heavy

a magnet

I want to tell you to never lose me

I know that it’s a futile request

you and I

a seesaw:

it seems we work on part sight, part physical rhythm

whilst at entirely opposite ends^{(I see, you saw)}

sat on top of a grassy hill in blue hour, you unthread me

my senses becoming loose under your haze of confidence

(real? faked? perceived? in any case - present)

“we’re on borrowed time” you say, a cliché brushing my lower lip with your thumb, smiling despite it all, eyes locked onto my face

borrowed? who am I giving the time back to? it’s already been spent!

I huff like a petulant child

you roll your eyes

“do you always have to be so logical?” you ask

no, hence why I’m here right now

your laugh hits the walls in the corridor of your throat

and it breaks something made of thick glass inside of mine

I turn my face away for a few moments

I despise the fizzing heat that I feel even as the cold breeze whips up around us

the birds caw as they circle above; perhaps entertained, perhaps in warning

you could come back for me

shame and desire arm wrestle as I wait for your response

you lean back on your hands now, legs splayed out in front of you, relaxed

looking forward, you nod once

“I could”

you won’t

“I could” you repeat

and even though I know this is nothing to take to heart, I frame it and hang it up inside of mine anyway

𓇢𓆸

I study your side profile and ache

like the gum forced to sleep under a rotting tooth

pulsing

thick, deep, relentless

In need of extraction, I ask first for numbness

⟡

I know that I could pick you out of a line up of six thousand, just by your knees alone

so I don’t understand how I could cadaver dog sniff you out from across an ocean

and be faced with this outcome

there must have been a mix up

((don’t you feel it? the stitches of us?

if you pull away now

surely it’ll rip off an entire side of me))

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༗

what’s been your favourite memory? I ask

I’m ready turn the heat up some more in the torture sauna

my answer already loaded in and ready to fire

it’s the night we met, of course

I can still hear the creaking of my jackets elbows at the end of the night

as I reached to hold your perfect face in my hands

your voice pinching at my flushed cheeks

I return to the present moment to hear you again, now

“of my time here? or like in general, ever?”

a pause, heavier than your hand you have now placed on my leg

“or you mean with you, specifically?” you offer without shame

and I laugh

hard

in realisation

“what?” you start to laugh too, but out of confusion

I laugh even more now, tears springing to my eyes

you look at me, a half smile on your face

you make no move to hold me

and I laugh until I start to choke

𓇢𓆸

I understand now, of course

the borrowed time

was not taken then

but from all of my future now’s

any memory you’ve infested, infected, infatuated

my thoughts serving under the command of their new host

you !

I spend hours

grappling at the concept of your face

the closer I try to inspect it, the more vague it all becomes

but the agony spoils my gut the same

each and every time

⟢

a few months later

when I return to the hill alone on a bright yellow sunday

I see the exact spot where we sat that evening

it’s not empty

a dead bird with guts bared lays there

the flies, unyielding, in their ceremony of decay

I take it in then erupt, laughing, and can’t stop again

a couple pushing a pram along the hill path above side eye me, concerned

to them, i’m a strange woman laughing at something that’s died

to you, I was much the same

please see also:

𓅪

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our mouths a stain of blackberry spit

they matched our collection of knee bruises

mine from the turf, yours from the rocks

we’d fight with thumbs to decide who got to pick the after-dinner tv show

I would never win because I hated the feeling of my bones contorting and felt sorry for them, for what my brain was making them participate in

the power I thought I had over my body then scared me

if only I knew

“we have to change how we do this” I say

a shake of your head denies my request

because of course

who wants to change a system where they always win?

I wasn’t aware of my waist back then

what an insane political statement I would become

just by existing

how actually, contorting my bones would become second nature to me

how else to survive?

I need to get to where I want to go

so

I’ll start by making myself thin enough to thread through the eye of a needle

so, together, we can stitch my body into every conversation

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I laugh at the same “joke” i’ve heard several times that I didn’t find funny in the first place

my agreeing nature earning the temporary and fragile label of “kind”

so now i’m a conflicting concoction

half thank god

and half oh no

that’s quite the pedestal to fall from, darling

I

must

keep

laughing

⍣

my therapist once compared me to how an animal will bite you if it’s scared

so full of fear and pain and grief

but all you see is the act of aggression

I admit

when I try to stick up for myself or for others

I do have a tendency of taking it too far

it’s also very hard to not feel the rage of history, of knowing how much came before you, and still, cannot see the end ^{(there probably isn’t one)}

it reminds me of the time I once got my palm read by a clairvoyant

she told me I came from a very long lineage of strong women

she could feel them, they were loud in her ear

“wow, yeah…” she remarked, distracted by them

she kept blinking, looking down at my hand, which was rolled over onto its back for a belly scratch, docile and harmless

she returned my hand to me as if it was a loaded weapon

so maybe that’s who I can feel hurling themselves against my chest?

if I won’t demand justice

and use my voice

theirs will only get louder

⍣

“give us a smile”

“you look as though you’ve chewed a wasp”

the corners of my mouth twitch

“…not even a thumbs up?”

1

2

3

4

I declare

a thumb war

some that already exists on this earth, some in the form of a melody from a forgotten place within me, that if I like enough, I’ll record on my phone, to not listen to again

until maybe years later

my future and past self collapsing into one hum

I’d die of humiliation if anyone ever heard it

but to me, it sounds so pretty

I write circles around myself

I have to step over so many words to come out of the other side

I know they watch me tip toe around them, they’re looking at me, their author, waiting for me to do something with them

I grab the first thing to hand - my phone, the back of a council tax letter, a notebook full of promises to myself I haven’t yet kept

sometimes if I am at work when inspiration strikes, I write my alter-ego a message on the work laptop, so now amongst my clinical to-do list, I have a scathing one-liner that’s desperate to find a home in something that may or may not be published some day

if i’m good and read enough before bed (instead of doomscrolling) I more often than not wake up with a poem stuffed in my nose that I have to blow out, quickly, before my body absorbs it again

some of them are lost before true birth because I prioritise turning around to get comfy again, to catch the last few minutes of meeting my subconscious

my limbs warmed by the nights salt

dragged by the mouth into a yawn

words

so selfish of me, their parent, to deprive them of life

I wonder if the same ones ever return, insistent in their existence

“get gone, so soon”, I once heard them chant

that doesn’t even make sense! I barter

I scribble the words down anyway

but what does it matter, if they never take the journey out of my possession?

once, I almost sent my new employer a poem I wrote about moths, instead of my signed copy of a contract

it almost happened

a sad wannabe creative, exposed

and to corporate, no less

—✴︎—

I am the art I am merely a vessel for the art to flow through

I feel apologetic for the ideas that got stuck living with me, their stagnant home

congested and jaded

CC someone else in, at least

please see, see

I have several drafts of writing that are so close to being ‘done’

but then I start editing

relentlessly

like filing nails down to the quick

until there’s nothing left of “me” in them

because that’s my worst nightmare

exposing too much of my teeth that I start to feel the cold hit my nerve endings

if I think about my drafts that almost went out / if I did have those old parts of me laying around for everyone to perceive / would I carry even more shame / than I currently do by not sharing?

but now’s not the time to feel grateful

instead, I beg at the questions, tugging on the bottom of their shirt

am I a perfectionist? or just able to self-criticise enough to know when something isn’t worth the embarrassment of sharing it?

but nothing is revealed if I don’t disclose something first

you have to release a breath out, to allow the air back in

the pendulum swings

my god, who cares?!

you’re on earth here and now sweet baby

I hover closer to the ledge

peering over, I watch how others dogpile on someone who merely tried

they wag their tongues with stern opinions, whilst others gleefully trot down from their ivory towers of perfect grammar and chronically-sharpened online personas

I recoil, but their voices follow

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“like happiness, it’s only real when shared!”

so what happens if I stop sharing anything at all? it isn’t real?

without perception, it’s just invisible ink to you

and wasted opportunity to me

I work through the night regardless

my heavy lids devout proof of something

just. you. wait! ^{(but waiting became all there was)}

—✴︎—

I consume media, and the media

everything bleeds into one another

miscarriages of justice come in so many forms

if anything else shapeshifted so much, you’d call it a monster

I think we’ve started to

I learn new things, yet dull my senses

something shifts every now and again

and i’ve stopped saying “well, that part was unrealistic” about a certain scene of a film, freshly consumed and still warm inside the bellies of its audience

I don’t put anything past real life anymore

i’ve lived through enough unexplainable things

and heard enough stories from others

to know some things really do just happen like that

I gasp at their recollection of recent history

“you couldn’t write it” I say, hand slapped over forehead, eyes closed

except, I could

if I wanted to.

^{please see also:}

For Chapter Two, click here.

-

After the Quinns’ visit, the uncharacteristic spark of optimism Blanche had initially been carrying around with her started to dwindle as the weeks passed.

Things were moving at a frustratingly slow pace. The word “paperwork” began to stalk her, prodding her in the same spot of soft skin repeatedly, a bruise of doubt forming under the surface. She started being able to sense the word coming before it was spoken, simply by the tone of voice a worker would use. She eventually managed to avoid it entirely; whenever a worker began, “Now, a quick update-” or “Just so you know-” she slipped away, already walking in the opposite direction or protesting against the sentence’s ending. She felt such shame at her clear desire to be taken in by the Quinns, that her anxiety was proof of her caring about it, and yet she couldn’t stop herself from sulking around more than usual.

Then, as sudden as a trap door giving way, everything fell into motion; brief “hellos” and longer “goodbyes” were exchanged, and she once again found herself in the back of a car, counting how many traffic lights they passed until they reached the street of her new residence. Eighteen this time.

An acidic cocktail of emotions swirled inside of her as she crossed the threshold into the Quinns’ house and was guided through each room. Joss was particularly animated and kept providing her with the small histories of certain “stand-out” items in each room.

“We bought this on a family holiday in Spain. We managed to haggle the guy down by quite a bit, if I remember correctly.”

“This was given to me by my best friend, Siân.”

“We got this at a local flea market, maybe we can go next week!”

“...from a trip to Wales.”

“Thrifted from a charity shop, where I also bought my favorite blue boots!”

“Joss, let’s not overwhelm Blanche here,” the Dad said.

“I’m not, I’m just… sharing with her.”

Unlike the times with Sheryl, she did not mind this one-sided conversation so much, and was grateful it left less space for any questions to be directed her way.

After dinner that evening, the food sat obtrusively in her stomach, heavy like a punishment. Salt clung to her tongue and continued to dance along it after the plates were cleared from the table, drying out her mouth. She desperately fought her utmost desire to leave the dinner table, which became stronger with each passing bout of conversation. She was grateful when a mug of hot tea was placed in front of her, her eyes becoming heavy.

“Let’s get you settled, Blanche. I’m sure you’re ready for bed after a day like today.”

Even though she was exhausted, sleep evaded her. The blanket on her bed was thick and coarse; it nipped playfully at her exposed skin like a teething puppy. She took comfort in the streetlight outside illuminating a corner of the room, and eventually was taken in by the arms of slumber. By morning, she woke up grateful for the blanket’s weight, for the way it secured her to the mattress and made her feel somewhat grounded.

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Breakfast was much quieter than it was at the children’s home, with only small smatterings of conversation - a contrast to the wall of sound she had become an expert at tuning out.

“Did you sleep alright, Blanche?” The mother asked.

She nodded. “Mhmm.”

As the evening before, the food was served, and her mood hurtled down from an internal diving board. The egg yolks were violently yellow, she did not trust them. Instead, she nibbled at some brown seeded toast with a little butter and tried to observe Joss from the corner of her eye, as a way of distracting herself from her swirling anxieties.

Joss had a sketchbook open, branches emerging in quick yet certain lines. Blanche had already noted the final product on the walls of the home as soon as she entered and instantly knew they were Joss’s from how she had described them on the visit, yet she was taken aback by their stylistic maturity.

They were always of the same thing, birds and branches. Birds on branches. Branches, birds. Decadent with solid colours, some jeweled earth tones, others sweet-ganache-bright, with thick, black outlines, always against a solid colour background. Several birds to one painting, sometimes all different species, sometimes all of the same one, just in a different pose or angle. The paintings were so neat, so suspiciously precise, as though no human error of hand had occurred while making them, but how was that even possible? She was surprised Joss had not highlighted them on the house tour, as she had done with the other miscellaneous items around the home.

Despite the difference to her own style of artwork, Blanche found Joss’s paintings strangely satisfying in their sense of eased perfection. She, coincidentally, felt something close to annoyance at realizing that they were objectively pretty good. Excellent, even. When they had been mentioned in conversation, her mind’s eye had conjured much more juvenile images. Did that mean that this was all her imagination was limited to? Or was it that her expectations of Joss’s capabilities were much lower? Either way, it antagonised her just how often her eyes were repeatedly drawn to the one on display in the kitchen, at how she slowed down when walking down the stairs to take in the one hung amongst the others on the decorative wall there too. There was something magnetic about them; she couldn’t deny that.

Still, she wanted to watch Joss paint. Not to just see the result, but to witness the birth, the moment the birds came into being. How she concentrated long enough to create something so perfect, and apparently so quickly - there had been a passing comment of there being so many paintings and sketchbooks filled by her over the past year that they were starting to keep some in boxes in the garage.

“How long have you been drawing?” she asked, the question slipping out.

Joss looked towards her quickly, her hand still moving across the page confidently.

“Always, I think. But the birds specifically? Maybe the past year or so. I can’t really remember. Dad?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, you’ve always been creative and doing something or other. But you’ve certainly started taking it more seriously recently.”

“And you?” Joss asked back.

“I…can’t remember either really. It feels like a long time.” she looked down at her hands, palms upwards and flexed her fingers, as if they would be the ones to remind her of their past activities.

“Blanche, you’ll be starting school later in the week. No rush today, take it easy. But we can go for a walk later, if you’d like.” the Dad said, before standing up and pulling keys out from his pocket.

She nodded, though the the thought of starting a new school at all made her feel instant panic. Another change approaching. Another thing she might try to outrun, somehow.

Joss closed the sketchbook gently, as if not to disturb what lived inside it. She placed it into her bag by her feet, and got up from the table.

“I’ll see you later, Blance. Have a good day!” she said, with a small wave and warm smile.

“Thanks. You too. Bye.”

They left moments later, the front door shutting firmly behind them, their voices trailing down the path in the front garden. A car door. An engine starting, before fading.

Then, silence.

Blanche returned to the hallway upstairs, and was about to enter her room, when she looked across the hall at Joss’ door, which was closed. She paused for a few moments, before walking over to it, standing outside of it.

Before she knew what she was doing, her hand reached out to the door handle. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

Someone cleared their throat downstairs.

The house returned around her all at once.

The mother.

She had forgotten she was here.

Blanche pulled back, breath tightening, and slipped quickly into her room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Blanche spent the next decade of her life in and out of the children’s home, in various family dynamics.

The Robert’s. Jones’. McDouglas’’. Hargreaves’. Skinner’s. George’s.

The memories came back in blurred fragments, faded and interchangeable; The sound of boiling water bubbling on a gas hob, the rotary washing line being spun around in the garden, the white-and-blue tea towel, the dog-eared book, the cold tiles underfoot, the man’s voice explaining something both gritty and boring, the marmalade sliding off of a butter knife and dropping on the floor, becoming foreign lava. She never once felt connected to these people, or the memories.

What haunted her were the endings. They all had so much in common, they compounded something that sunk deep within her, a core belief that changed how she saw herself.

Adults, who had been initially bloated with their own bright, naïve hope, would deflate in front of her eyes as they apologised profusely; somehow both hurridley and for far too long. Even their voices thinned as their faces leaked the secret relief they thought they were experts at concealing.

It’s not you, you’re brilliant / you’re special / you’re amazing / it just isn’t a fit / so sorry

Blanche felt she had become one large, walking callus, and only knew how to locate where her heart was from the science books they were taught out of at school.

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By the time, for the umpteenth time, foster worker, Freya, came in and said “Blanche! There’s another family that would really like to meet you”, she felt the same as if someone had said “Just popping out to get some milk”. A mundane ritual, but one that was necessary.

“Sure,” she replied flatly.

She had learnt by this point that her acceptance and compliance at this stage was the easier path, as over half of the time, it all fell through by the time they even made it to that first initial meet anyway. Nothing expected means nothing lost. You can’t burn your fingers if you don’t reach out to touch it in the first place.

“They have another daughter, and apparently, she loves drawing and painting too. And she’s the same age as you. No, actually sorry, she’s older. But only a year older!” Freya explained with her usual, somehow unwavering enthusiasm.

Blanche remained silent. Freya continued.

“I think you’re really, really going to like these people. I think actually, you are going to be a very good fit. Yes. I just can sense it”.

“Yeah…You’ve said that before,” Blanche finally responded.

“I know, and I mean it every time - I do! But this time, I just really have a feeling about it”

Blanche thought about it for a moment, about having someone around her age to talk to about drawings and paintings with. She felt a flicker inside of her that she immediately snuffed out before it had time to cast a glow. Nothing expected means nothing lost.

“Sure. Sounds good”. Nothing in her moved.

The Quinn’s came the following day, all wearing lumpy wool hats and walking boots. A Mum, a Dad and their daughter - Joss.

“Your name is Joss?” Blanche asked

“Yes”

“I’ve not heard of that name before”

“Oh” and then, “Your name is Blanche?” Joss returned.

Blanche smiled slightly at this.

“Yes”

Joss shrugged. “Cool”. Followed by “My Mum says you paint”

Blanche stood motionless, her mouth slightly open. She hadn’t thought this far through.

“Oh, yes she does,” Freya interjected. “It’s all she wants to do! Why don’t you show her some of your paintings, Blanche? I liked the one you did last Sunday, actually.” No response. “She can be quite shy” Freya shot out into the silence in a mock-whisper.

“That’s alright!” the Dad said, brightly. “And you can just show us another time if you want. Or not at all. But we would love to see them. Joss here is constantly painting too. She does birds mainly, at the moment. We have a garden, and you can see through the kitchen window and watch all the little birds and squirrels in the trees.”

“You have trees in your garden?,” Blanche asked “…is it big?”

“Yeah! Like we have quite a lot of trees, some of them fruit ones, which is cool. We also have flowers everywhere, and even a pond!” Joss exclaimed

“Joss, don’t show off,” the Mother said quietly.

“What?! We do! You want me to lie?”

“My paintings don’t have animals or fruit or anything in them, sorry” Blanche said “they don’t have much of anything…” she trialled off - she felt a twinge of irritation at herself for downplaying her own work in this way, but she was trying to throw them off the scent.

“Oh, abstract? That’s cool”. Joss said “I’d really like to see one” she pleaded earnestly with her brown eyes.

Blanche nodded once, and walked over to her drawer and pulled out a few of what she believed were some of her “best” paintings, which did in fact include the one from last Sunday. Her heart was beating so painfully hard inside of her chest, she had to really concentrate on trying to not show that her hands were shaking.

Placing something that felt so introspective to her in front of these strangers she had just met made her look at her paintings differently. They wouldn’t make sense without her thoughts, would they? Could they?

“I just do it to pass the time here”

Joss brushed her hair back from her face with her thickly gloved hands and looked through the paintings, her eyes drawing their own journey over Blanche’s work.

“Wow! They are so cool, I really like them” she said, as she picked one up for a closer look.

“Thanks” Blanche replied, more curt than she was intending, as she tried to disguise the wobbling edge to her voice.

“I like this one” she said, pointing to Blanche’s favourite of all time - she had only used the primary colours and thick black paint for this one. It was brutal, it somehow told to her and helped to describe the feelings she had inside of her, her frustrations at the world, all without depicting anything that existed in the physical realm.

“Yeah, wow” the Dad said “these are so good! You have a very… developed style already”

“I like them,” the Mother said, quickly.

“I have more,” Blanche said, more confident now. She pulled out some more from her drawer and returned to their open faces. She stood back, and had her hands tucked behind her back, observing the observers.

She watched as they silently drank in more of her work. She was pleased they were taking their time to really look at them.

“This one reminds me of one of mine!” Joss explained, pulling out one and resting it on top of the others

“Really?”

“Yes, one I did of a Bluefinch and a Robin, don’t you think, Dad?”

“Hmm, yes. I can sort of see what you mean” he responded, his warm brown eyes washed over his daughter’s face, then Blanche’s.

“How?” Blanche asked, genuinely curious

“Well, as in, OK, mine is of a bird and yours is of… nothing in particular. But they use pretty much the exact same colours… and I guess it’s just very bright, and I can see the same paint and brush movements in a way” she twisted her head around to look at it from another angle “actually, you could say this part was the beak, an-”

“It is about something particular, actually” Blanche interrupted.

“What’s it about?” The Dad asked

“This one is about rising tensions, about war. I’ve read a lot recently about the history of government-funded weapons”.

Joss blinked “Oh”

“Yeah”

“Blanche” Freya said, mild panic quickly taking its seat behind her eyes. “Maybe show them the one you did about our day out at the zoo” and then, to the parents: “That is not from a book we have here, I think she means the news, which we do try to monitor”.

Blanche pulled up a painting from the bottom of the pile, and placed it on top of the others.

“Did you enjoy seeing all the animals?” The Mother asked, before looking down at the painting from behind the safety of the Dad’s shoulder.

“Not really. Anything wild being contained like that, I find cruel, personally. And we all line up to pay for what? To tap on the window and take photos, and to help continue their time captivity. But, I related to them a lot, so that was something I guess”.

“Blanche!” Freya slapped her hand over her face.

The family shuffled awkwardly, the Dad chuckled and said “That’s a very strong observation for such a young lady”.

“Yes, well. I’m not sure I believe that there are any systems that aren’t corrupt in some way. It’s just the inherent nature of them” she didn’t look at anyone whilst she said this, the nail and the head colliding.

“Wow, you sound so intelligent,” Joss said. “I don’t really understand what you just said, but I know it sounded smart. And scary.”

Blanche smiled, then quickly looked away, back to her paintings.

“…Alright” Freya finally said with a sigh. “Shall we move to the canteen, and I can get everyone a hot drink?”

As they shuffled out, Joss walked beside her, their steps falling quickly into the same rhythm.

Blanche felt something tug on the valves that lead to her heart, but pretended not to notice.

Her mother had chosen it herself, plucking it straight from the film adaptation of “A Streetcar Named Desire”, which she had been watching one evening, alone besides the future life she was housing inside of her rounded stomach.

She sat on the tobacco-and-wine stained sofa, the cushions giving way like lungs collapsing, weary from repetitive use. The rain spat aggressively against the large front window that was concealed by a pair of thin, maroon curtains. The arid husk of a spider was framed inside its old web in one corner of the room. A plastic orchid gathered dust. Last year’s birthday cards remained standing guard on the shelf.

An almost-orange glow came from a lamp on a small table in the corner, an eviction notice letter stuffed roughly underneath it. Two weeks until her due date. Three weeks to find somewhere to go. Nine weeks since her “husband” had left her out of nowhere, two-hundred and eight weeks they had been together - give or take some for the various break-ups they had along the way.

Regardless, Blanche arrived into the world as she meant to go on: early, and as close to perfect as humanly possible.

As she meant to go on.

As a child, she held her name like a glittering marble. Something special, cinematic. She liked to think her life was already scripted to mimic such glamour as a result, that destiny had injected this firmly into her bloodstream.

At sixteen, she sat in front of the screen to see for herself. The excitement her name stirred fluttered in her chest like a live bird, but her eager curiosity quickly curdled into something else - disappointment, with a side of shame. The Blanche she saw on screen was not the luminous, powerful heroine she had imagined her mother had named her after. Instead, she was jittery, deluded even, and was quickly unraveling at the seams. She watched as her namesake navigated a heavy drinking problem, staggering under the weight of great losses and surviving only to the outside world through thick layers of deception. She shuddered, and switched the film off before the credits had a chance to roll in.

Her mother had begun to echo a similar performance. Through increasing mental distress, she was developing a bald patch on the back of her head, where she persistently tugged at her hair there, again and again. A wounded crown. She was often found staring out of the cold blue square of the kitchen window, somewhere beyond the garden fence and into the distance.

Blanche never once pointed out either of these habits, or tried to stop her, or even tried to talk to her much. To disrupt her Mother would be to purposefully aim a weapon to the centre of her forehead and caress the trigger. Instead, she would devote her time to drawing with her crayons at the kitchen table. With her head bent over her paper, the smoothed completion of the waxy labels under her fingers in combination with the familiar smell soothed her somewhat.

One evening, whilst in this routine, she pressed down too hard whilst colouring in her latest drawing, and her crayon snapped in her hand. The sound echoed everywhere at once. Her Mother turned around and looked directly at Blanche for the first time since she could remember.

Something made a clicking noise on the inside of her ear, and, somewhere, a flare clawed open the sky of a deserted island. A balloon burst loudly, making the birthday boy cry. A ligament tore beyond repair. A dropped egg cracked open onto the kitchen lino and spread out like a mold. Her Mother resumed her routine, this time facing Blanche, tugging at the sparse hair that was left, again and again and again; and to Blanche, it felt like she was making the empty space as a badge to wear, spreading the message she could not say with words: I am not well.

Two days later, there was a knock at the door, but this time, they were beyond the point of keeping an act up.

Her Mother’s last words to her scratched their way out of her throat and grabbed Blanche by the shoulders.

“Blanche. Don’t. No. Do not think of me. Forget it all. Forget everything.”

In foster care, Blanche usually spent the surplus currency of her time drawing in the corner of the communal room, her back facing the rest of the children, though this was much to the dismay of the workers there. They had soon learnt to leave her to it - after all - they had bigger issues to sort than a self-sufficient, quiet child.

“Daniel has eaten the playdough again”

“So?”

“Well, it was a lot this time. His mouth is green”

“Fuck’s sake”

Four months later, she was placed in a trial foster arrangement with a husband and wife - Terry and Sheryl.

Sheryl overwhelmed Blanche for several reasons. The main one being: She did not. Stop. Talking. Ever.

This became instantaneously obvious. The entire car journey back from the children’s home was filled with her nasal voice whilst Blanche sat in the back seat and stared out of the window, hoping she would get the hint and stop. She didn’t. This quickly became like the rubbing of two sticks inside of her, soon to spark with the irritation that she felt forced to internalise.

Blanche tried coping by counting the trees as they passed, their bare branches forking out like dark and withered fingers pulling at the grey blanket of the cloudy afternoon sky.

Sheryl continued.

“We just got a new fridge, one that makes five different types of ice. There’s cubed, crushed, half-cube... it can even make slushies. Not suitable for now, obviously, but in the summer it’ll be a nice option. Umm, what was the last type of ice? I can’t remember. Can you remember Terry? Anyway, we got a discount because we actually went in-store and spoke to the salesman for what must have been, oh I don’t know, forty-something minutes. I think he was happy to have someone to talk to! It was completely empty in there, the entire time we were in there” she laughed, before continuing “and we must have made his day! All that chatting, with a sale at the end. He probably gets a commission or something similar, I expect. Like targets to reach. Which we helped him towards. And the fridge is a proper American fridge. Two doors that open outwards. You’ll see. And we’ve got quiche, grapes, cheese, meats, obviously milk, juices and yeah. So just ask me if you want anything. We try to go to local greengrocers or farmer’s markets. I can’t stand discount supermarkets unless I just need to pick up something in an emergency, something at least branded. Like Schweppes lemonade. Otherwise, I do try to avoid it as much as possible. We don-”

Terry interrupted.

“Are you hungry, Blanche?”

She placed her finger on the window, trying to trace a single raindrop that was sliding down on the outside of the glass.

“Not really” she answered, not moving her attention away from the raindrop. She wanted to ask if they could have the radio on, but didn’t.

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It only took them 16 days to crack.

One evening, Sheryl entered the living room and sat down in the armchair across the room, a look of determination on her broad face. The TV was on and Blanche was half-watching a documentary about the behind-the-scenes making of Titanic whilst drawing in a lined exercise book she had bought with her from the children’s home. Sheryl took the remote from next to Blanche, turned down the volume, and in great detail, re-told a story about her sister, which she had already told Blanche the week before.

“I think you’ve told me this before, Sheryl” Blanche said, plainly.

Sheryl clasped her mouth shut for a moment, her eyes on Blanche’s face, glowering.

“Well” she finally replied, after some time, her voice tight “Why don’t you share something? A story? An opinion? Anything? You’ve been here a few weeks now and all I know is that you don’t like yogurt with bits in, or going outside. Why don’t you go outside and do something? So that way, you will have something to talk to me about, and then I won’t have to bore you with my stories, you poor, poor thing”

Blanche pushed her thumb deep into the pit of the opposing hand and rubbed it up and down.

“Sorry. I just…” she trailed off, not sure on how to end the sentence.

“Just what? Don’t you have anything inside that pretty little head of yours?” then “Terry!” Sheryl barked, making Blanche jump.

Sure enough, Terry appeared in the threshold of the room just seconds later, as if he had already been hovering nearby, a vampire waiting to be invited in.

“Tomorrow is Sunday” she said, to neither of them in particular. “So we should plan to do something. I’m sick of being the only one to do anything! Although in the past few weeks I’ve done about as much as I would have done in a few days. Waiting around. Trying my best. It’s quite frankly - if I can be honest - disappointing! It would be nice to try and get outside” a glance at Blanche, with a pointed look at Terry to follow. He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

Her penetrating gaze returned to Blanche, who started to feel acid bile coat the inside of her cheeks.

“Perhaps you would like to go rollerskating?” Sheryl asked

“I… No, thank you.”

“What about ice skating?”

“No.”

“Horse riding?”

She shook her head.

“Skateboarding,” Terry chipped in

“How would she go skateboarding?” Sheryl asked scoffing. She turned back to Blanche. “Or would you like that? Personally I think it’s more of a boy’s activity, don’t you think? Still, these days everyone seems to do whatever and no one can say anything about it.”

Blanche remained silence, but was no longer drawing.

“Well OK then, you tell me, what would you like to do?”

“I’d like to go to my room”.

Sheryl blinked heavily and sighed. She turned to Terry, who was still stood tentatively in the threshold.

“That’s it. I give up. She doesn’t want to do anything”

Terry braved entering the room, and crouched beside Blanche, his knees cracking. “What about the cinema? We could get you sweets. Or popcorn.”

“Or both!” Sheryl interjected, sounding theatrically exasperated.

Blanche blinked. Her pen had rolled off her lap and onto the floor.

“No, thank you”.

“Do you like the cinema?”

“I… don’t think so.”

“Has she ever been to a cinema?” Sheryl asked to Terry

“Have you ever been to a cinema, Blanche?” Terry repeated

She shook her head.

“Well then, how do you know you don’t like it?” Sheryl quipped.

Again, silence hung in the room.

“Would you like to go?” Terry asked again gently.

“I said no already.” she whispered at last.

He nodded, looking at her for a little while, as if weighing up the effort it would take to continue this conversation, and if it was worth it.

Resigned, he stood back up.

“I guess, you can go to your room then”.

Blanche didn’t need to be told twice. She jumped off the sofa and climbed the stairs to her room.

Soon after, she overheard Sheryl below, her voice several pitches higher than usual.

“She’s like some kind of robot” she wailed “It’s just, it’s too much” she heard a nose being blown into tissue.

“I’m not sure if it’s that she’s too much” Terry replied. “It’s more…”

They both concluded at the same time - “She’s not enough”.

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