken. Who would do that? Is someone angry at me? What have I done?

There’s a huge blob of gunk covering my hand. I’ve rubbed it in. I can take care of myself. Don’t need anyone to put gunk on my hand. Wish they’d minded their fucking business. Should’ve smashed their face in.

My bathroom cabinet is full of stuff. I don’t remember buying it. Four bottles of antiseptic, twenty bars of soap, seventeen bottles of vitamins, dozens of band aids and tubs and tubs of toothpaste. Maybe I’ll need it all someday. The sore on my hand is itchy. Might put something on it.

The bathroom cabinet’s open. Can’t remember opening it. Might just have a poke around and see if there’s anything I need.

I’m in the bathroom. Sure I needed something. Don’t think I’d come in here for no reason. Maybe I’ll find it in the cabinet.

Found myself gripping the cold tap handle really tightly. Hurt my hand. Is it always this quiet in here? Maybe my ears are blocked. Must clean them out.

Hum, hum, hum. Where’s that music coming from?

Someone left the cold tap running. I turned it off, but the pipe’s still creaking. The sound is bouncing off the walls. It’s kind of like music.

There’s a horrible taste in my mouth. I’ll rinse it while I try to remember why I’m in here. I must be at the sink for a reason.

Just cut my tongue. I was licking up spilt jam from the kitchen floor. The wound feels clean and small. Fruit acid is seeping in. I’m sure there isn’t a worse sting than this. Must rinse my mouth.

Why are there smashed jars all over the floor? The pantry door’s wide open. Someone’s been wasting food. Better clean it up before any accidents happen. That jam looks good.

My arms are loaded with jars of raspberry jam. Don’t remember wanting any. It does look delicious, though. Hope I don’t drop any. That would be a waste.

I’m eating raspberry jam, for some reason. I think I’ve had it before. It’s gorgeous. Pretty sure Foghorn hates jam. Think I made him try it once. Jar’s almost finished now and I’m still hungry. Might have some more.

I know I opened the pantry for a reason. Think I was hungry. Lot’s of food in here. More food than I’d eat in a year. Twenty jars of jam. Must taste one.

I’m looking at my pantry. It’s four cupboards wide and reaches the ceiling. What did I want from here? Better open it up and see.

I’m standing in the kitchen. My hands are dirty. There must be a mess somewhere. Maybe I spilled something from the pantry.

Why are broken records scattered all over the lounge room floor? Picked up some. Need energy to clean. Must go eat something.

Counting all the metal records we own. So many bands beginning with A. Seventy-nine so far. So many piles for one category. It’s uneven. Doesn’t look right. Makes me want to scream.

Sorting all of our records in alphabetical order. Lots of metal albums. Better count them all.

I need to sort our records. Not sure why. Don’t know why it bothers me so much.

All our records are stacked in genres. Too many of some and not enough of others. The shelf is a staircase and the top step is metal.

Think I’ll sort all of our records. Not sure what order to sort them into. Genre?

Feel like listening to music. Can’t decide what I’m in the mood for. Wouldn’t have room for them all if they weren’t piled in stacks. They’re in no order. I don’t like it.

What did I want to do in the lounge room? Can’t remember. Too many thoughts in my head. Can’t choose one. Might put some music on. Block them all out.

Feeling lonely. I remember the last time I wasn’t. I was dancing with someone. What song did we dance to? Need to find it. Must look amongst my records.

My insides feel empty. I’m not hungry. Something was in there. It’s gone now. There’s a name for that. Can’t think of it.

There are people in my hallway. They’re smiling at me from inside picture frames. Wish I knew who they were. Might like them.

I’m standing in my hallway, for some reason. There’s a cold breeze on my back. The front door is open. Just shut it.

I just put down bags of groceries that were killing my hands. Stared around. I don’t recognise this house. Not exactly. Lot’s of nice pictures on the walls. Pretty place. Is it mine?

Just turned the key in this front door lock. Called ‘Hello’ before I went inside. Whose house is this? What am I doing here? These groceries are heavy. Cutting into my wrists.

Reached into my pocket. Pulled out a key ring. Keys are all labelled. One key is the same colour as the door. The label says ‘Front.’

The front door to this house is purple. Same purple as pansies. Someone I once knew loved pansies. Put my finger on the door bell. Didn’t ring it.

There are pansies either side of the front path. They look like happy faces. Makes me happy. Also makes me mad. Not sure why.

The gate is wide open. Hope there’s no dog. Shut it behind me. Who lives here?

I’m standing at a fence, looking at a house. It’s white. Need to get a closer look. Something isn’t right. Don’t know what.

Kid who kicked his ball into a tree is crying. Can’t get it down. Smiled at him. Kept walking. Need to find number 10, for some reason.

Just got off a bus. Don’t know what street this is. It’s lined with trees. Trees are full of birds. Birds scatter when a ball hits a high branch. Gets stuck there.

Just passed my stop. Not sure why it’s mine. Pretty sure I’ve been here before. Screamed at driver to STOP! Driver slammed on brake. Almost sent me flying. Stupid man.

This bus ride is nice. Streets rolling by outside. House after house. I put my head against the window. Let them float. A lovely dream. Comfort in consistency.

Need a window seat on this bus I don’t remember boarding. Not sure why. Only one left. Pushed past a little old lady to get it. ‘Plenty more seats, love.’ She’s angry. Told her I was sorry. I’m not.

Just checked my ticket and walked down the aisle of a bus that’s headed south. I’m anxious, somehow. Need distractions. Gentle vibration of an engine and a pastoral view would be nice.

Boarded the 707. Not sure why. Don’t know why I need to get where it’s going. Just know I have to. I’m terrified.

Standing in a bus bay. The 700 and the 707 rolled up at the same time. They go in opposite directions. Don’t know which one I’m supposed to take. Where was I going?

Walking down a street full of people. They’re staring at me. Some of them are carrying bags, too. Lot of shops in this street. Hardware shop. Chemist. Photo Shop. Grocery shop. Think I’ve been here before. Before today, I mean. Did I come here by bus last time?

Just left a grocery shop. Holding several bags. Looked inside the ones with the grocery shop’s name on them. Tea, milk, sugar, biscuits, Nutella, bread, bath cleanser, Burger Rings, chocolate Quik.

Found myself standing at a checkout, staring at things I don’t remember buying. People lined up behind me look mad. So does the checkout girl. I must’ve wanted all this stuff, for some reason. Everyone’s staring at me. Better pay.

Pushing a shopping trolley toward a checkout. Not sure why I need the things inside it. Just know I do. Trolley has a wonky wheel. Keep bumping into things. My handbag is in the front compartment. Compartment still looks empty.

Why are tea and biscuits in the same aisle? Is it because you can’t have one without the other?Grabbed some Twinings English Breakfast and a packet of Tim Tams. Think I’ve had them before. Grabbed sugar. Not sure why I need it.

Why does the way they spell Quik annoy me so much? Am I that fussed about spelling? Feel like running up and down the aisle and drawing a C between the I and the K on every can. Don’t, because people are already looking. Grab the chocolate flavour. Don’t even consider the strawberry. That would be a sacrilege, for some reason. Think I need tea. Biscuits, too.

Do I need milk? Fairly certain I do. Full cream, Skinny, Rev, or Farmhouse? Full cream. I need to make chocolate milk. No point making chocolate milk with Skinny. Who wants to drink flavoured water? If that’s what you want, you might as well get the strawberry. Strawberry is bad somehow. Weak. Someone pointed that out to me once.

Just grabbed some bread. I’m pretty sure white bread is bad for you. Not as good as wholemeal, at least. Grabbed some Nutella, too. Might as well go the whole hog. As it were. Me being a pig and all. Is that really what I think of myself? Better get some milk. Wash down the chocolate.

Just grabbed some bathroom cleanser. Powdered kind. Not sure why I need six shakers full. Bathroom must be filthy. Maybe I’m supposed to clean the whole house with it? Why would I do that?

Got a trolley. Not sure what I want to put in it. Think there’s a list somewhere. In the back of my mind, maybe. The hole in the centre of the sore on my hand is bleeding. It’s leaving a trail of little droplets all over the floor as I walk up and down the aisles. Must take care of that.

Found myself in a grocery shop. Not sure what it was I wanted here. Know it’s urgent, though.

Just got off a bus at a stop on a busy street. Lots of shops here. Think I need to do some grocery shopping.

Just got on a bus. I seem to know where it’s going. Not sure why I want to go there.

Walking down a street. Lots of trees and houses. It’s lovely, but I want to leave more than anything else in the world, for some reason. I’m shaking all over.

Walked out the gate and kept going. Didn’t bother shutting it behind me. The owner of this garden is gone; what do I care if someone trashes it? None of it exists any more – not the garden, not the house, not the food, not the music, not the clothes, not the pain. Not Her.

Locked the door and shut it behind me. Only reason I bothered is so nobody bothers Her. Not until I can be with her again. Should’ve been with her before; before things got out of hand, I mean.

Just grabbed my handbag from the hall table and opened the door. Took a deep breath. Always hated shopping. Not today. I’m calm, but it’s a temporary kind of calm. The kind you might feel if you stood in the centre of a cyclone.

The Nutella and the bread and the Quik are almost all gone. Not much bathroom cleanser, either. This will not do at all. Time to replenish my supplies. Time for a trip to the grocery shop.

Making myself afternoon tea. I’m starving for it. Need twice as much as He threw back. Plopped an English Breakfast tea bag into my favourite cup. Added two sugars. Put my last three Tim Tams on the saucer. Poured the water in. Started making the toast and let the tea steep a while.

Wasn’t this just as much my fault as it was His? I should’ve put the chain on the door. Should’ve left a long time ago. I deserve just as much pain as Him. More.

I’m sure He was in a lot of pain when he finally went. Pretty sure. Too much wasn’t enough. Not after what he did.

Grabbed a paper weight from the hall table and thumped his head with it. He shook it off. Kept coming at me. He blocked the second one. Grabbed a pencil from the hall table and jammed it into my hand. Expected me to drop the paper weight, I think. I Didn’t. I did scream, though; after my third thump got him in the side of the head again. That made him dizzy. Only took four thumps, in the end.

He wanted to strangle me. Kept coming at me with his hands out. Still couldn’t talk properly. ‘FOGHORN!’ I called him. ‘You sound like a fucking FOGHORN, do you know that?’

It was funny, the way he scratched at his throat. Hilarious, the way he tried to talk. ‘Yuuuuu…poooiiiiiiiiiis….POOOIIIIIISON…’

I thought he would fall over, the way he shot up off the couch. His coughing sounded hard. Painful. Like he was trying desperately to dislodge something that had latched onto his insides and wouldn’t let go.

He grabbed the chocolate milk from me like a spoiled kid and guzzled it down without a breath. Glass smashed into pieces when he dropped it. Drink didn’t help his cough any.

He was on his seventh slice of toast when I came back into the lounge room. I held out his second chocolate milk for him. He was coughing badly now. Red-faced. ‘Sore throat. Too much fuckin’ Nutella, idiot. You’re the fuckin’ pig in this house, not me.’

He shoved the glass into my hand. ‘You gonna stand there all day and watch me eat, or are you gonna make me another fuckin’ drink?’

I watched him mow through the first three slices of toast and gulp down the chocolate milk. Waited.

I gave him his last meal on a tray. ‘What the fuck is this?’ ‘You work hard,’ I said, ‘you’ve earned it.’

Second batch of toast popped. Grabbed the Nutella jar. Shook in some more bathroom cleanser. Stirred it in.

Spread the Nutella on the toast. Four slices.

Opened the cupboard under the sink. Took out the bathroom cleanser. Shook some in the glass. About four spoonfuls. Dropped in four spoonfuls of chocolate Quik. Poured in the milk. Stirred.

‘Better not be that strawberry shit your little piglet loves. Better be real milk, too, not that pansy Skinny piss. I’m no weak girl. You better remember that.’ ‘I will,’ I said.

Went into the kitchen. Didn’t feel my feet touch the ground as I passed him. Took down a plate and a glass from the cupboard. Took a butter knife from the drawer. Put the toast on.

‘Okaaaaay. Christ, you sound like a foghorn! S’pose that’s natural, though, for a barge-arse. What did I do to deserve you?’

He was smoking a cigarette. Kicking back like he earned it. ‘Okay,’ I said. Turned off the record player.

Went back into the living room without looking over to my left. Didn’t need to look twice to know that frail little body was just a shell now.

I should’ve been crying, screaming, beating at him with balled-up fists. I didn’t. I was calm.

‘Get me some toast…and a chocolate milk, if that little piglet hasn’t scoffed all the Quik!’ He screwed up a letter with the paint factory logo in the corner. Threw it on the floor. ‘And turn that shit off!’

I ran out of the bedroom after the first thump. Reached the bottom of the stairs at the second. It only took three.

‘Thieving little bitch!’

I was in Her bedroom, packing the last of our clothes when the front door opened.

She put her empty glass on the floor and smiled up at me. A satisfied, milk-moustachioed grin. I kissed her on the head and went back upstairs.

‘Why the hell not?’ I shrugged.

I handed her the drink and she guzzled it down.

After thirty-six minutes – twelve repeat plays - she was sweating. Thirsty. I went to the kitchen and made her a chocolate milk.

She learned the Nutbush pretty quickly, but I was having too much fun to stop dancing yet. This was true happiness.

‘Watch Mummy, darling. Left foot, side to side. Right foot, side to side.’

For the first time in ages, I felt like dancing, too.

‘Checkout dear now! School has up out! Hi wee never nineteen! The people keep a silly tree!’

She’d heard the record hundreds of times. She was still getting the lyrics wrong as only kids do. It was hysterical.

When I came down to check on her, she was jumping up and down on the spot and singing along to a record that should have had grooves in its grooves for all the play it got when He wasn’t around to send us deaf and bewildered with His repulsive taste in music. I think the reason I felt that way was because it was just something else that He owned. Like he tried to own us.

I’d put on some records to keep her busy while I packed our bags. We were going to leave while He was at work. The paint factory kept him on, despite him turning up drunk more than once. Think they felt sorry for us.

I was just in with the shrink. After five years of therapy, church, pills, and exercise, and nine weeks of me being put to sleep and coerced into remembering what I did that led me here, she thinks she’s found the reason I’m still depressed: apparently, I don’t WANT to be happy. I told her this just wasn’t true. I was fine now. I was happy. As usual, the shrink saw right through this. She knows as well as I do that the last time I was truly happy was when I was dancing with my daughter. I wasn’t insane the day I killed my husband. Every synapse in my brow-beaten brain was firing like it was the fourth of July as I watched him choking and clawing and gasping for air, and I will never be happy until the state finally punishes me properly. I was supposed to get the death penalty. I wanted to pay for letting him steal my happiness from me. He ripped it away from the inside and left a gaping hole that was impossible to stitch up. I wanted His insides to bleed, too, but my fear quickened him. He didn’t suffer enough then, and I’m not suffering enough now.

You can only bleed so much, I suppose.