My brain is full of substance, it all acts like a shield - alcohol helps me swim, lithium and quetiapine and valium keeps me calm. I always thought it all would render me helpless to any invasive outside force - but really, I’ve put so much stuff in the way, so much detritus and sludge and baggage, I’m as protected as I can be. The best of minds are the most at risk.
.
Anya and I broke up. Too much vodka on my part, too much stress on hers.
In the evenings after doctor’s appointments, I’d made a habit of taking the shortcut to the station through Eastland Hills cemetery. I’d speak my thanks to spirits of Bidgigal land, then step into their presence. It was nice to wander around drunk, meeting the gravestones and the folks that kept their marks. I met Georgiana, wasted away by pneumonia; I’d met James and Jilly, young things, both succumbed to smallpox.
I’d met Henry, hung for robbery; I’d met Angelina, tried for infidelity, hung for murder of her stillborn girl.
These are just my favourites - they’re funny, fierce, cutting in their wit, and surprisingly astute as they watch the world turn. I’m still wary of them - all they need is a sober body and they can cut through the world, as destructive as the way they were all made to leave it.
So, I’m always drunk when I enter their cemetery. I acknowledge Bidgigal land, clap my hands so that the old ones know I’m here. Then, Jilly runs out to meet me with James, desperate to play hide and seek. They love having me here, like an older sister, or a nanny, ready to play, in love with their laughter.
Henry usually watches, smiling. Georgiana watches Jilly and James - she never knew them in life, but still cries with happiness to see them joyful. Angelina barely looks at me. I drank my way happily through the month.
This week, I overdid it. We have a weekly trivia with mutual friends. Always fun, but today, Anya texted me beforehand:
‘Just so you know, Cliff ate out of his own bowl this evening! I’m very proud, thought you would be too.’
Cliff is the kitten Heathcliffe - the other bowl belongs to Babushka, our first cat. We adopted Heathcliffe a few months ago, a few months before we broke up.
That was enough for me. I bought another bottle of vodka, which saw me through trivia. Anya, always observant, picked up on my state. The second everyone was getting ready to go, she pulled me outside.
“You can’t go home like this on your own.”
“I have to, I know where to go, it’s alright, I can-“
“Shut up idiot, you can barely speak. Tell me where the train is.”
Why did it have to be her? Why did she insist on caring about me?
I clumsily directed her out of the pub, out to the freeway, through the cemetery shortcut to the station.
“Okay, you have to text me the second you get home, okay?”
“Anya… there’s a… I…”
“Text me the SECOND you get home?”
“Yeah - she’s…“
“Okay, just shut up, let me take you to the train.”
We wandered through the cemetery, on our way back to the station. Anya hadn’t touched a drop, I knew - I tried again -
“Anya just let me stay here I’ll call you when I’m on the train please-“
“NO, you’ve always done this, you’ve always pushed me away, just let me fucking get you home-“
I…
I…
I see Angelina.
“Anya we have to leave-“
“Didn’t you say-“
“ANYA PLEASE-“
“For fuck’s sake you’re stumbling again. Honestly, I’m just gonna call an-“
Angelina is behind her. I stare up at her, pleading, trying to scream - it sounds like a drunk person’s anguish, nothing human, nothing serious, nothing that could possibly help-
“Hey, are you okay?”
Then Angelina hooks her hands like talons in Anya’s neck. Anya’s eyes roll back. Angelina’s eyes widen, pupils dilated like a predator. She flexes her arms and Anya screams.
“STOP, NO - YOU CAN’T - PLEASE - “
Angelina pulls energy out of Anya’s body, absorbing her, like colour from black and white. Now she looks alive - a woman dead in the 1920s, living anew a century later.
She looks at me briefly like Anya once did - full of love, full of mischief. Then, her mood twists, and she winks.
“Thanks, sweet thing.” Anya’s old name for me. “I’ll be seeing you!”
She shifts inhumanely fast through the gravestones, into the streets beyond. I stare down at Anya, lifeless and grey. I look back at Jilly, James, Georgiana - even Henry comes close, shakes his head, full of admonishment.
“Well… you’ve fucked it honey.”
Jilly and James stare at their feet. Georgiana steps forward - out of all of them, I had never heard her speak.
“Can.. can you find one for me?”
[PI]