The first and the last
He’s broad and dark-haired and has a Scottish accent, and despite all the things he used to say about Scotland, Bond does love a Scottish accent. Even more so when that Scottish accent belongs to a beautiful man saying that he would like to see more of him. Bond replies that he hopes he will.
That summer was lonely, and seemed dark. A week jaunt to Germany numbed the pain a little, but couldn’t block it completely. The days were filled with sunshine and a shade of happiness: but a shallow joy, one with the constant threat of dismay behind it. When night fell, and I found myself alone and awake in the dark, writing letters in my head that I would not be able to send, I found myself crying again, trying to stifle the sounds with my pillow, wishing somehow I would suffocate myself with it, and yet have it be a tragic accident. Morning would come and find me still alive, and I’d wash and dress thinking that perhaps I was getting better.
Trigger warning: eating disorders.
I’m beginning again.
Sawyer looked at what he had written, and immediately saw the lie in it, and sighed. It didn’t matter how prettily he wrote it, in his neatest handwriting, in real ink in a new journal, to try and claim that this was a beginning was a big, fat lie. What was he beginning, exactly? A rise or a decline? He knew that to abandon recovery wasn’t a beginning, but a dead end.
To try to recover was a beginning, not to avoid doing so. When he was ill, everything was an ending, and ultimately would lead to the last ending of all. But when he was fighting, every day, every smile, every mouthful was a new beginning.
He marked a straight line through the sentence, and sucked on his pen in thought, staining his pink lips blue.
Once upon a time there was a girl named Hannah. She had the most beautiful long hair in all the land, and wore clothes made by the nymphs, spun from sunlight and well-wishes.
One day, Hannah was walking through the forest when she heard a crying sound. This greatly distressed Hannah, as she was so loving and kind that she hated to see any creature unhappy.
She came to a cave at the edge of the woods, and realised that the crying was coming from inside. Bravely, she walked into the darkness of the cave, calling out,
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Suddenly, the crying stopped, and there was a silence.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Hannah added, as an afterthought. There was a sniffling, followed by the noise of someone moving in the darkness. “Why are you crying?” she asked gently.
“I’m crying because I’m ugly,” said a sad, deep voice. Hannah’s pure heart wrenched to hear such an unhappy voice.
“I’m sure you’re not,” she replied.
“I am,” sighed the voice, “I’m a monster. I’ve never left this cave in my life because I don’t want people to be scared and run away. I wish I could go outside, because it’s scary and lonely inside this dark cave.”
“But,” Hannah began, confused, “If you have never been into the forest, you can’t have been to the silver pond in the Faerie Glade. How can you say you are ugly if you’e never seen yourself?”
“Because all monsters are ugly,” said the monster sadly. Hannah still couldn’t see the creature, apart from a large pair of yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.
“Come outside,” Hannah urged, “The sunlight and the trees will make you happy, and the magical creatures who live there will be your friends.”
“They will run away,” sobbed the monster.
“There will always be people who run away,” soothed Hannah, “But that is because they are narrow-minded and don’t understand beauty. The enchanted creatures are my friends, and they see the beauty inside someone. They will want to be your friend too.”
“Really?” the monster snuffled hopefully.
“Yes,” Hannah smiled, “Follow me.”
Hannah led the monster out of the cave. When they stepped into the dappled sunlight, Hannah looked at the monster. She wanted to gasp but didn’t, as she knew the monster would think she was horrified, and he would run back into the cave; but the biggest smile spread across her face.
“Come to the pool in the glade,” she said, to him, “I have something that I want to show you.”
Together, Hannah and the monster walked through the bright forest, until they reached the glade, where the faeries sat on the banks of the pond, eating sweet nectar, brushing their hair and dipping their plump legs in the water. Hannah took the monster to the water’s edge, where he bowed his head and looked at the surface.
“What is that?” he exclaimed in surprise. For what he saw was a majestic creature: he had the beautiful golden head of a lion, with a thick shiny mane. He had the strong, handsome body of a stallion, and a tail like that of an elegant rattle snake. Hannah smiled and stroked his mane.
“Is it beautiful, do you think?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he replied.
“It’s you,” Hannah told him. And the monster laughed with joy, and all the faeries were so happy that they laughed with him, until all the dew turned to rainbow light, and lit up the entire forest.
I don’t want to seem like I’m just jumping on the bandwagon after Everyday Love in Stockholm, but I’m getting a copy printed for myself anyway, because I’ve always loved Lulu. Would anyone like a bound, book-like version of my series?
We barely speak anymore. A polite nod or a quiet “Hello,” when we pass in the white and turquoise corridors; the floors we walk, tinged with despair and loss and shiny wet eyes brought on by something other than the strength of the cleaning chemicals. Every time we cross paths I study him in the few seconds I have, taking in what he’s done with his hair, if that’s a new shirt, if he’s lost weight. It sometimes seems astonishing that for five years of my life, I knew him in his entirety. Every fear now realised. Every hope now dashed. Peter is a man broken.
I’ve finished The Beggar Shan’t Have’e, and I hate it. Does anyone actually still want it?
Should I watch a Michael Fassbender film, or should I get drunk and finish The Beggar Shan’t Have’e?
I took my mind a walk, and found
The dull ache for days past, days lost
Easier, happier times for which no one feels the sad fondness I do
We had no vice, no pleasure, no need for it
For many, youth isn’t so much lost as thrown away
So that we might walk in step with the crowd
I remember the search for hidden treasure in the lush comfort of your garden
X marks the spot
Upon your lips, where he left kisses for you to find
And now your own intrusive treasure curls, slumbering, in your hidden cove.
I took my mind a walk, and spirited you away with me
To see if we could reclaim to moments we once held close
In the quiet seclusion of the faerie glade
The overhanging branches like mothers, stooped to tend their children of the earth
A shy bunch of interrupted, uprooted bluebells in your sullied hands
Thrust towards me by way of a “thank-you”
Your stained smile in the cool light
Vows of what you would never become
I wondered if we might come back here.
I took my mind a walk- you did not
And I found myself a peace, a soothing hand upon my life’s sweating brow
In the forgotten walks through the faerie glade
To be able to forget you for just a while
Standing barefoot in the lazy stream, the sand that clings to my soles,
To my soul, washed away with nature’s gentle brushstrokes
The final attempt to coax new life
Into the hollow left by the knowledge that you are gone.