Not Michael though.But I push all thoughts of my earnest cousin away. I can’t think about him without a shed-load of guilt, and I’m enjoying my moment of nothingness.
Eventually, my aimless wander takes me to the edge of town. In the distance I can see the railway bridge and the hills. In front of me are the woods I ran riot through as a teenager—drinking, banging powder, and smoking weed. I miss those times, but the tiny part of me that is a responsible adult cringes at the damage I might’ve caused the trees.
The woods are vast and populated by ash and sweet chestnut, but there’s a broad oak close to the heathland that, for many years, was the biggest tree I’d ever seen.
Fuck it.
I push on into the woods, treading carefully over uneven ground. The woods are popular with dog walkers and children, but I see no one. Hear nothing but birds and rustling leaves. It’s heaven and the closest to climbing I can be right now, so I keep walking and walking until I reach the gargantuan tree from my childhood.
It’s not that tall, but it’s wide—ten metres in girth. There are many bigger trees in the world, but in my little corner, this old girl is fucking mystical. I make a loop around her huge trunk, fingers trailing rough bark, and for the first time in weeks, I feel something of myself return to me.
Perhaps it’s not Ludo I’ve been missing after all. Perhaps it’s myself.
Ten
Ludo
If anyone ever tells you it’s a good idea for an overly anxious person to get a dog, I’m telling you right now, it’s not. Or maybe it is, but it’s a bloody nightmare forme.
Bella eats my couch and chews my shoes.
Bella leaves slobber on my walls and hair on my bed.
Bella licks my windows and steals actual rubbish from the bin.
Bella is a golden retriever. She makes me go out when I want to stay in, and I love her so much it scares me.
Andthere’sthe problem I’ve always had with loving things... people, animals, whichever. With love comes fear of living without it. Of breaking it. Hurting it. Of doing the wrong thing, like I’ve done over and over my entire life.
Oblivious to the riot going on in my head, Bella paws my knee, sad gaze drifting to the window and back. She wants to run, but she doesn’t realise how hot it’s been today, how many articles I’ve read about dogs dying from heat exhaustion, and how terrified I am that something will happen to her if we go out before the sun goes down.
I scratch her ears and press my face to hers. “Not yet.”
Bella returns my solemn stare and I’m convinced she understands every word. She ambles away to the den I’ve built her under the stairs and the bed she only sleeps in during the day. At night she sleeps with me, star-shaped on my bed, legs in the air like a beached turtle, and I like it cos I know she’s happy.
I take a deep breath and return my attention to my computer screen and the work I have to get done by the end of the day. It’s software testing and boring as hell, but the monotony is good for me. And flexible contracts mean I can work when I’m well and take unlimited time off when I’m... not.
But you are well now.
I steal a glance at Bella and search for the spark of joy that’s sometimes bright enough to silence the counter argument from the devil.
Yeah, but for how long?
As if speculating when my current state of sanity will expire ever does me a blind bit of good.
I turn back to my work and lose myself in the dull activity of repeating the same task, over and over, and recording the results. It kills time, but my mind wanders, and when my wrist begins to ache, I know, deadline or not, I’m done for the day.
Stop it.
But I can’t. The throb in my wrist has nothing to do with where my brain wants to go and everything to do with the eight hours I’ve spent at my computer today, but I’m somehow unable to stop the giant leap back in time.
My living room disappears, the scents of cut grass and the toast I burnt at lunchtime replaced by nuked food and disinfectant. The summer sun warming my house becomes a stiff winter breeze, and Bella’s quiet company is someone else.
In the fragment of my mind that’s still in the present, I wonder if Aidan would mind being compared to a dog, if he’d find it funny. Then I recall the two times he actually smiled and figure he likely wouldn’t give a shit, and a shudder passes through me.
You don’t know those smiles were even real.
It’s true. I’m confident enough that I haven’t invented him, but the details... I have no clue. A lot has happened since I was hauled off the regular ward to spend a week in the psychiatric unit. Highs. Lows. Yellows and blacks. I’m in a distinctly beige state of mind at the moment, which makes thinking easier, butrememberingis always tricky. All I can recall for certain about Aidan is that I can’t entirely forget him.
