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I have had some people asking to read my short story for extension. I got sick of sending it to them, so here it is, enjoy :)

The ballerina swings from her wrist, a silver beacon in the dark night. She dashes through the bombarding rain, small cold pellets of anger assaulting her every move. Shoved through the night by people who she would never see again. Still, there she was, being nice, being helpful, being polite. Being everything the world expected her to be.

What happened?

Crowded onto a train, like a scrum in a game of rugby. She is losing this game. She doesn’t mind. She doesn’t turn around and hurl abuse at the seedy man who just took advantage of the crowd to take advantage of her. She is polite. The train doors close on her bag. So full, so crowded. She sees their faces rush by. A station full of people. Full of people who matter and do not, all at once. Reflections in the window. She rides the subway as she rides through her life. With too much attention directed at too many of the wrong things. Always at attention. Like the people on the station. The people who matter and do not, all at once.

What happened?

Rushed up the steps and into the waiting arms of a night as cold as Death. Was Death cold? Would it make a difference? It was just a saying. Life was just sayings. She didn’t have a fancy to tickle; there was no real calm before a true storm. So did it matter if Death was cold? She supposed not. She stands outside her house. Not exactly the house which she had dreamed of since her youth. When she chose a white-picket-fenced life for herself. With a white wedding dress and white flowers filling the house that only she could have made a home. Not exactly that life.

What happened?

The children are crowding her. Like at the station. The children, must help the children, must feed the children, must read to the children, are the children alright, are the children learning, are the children happy? The children seem happy. Could help the children more if she was happier herself. Must be happier. She tucks the children in, says good-night despite the lack of good on this particular night. This isn’t the way she wanted to live, sayings and lies, pretending it was all fine, all good, all happy.

What happened?

A pain, a driving needle in her head, a knife slicing her open. Need Panadol. Need meds. These aren’t the meds she needs. She wants to refill her prescription. Maybe anti-depressants are best, she tells herself. Maybe not for me, but maybe for the children. Must be happier. For the children. Why did he leave? What was wrong with her? It’s not you, it’s me, he said to her as she sobbed into the night, crying into the night for him to come back, weeping into the night as cold as Death. Or not. Either way, if it wasn’t her, why was he going? Leaving her the children, it will be better for them, better to not see me this way, better to be away from the drink and the abuse, it’s all my fault, all my fault we are like we are, he said. How did we let it get this far? We were happy once.

What happened?

Must be happier again. For the children. She systematically shuts down her house. The house she hadn’t ever really wanted. The house without the white picket fence and white flowers. The house that never really became a home. Turn off the light in the kitchen, the hallway, the living room. Lock the front door, lock the window that looks onto the street. The street where her children play. The street full of drug-addicts and seedy men. Who take advantage of crowds to take advantage of women. Must get out of here. Lock the back door, the door leading onto the garden. The garden which was, in essence, a small patch of dying grass and a smaller patch of already-dead vegetables. Her dead and dying attempt to make the house a home. But it never really filled its role. Not really. She unlocks the door again. She slips out into the night. The night as cold as Death. Wearing nothing but a red imitation-silk gown and a silver bracelet. The bracelet which her mother gave her. Her mother had been a wonderful woman. Her mother had been caring, devoted, loving. Everything the world expected her to be.

What happened?

She scuttled like a mouse along the bank of the river, watching the eddies swirl with delight. Watching a fish get caught up in the swirling, watching it go for a ride. Unlike her, it wasn’t really paying attention to its ride. She wished she were as carefree as that fish. She caught herself, being stupid, wishing she were a fish, carefree and absent of responsibility. She caught herself, dreaming of a life which wasn’t hers. Be happy with what you have, she says. For the children. She stops running. She knows it is time to stop running. Stop caring, stop feeding, stop reading, stop everything. Just stop. But could she? Could she do it to the two innocent beings who depended on her for life, for food, for books, for learning, for everything? She supposed not. Again. The river looks so calm. Maybe there is a calm before a storm, after all. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she couldn’t bring on the storm she so desperately wanted to. She couldn’t throw it all away, into a swirling river on a night as cold as Death. Could she? But what of the children? She mustn’t. For the children. Mundane as it is, her life means something to someone. She hopes. She was so ready to let go.

What happened?

The ballerina would have danced her final show. The audience would have cheered as she took her bow. She would have pirouetted off the stage, out of the brilliant white lights. The silver beacon in a dark night.