Page 19 of Malaise
SEVEN
Light rain peppersmy face as I turn the last corner toward Cedar Park with a bottle of Smirnoff gripped in my fist. I’ve come here for respite since I was old enough to be allowed to head out alone. Trees line the four sides of the rectangular parkland, and an octagonal band rotunda sits amidst a carefully planned out maze of colourful shrubs and flowers. My feet slip on the painted steps as I climb to the cover of the wooden structure, alone save for a few pigeons perched high in the exposed beams of the roof. Graffiti dots the white lacquered surfaces, and the council rubbish bin has long since been ripped off its brackets, leaving a patch where the paint isn’t as worn as the rest.
It’s my second home—what was our second home.
The concrete chills my legs as I kneel at the first panel to the left of the stairs and run the fingers of my burned hand over the etched initials: DA. Den Andrews. The memory of the day we lay here scratching our names into the wood with our school maths compass is as fresh as though it were yesterday. Den had been held after school for detention, and like the lonely lamb I am, I’d waited for him to get out so we could walk home together.
We’d always been close for brother and sister. So many siblings at school spent the whole time bickering and avoiding each other, but not Den and I. Only two years separated us, so we’d always been into the same kind of things—probably helped by my tomboy tendencies. Den taught me how to skip stones, kick a footy. He showed me how to tighten the chain on my bike, and helped build a tree house that the two of us were consequently banned from because it was too unsafe. He had his own group of friends, but one thing he was never short of was time for his sister.
I turn and sit with my back to the panel, legs kicked out in front of me, and do the same as I do every single time I come here for a distraction: pick out the new graffiti. The wind whistles through the inch gap between the bottom of the panel and the concrete floor of the rotunda. I wriggle Den’s hoodie lower over my kidneys and tuck the full bottle of spirits into my lap as I heave a deep breath.
The liquor merchant on Seventh is a go-to for high school kids. The greasy old creep who runs it isn’t averse to supplying minors with a single bottle of their choice, as long as that minor is a girl who plays on his perversion for a youthful body. I watched girl after girl in our senior year lean over the counter and lay on the charm, time and again, before I decided to give it a go myself. The whole experience leaves me feeling as though my skin crawls with parasites, but so what? I’ve got a bottle of vodka sitting on my legs that I wouldn’t be able to legally buy for another month yet.
My fingers are numb as I try to uncap the bottle. I cup them over my mouth and huff on them a few times while I eye a couple walking across the park. They carry on, oblivious that I’m here, and leave as I set the metal cap down beside me and take a long pull of the acidic liquid. Fire burns a trail straight to my stomach, and I take a moment to hack up half a lung before I hazard another swig of the good stuff.
Oblivion, here I come.
I wouldn’t call myself a big drinker by any stretch of the imagination. I’m not a stranger to the odd drop, but including the fiasco at the bonfire, this would make the third time in my life I’ve set out drinking with the express intention to get blind drunk. Tipping my head back, I smile up at the heavens and shake my head. “You can’t judge, big bro.” Den spent more weekends drunk with his friends than he did at home with us as a family. And yet, my parents still saw him as the golden child. Because what he did outside of the drinking was what mattered to them. He had a good job, an apprenticeship as a fitter-turner underway, and he never once showed them disrespect: a kiss for Mum before bed, a helping hand for Dad whenever he needed it, and nothing but love for his little sister.
I swipe the tears away with the back of my hand before launching another attack on the vodka. My stomach roils, but I shut it down with another long pull and slide down the wall until I’m lying flat on my back, bottle upright on the concrete to my right, still in my grasp. I stare up at the ceiling, focused on the marks and cracks in the timber, yet not really taking anything in as I ponder the question that’s gotten louder in my mind the last few weeks.
Where do I go from here? What do I do now that school’s pretty much over?
I know I need escape—that’s the constant message screaming in my subconscious. I need a change of scenery, something fresh, and people who don’t know me. I need a chance at friendships and a social life, at being happy, because fuck knows that’ll never happen in this shithole of a town.
But where do I go? I’ve got no real plans for university or college; only dreams. Couldn’t afford it even if I knew what I wanted to study. But what options other than furthering my education do I have? Whitecliffs isn’t exactly known for its numerous job prospects. Most girls when they leave school end up working at the supermarket—like I already am—or get a job stitching workwear at the factory over on the east side. Those who leave here and become something of worth are few and far between, celebrated as heroes by a town that is so ingrained in doing things the way we always have that nobody would know an opportunity if it slapped them upside the face.
I don’t want that mundane path of “normality.” Fucked if I know what I do want, but staying here isn’t a part of it. I see a future, grey and murky, unclear yet distinguishable in one aspect: it isn’t spent living in Whitecliffs.
My eyes slip closed and I clear my mind by focussing on the gentle whoosh of the wind as it creeps in around my head. Rain glances off my face every so often, pushed in on the breeze. I should shuffle about and pull my hood up so I don’t end up sick on top of everything else, but lying here in this kind of starfish position has some strange meditative quality that I’m digging about now.
Or is that the vodka?
Whatever it is, it’s calming, and that’s an emotion I’m not so well acquainted with at the moment. The gentle tug of the bottle being removed from my weakened hand brings me out of my semi-asleep state.
“What the fuck?” I sit bolt upright, head spinning, yet still ready to throw down with whomever is taking my hard-earned booze.
“Mind if I have some?” Jasper holds the bottle up before him as he drops to his arse beside me.
“Be my guest,” I snap. “You were halfway to doing so anyway.”
He chuckles, whipping his head to the left so his hair moves out of his face. I shamelessly gawk at his bobbing Adam’s apple as he takes a guzzle of the vodka.
“I heard about Den,” he casually drops as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Sucks, Meg.”
“You’re telling me.”
“I feel shithouse that the last time I talked with him we were arguing.” He passes the bottle back over, and then hooks both elbows around his knees.
“If it’s any consolation,” I say, “he didn’t hold a grudge.” All I remember is that the two of them fell out over a dodgy part for Den’s bike that Jasper sold him, but Den never spoke much of it, which was a good indicator that he’d let it go. If something got to Den, you’d hear about it. Daily.
“How you doing?” Jasper turns his head to face me, and I wilt under his intense gaze.
I hold up the bottle of Smirnoff in response.
“Right.”
“Hey, I’m sorry about your hoodie.” I pick at the corner of the label on the bottle. “I’ll buy you a replacement.”