Ellipsis

4 Lips Stick

4 Lips Stick

He isn’t wearing the scarf in the photo.

When I first see the photo in the paper, I only glance at it and feel my body collapse inwards. Tears gather at the corners of my eyes at the absence of it. I instantly pull the scarf towards me and hold it up to my face, kiss it; smell his aftershave and his sweat, to pretend I am still following him. I have thought of him at 15:32 each day and probably always will.

After hours of comforting myself with the scarf, I allow myself to examine the photo. Before this, I have enjoyed merely remembering his presence and I think seeing his photograph, probably some false one from his graduation or a family holiday, will spoil the essence of him that I can feel if I close my eyes. Concentrate.

When I finally set the page in front of me, I scrutinize it. Apparently, he was twenty-four years old. Apparently, he had short brown hair that threatened to curl at the sides. Apparently, he had a scar on his left cheek about three inches long. Apparently, they are appealing for witnesses.

I am wrong though; in guessing it would be a cheesy family photo. Part of his face is covered in shadow as though he is a nocturnal animal peeking out at the daylight and there is no smile, only a faint fizzing up of a smile hiding behind his pursed lips. His eyes are dark brown and, for a moment, my heart accelerates, so convinced he is actually looking at me. In the same moment, I see his eyes as he hung in the air. Yet this is all invention because of the photo. The photo has brought him back to life.

Now, I see the only detail that is clear to me: those lips, speaking to me, pronouncing each word. He had been so precise, inserting them into my memory like he’d penetrated me and caused an embryo to grow inside and begin to kick.

Right on time.

I thought perhaps I misunderstood or imagined them but underneath the doubt, I feel certain. He wanted me to know. Perhaps the only thing I misinterpreted is why he seemed aware, not because he stood out, but because he knew who I was, my intentions, and my actions. Even before I knew? Perhaps my crazy notions that he slowed down and waited for me and looked at me in that mirror weren’t so ‘crazy’.

I close the paper and look at the walls. Yet all I see are his lips, curling and sneering. His menacing face is projected onto every surface, daring me. The only place I can’t see him is in the television, which instead reflects my image. So I sit cross-legged on the plastic wooden floor and look into the tiny screen.

There isn’t much choice about where to go here. It is a bedsit with only a small bedroom, and a kitchen along one wall sectioned off by a stained curtain. The toilet and shower are a few doors down, shared with three others. It’s so small in there, every time I get out of the shower, I nearly stand in the toilet.

They tell me this place will be good for me, to get me back on my own feet, to get away from the place where it happened. Nobody asked my opinion and my estranged brother has gone ahead and sold the house, refusing to give me my share of the money until I feel ‘more balanced’ as he puts it.

How can he decide that for us, Mum? How can he take away our home?

So, here I am, in this place that is not only the definition of scum, but also a place where things come to die. I have several potted plants, all of them refusing to live, no matter how much I water them and ask them what else I can do. There is a dead rat in the corner and dead insects that were feasting on the rat’s carcass, before they, too, died. I don’t move any of it. I look at the rat and the insects sometimes, feel the dead leaves between my fingers and remember I am alive and feel superior.

Oh, what would they say if they knew their ploy to put me on ‘the road to normality’ has landed me here, in the house where everything is dying or already dead?

However, the worst thing isn’t the death rate. The worst thing is the landlord. He smells like road-kill and every so often tries to have a ‘chat’. He knocks clumsily on the door and says, “Hi sweet cheeks”, exhaling a bottle of whiskey over me. He always manages to talk his way in, pretending he has some issues about rent or the building to discuss, and as there is nowhere else to sit, we always end up on the bed. He then says things like “I love your soft hair” and runs his hand through it, making my curls moist with sweat and “that’s a very… very… nice top” when he’s really looking at my cleavage. When he tries to grope me, I always throw him out. I’m a tough girl so I don’t mind.

I have to cope with these things because you can’t protect me now, Mum.

Although, if he does it again, I may have to kill him.