PART C
A hallucination. You're sure. A woman walks straight through you. Things don't happen like that, not in real life. You blame coffee and the microscopic caffeine molecules racing around your body. You read an email saying coffee makes people dizzy and you've felt peculiar all day at work. The woman couldn't have walked through you. Impossible.
The hairdresser's is only across the road. You pull up your jacket collar to conceal yourself from the spitting rain. Your hands dig deeper in your pockets for warmth. A finger scratches on the raw edge of your keys. Ripping flesh stings. The stream of business suits, heels dragging on the pavement and darting briefcases slows you down. You say, 'excuse me,' and add, 'please,' but no one hears.The huge glass door doesn't close. A hairdresser tuts, ignores you, storms across and slams it. Styled faces watch from the posters. Their frozen smiles blend into the background of the salon walls.
“Bloody wind,” the stylist says, brushing her streaked red hair from her face.
A customer laughs and carries on flicking through Hello! You stand by the cluttered counter. The receptionist chats on the phone. Her words curl around the chewing gum. The other stylists chatter across the shop floor. The customer browsing at latest celebrity scandal doesn't acknowledge you peering at her face. The blow driers roar. There's emptiness inside you.
Vivien peers over the counter and looks at the schedule. She'll see you. Vivien does you highlights every month. She'll recognise your face. Vivien glances at her watch. She looks right through you as if you're not there.
“Your six o'clock ain't turned up,” the receptionist smirks.
“I'm here,” you shout, launching a magazine across the floor.
The receptionist glares at the customer, arises from her comfy chair and retrieves the month old gossip magazine.
“She's normally on time,” Vivien checks her watch and folds her arms.
You touch Vivien's shoulder. Her warm temperature radiates around her.
“It's colder,” Vivien says, rubbing her shoulders and hugging herself.
“Cut that lady's hair?” The receptionist points to the woman with the celebrity addiction problem.
The woman looks eager. She flings her paper pals on the coffee table and disappears with Vivien to start her perm.
“What about me?” You shout from the middle of the shop.
Everyone carries on: stylists trimming, slicing and straightening. No one hears or sees you.
“Hello?” you whisper, in case someone is tuned to a different frequency.
You're invisible. No one can see you.
PART A
Something feels odd. You finish brushing your teeth and getting ready for work but inside you feel different. You try applying makeup but the mirror's too steamy. The sponge soaks up condensation but the murky fog reappears. Wipe, steam, wipe, mists over again. The dripping sponge splashes in the sink. You storm out with the makeup bag under your arm and compact mirror. You don't have time to deal with dirty bathrooms. Your flatmate, Jenny can sort the saturating mess. She owes you a favour, a big favour, two months rent worth of favour.
The radio in your bedroom never picks up stations. You blame satellite dishes from next door's building but today there's perfect reception. You wander around your tidy bedroom. Someone's been in here. The deodorant can was facing logo out on the shelf but now the instructions face you. You turn the bottle back round. Must be Jenny, thinks she owns everything. Jenny treats the flat like you don't exist. She's got to go.
Your butterfly pocket mirror was a birthday present from an ex-boyfriend. Jenny borrowed him too and you forgave reluctantly. The glass is shattered in the frame. Your face separates in each fragment but looks blurred like someone's erasing the edges. One of the shards escapes from the mirror. You notice hard, dry blood but you're not bleeding.
You're late for work.
PART B
Lines of desks, each one regulated in regimented rows. Every terminal is identical. No one speaks to their cubicle neighbour. No one stays long enough to remember names. For all you know, no one could sit the other side of the fibreboard partition. You could be the only one here, answering phone calls.
You're early for work and consider ringing Jenny. She needs to know you're evicting her. She's had warnings: 'pay or leave.' The wages from overtime won't cover another two persons rent. You need someone reliable, someone trustworthy and someone with money sense.
You sling your jacket over the back of the chair, switch on the monitor and put on your headset. At nine o'clock all the phones chime in unison.
“Customer sales, How may I help?” you say with a Disneyland smile.
“Hello?” A faint gruff voice replies.
Must be a bad connection or an oldie. You always get the deaf customers or wrong numbers.
“Hello? Hello?” the voice sounds like a middle aged man.
The line doesn't sound crackly.
“Hello,” You say with confidence.
“Eugh,” he says. The line goes dead.
Another call, another boisterous customer, the same problem. You'll gain no commission and you need money to pay Jenny's rent. You call her. The mobile rings and diverts to answer phone. You don't leave a message. Jenny's probably adding debt to her credit card. You email IT with your blunder and wait. You swivel on the chair. No one cares. No one looks inside your cubicle. You could be dead and the manager would only notice if a mug was missing from the communal kitchen and was on your desk. You email again, no response. You drum your fingers on the imitation wood: Thump thumpthump thump thump.
You click 'check mail'. No reply. You wait.
PART D
You decide to make a mid-New Year's resolution to learn to drive and then you'll escape the crowded streets when everyone is filing out of their flat-pack cubicle offices. You're weary of the daily commute. “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” You agree with Samuel Johnson, only you're a woman and the hunt is on to find a half-decent man in the city who likes more than a one-night encounter, isn't already married or who fancies the barman who made the cocktails when you were on a date. It's a race to gt married and have kids before the batteries wear out on the ovaries. You're bored with London. Is this really how life is going to be?
You hang your pinstriped jacket next to Jenny's Primark version and kick off those painful pointy toed court shoes. You chuck your keys on the hallway table. They land in a rattling heap. There's clattering and banging coming from Jenny's room. You won't investigate as the polyester itches your skin and you need to get out of these work clothes.
“Hey, I'm home,” You call out, heading to your organised bedroom.
The crashing stops.
“Hello, is anyone there?” Jenny shouts from another room.
“Yeah, I'm back,” You say, walking to her bedroom but she's gone. You can just about tell through the piles of junk.
Jenny's sitting on the living room sofa. Mess follows her path. You straighten a wonky picture frame.
“Didn't you hear me come in?” You ask, folding your arms.
“Emily?” Jenny asks. She looks straight past you and glares at the picture.
“I'm here,” You say, waving your hands in her face.
Jenny walks through you. You take a deep breath, gasp, eyes widen and you're unable to move. Did she pass through you? You look down at your body. It's got to be a mirage. You thump your stomach. The hand doesn't enter your skin. Must be an illusion.
Jenny kicks her way around your bedroom, hunting through your clothes.
“Emily,” Jenny giggles, twirling around the room.
“I'm right here,” You say, leaning against the doorframe.
Jenny turns round, “This isn't funny,” she tuts and sits on your fresh bed spread.
“Tell me about it. This has happened all day,” you moan.
Jenny opens the wardrobe, pulls out your creased black jeans and climbs into them.
“Well, I'm wearing your clothes again! Are you gonna come out now?” Jenny giggles and dances around the bedroom.
“I'm not hiding. Those jeans don't zip up on you properly,” you sarcastically say, standing behind her.
Jenny stops dancing. Your heavy breathing catches her bare neck. She flings her arm around as if flicking off a fly.
“Where are you?” Jenny questions, spins and nearly treads on you.
“I think I'm invisible.”
PART J
Cruising through walls tires you. The same thin plaster board doesn't give you the same buzz as the first time. The wood fibres splinter against the body particles. It doesn't have the same intensity.
You walk to Jenny's room via the normal doorframe route. Everything's gone and the space empty. Jenny's taken your possessions and made them hers. But you have your wish: Jenny's gone from the flat. She won't come back or even let anyone else visit. The carpet smells musty, there's mould growing along window sills and grime's breeding through the flat.
Vacant hangers dangle in Jenny's empty wardrobe. Dry blood stains cover the wardrobe floor. Blood from her body. You're talking about yourself in third person. Your body. In wardrobe. You're dripping blood. In wardrobe.
You crawl in the corner, hug your legs and sway. Humming breaks the silence. You feel strange again, like the insides don't belong to you anymore. There's a peculiar sensation that rushes through your body. Is this really how death is going to be? In films and books, there's always a guide to give directions to afterlives and paths to heaven. Which road are you on? You thought death would be crammed with people who died throughout history, just like moving down a crowded underground train. But you're the only one in your reality. There's nothing to do. None of your wishes are coming true, like your mum said: 'heaven's where dreams happen.' She lied. You're just moving along in present tense but stuck in the past. You're cemented in the flat, unable to leave but able to watch beyond the window. The living stroll the streets. You're tied to the events in the wardrobe. You're trapped in a snapshot photograph.
The flat's empty. Jenny's gone.
PART E
The doorbell shrills again. Jenny's too busy entertaining in the living room. You didn't realise you had so many friends. The music thuds through each room. No one will complain, it's a shop downstairs and they're closed tonight. You drift through the black suits, loosen grey ties and jackets slung across the hallway sideboard. People should be mourning but they're enjoying themselves. Fun floods through the Wake.
You brush past your ex-boyfriend as he stands having a meaningless discussion with Jenny.
“Don't you think it's gotten colder in here?” The ex remarks.
Jenny glares around the room and returns a smile. She strokes his arm.
You witness reactions on each person's face to the news, “She's gone?” Most guests shake their heads, shrug their shoulders or just nibble another cold sausage. The music is deafening. The bass line vibrates the walls. You've had enough of this party. People should be sitting and thinking of your memory. Not dancing, slurping wine or chitchatting. Another guest crams in the living room. Food crunches into the carpet. Jenny's lost control. Even if people could see you, no one would pay any attention. You'd just be mouthing the words.
You watch your ex-boyfriend disappear into the bathroom. Your body breezes through the wall. You watch him pee and wash his hands. The taps switch off. You turn them on. He switches them off. Hot steam builds up in the room. Your ex tries escaping but you're holding the handle on the other side of the bathroom. You drift back through the wall after he gives up. The mirror clouds with mist. Your warm finger slides across the slipper surface.
You write: Cheater. He raises an eyebrow. You engrave: I'm watching. He looks around the filthy bathroom. You scribble: Leave. You drag a finger along the words. You underline your point.
You follow your ex-boyfriend. He runs to Jenny, drags her from the thrill of the party and to the bathroom. He points at the mirror, you snigger. They both look around.
“I'm leaving,” he says.
He barges through a huddled crowd and grabs his jacket, still damp from the funeral.
“I suggest you all leave. Something's not right,” your ex-boyfriend announces to the party.
People whisper and glance at Jenny. She shrugs, takes a sip of wine and throws the glass over her shoulder. It smashes across the wall. Wine drips down like blood trickling from a wound.
Your sitting on the bath edge listening as the party dissolves. You want these people gone.
The front door slams. Jenny storms in the bathroom, arms folded and foot bashing the tiles. You walk past, stand in the doorway and leave her talking to herself.
“I can't believe you've ruined this party,” she growls, scrubbing the mirror. Jenny turns round and launches the sponge across the bathroom. Water follows its path. She scares you in this ranting mood.
“I hope that hurt,” Jenny sneers.
You can't feel anything. You're a ghost.
PART I
Two days before Christmas, brown cardboard boxes stack along the hallway wall. You can still walk through the thin walls but you need harder concentration to push your body through the boxes. They've got thick, compact particles and you're still new to sliding and evaporating with objects.
A uniformed man carries another box of Jenny's stolen life. You notice 'removals' on his sleeve as he disappears out the front door with another box.
Jenny wanders out from your room with a trail of bubble wrap. She binds, folds and twists a Forever Friends ornament. Jenny tears the spare bubble wrap and throws the protected ornament in the air. She catches and sniggers.
“Are you watching? I'm leaving you behind,” Jenny says and laughs in her high pitch tone. She throws the figurine in the box. You hear a smash. You would be upset but Jenny bought you that tacky object.
Jenny swings her hair and goes back in your bedroom. Her hair matches the same short bobbed hair cut from your college photographs. She bounces out of the room with a batch of your old clothes and plonks them in the box. You want to grab them back out and hang each item in colour order but you're losing the energy to pick up objects. Jenny scribbles 'Emily's clothes' in loopy writing across the lid.
You squeeze your concentration into tilting a picture frame and rocking the shelving unit. Jenny takes down the frame and grabs the metal framed unit.
“You're petty,” Jenny says, staring at your portrait picture.
A photograph holds you forever in one time. You're frozen in a captured moment, like you are now. You're still wearing your office suit, not aging, stuck in one location. Stillness.
Jenny imitates the pose from the photograph: Hands on hips. Your mauve nail varnish. Your gold watch. Your old engagement ring from the ex-boyfriend.
You breathe in Jenny's ear. She swings her arms around, trying to hit you but you sprint to the corner.
“Are you alright, Miss Emily?” The removal man asks as he watches from the hallway.
Jenny darts around, puts her arms down and stands still. You giggle quietly.
“I'm being attacked,” she says, out of breath.
“There's nothing in here,” he says, peering around the room.
The removal man walks further in the room, picks up another box, takes another cautious look and staggers out the door.
Jenny picks up a picture with your smile inside the frame. She hugs the photograph to her chest and stares around the room.
“It's a shame that you're gonna get stuck here and evaporate,” Jenny smirks. She throws the frame on the naked floor.
The glass smashes across your picture and rips the smile to shreds. Jenny shrugs, she picks up a sealed box. She wears your boots. The thin heel scars the wooden floor. The front door slams shut. Jenny's hand pokes through the letterbox and your flat keys clatter on the hallway floorboards. You can't pick up the bundle of keys. Your hand passes through and hits the ceiling tiles on the shop below. You need the keys to free you from this prison but your strength can't help you.
The flat is void of possessions and now you're stuck here. Jenny's put her claim on your belongings. You sit cross legged on the floor looking at the empty shelves and the fade marks on the walls from the picture frames. The flat is bigger and emptier. The only noise is the clattering and banging from the shop underneath.
You're left in an empty shell. Nothing is left.
PART H
Everyday Jenny leaves but comes back. She takes the only set of keys. They belong to you. You can't leave the flat now she carries the keys. Jenny wears your clothes. Jenny goes to your job. Jenny uses your credit card. Jenny's stolen your life. Jenny's living your life.
You're fading and she doesn't notice you snooping around the increasing clutter. Jenny only senses your presence when you knock over teacups, bash picture frames and etch revenge messages on the mirrors. Even you can't see yourself as the same strong image as before. Your skin's transparent and you see the distorted edges of the other side. You thought your vision was blurring but it's your body that's fading.
Your misty messages in the mirror remind Jenny of her deception: You watched her remove your body from her wardrobe, wriggle into a black bin liner and heave into the car boot. She drove to the junkyard and they accepted you. The balding man thought you were another bag of rubbish; the same opinion that you had of yourself when you were alive.
Jenny replaces broken glasses and wipes the mirror but she can't escape the whispers. You lie next to Jenny in bed and blow in her ear:
'I'll get you back.'
PART G
The front door slams. Jenny hangs your coat up next to hers and kicks off your court shoes. She's scuffed and chipped the shoes. Bitch, you think. Jenny strolls in the living room and sits on your lap.
“I'm sitting here,” you say, bouncing your knees to lift her off.
Jenny jumps and stumbles to the sofa. She looks back at the chair, scrunches her eyes as if she's trying to search for you. Jenny's wearing your work outfit and your winter boots. She's dyed her hair too: chestnut brown as yours. She tosses your keys on the coffee table. They scratch the glass but Jenny doesn't notice. You want Jenny gone from your flat.
“Did you tell work that I wasn't coming in today?” you ask as she curls up on the sofa and flicks through an outdated television guide.
Jenny shakes her head, flaps over the cover and slings the magazine over the back of the sofa.
“I did one better. I worked your shift,” Jenny grins.
“I found the body.” You say in a dead tone.
Jenny stops smiling. Her eyes widen. She brushes down her skirt and straightens her posture.
“A mistake,” Jenny timidly says, staring around the room.
“How can my body in your wardrobe be a mistake?”
PART F
Jenny's left for work. You hold her bedroom door handle, her sacred space. No visitors. No entry. You enter with caution. Clutter covers the floor, fashion posters flake off the walls and dirty clothes pile the floor. You tip toe around the junk. You stumble across your black jumper, old make up and CDs. You don't feel guilty for snooping in her bedroom. Your black boots appear in a pile, the same pair which has been missing since last winter. You go to the wardrobe to fetch the rest of your clothes. You dodge a greasy plate and a mouldy mug.
The wardrobe doors are stuck. You yank at the handles and the force nearly flings you across the bedroom. A body falls out. Photographs flutter out like butterflies. Each snapshot covers the body and the floor. The photos are you, pictures from your photo album. You sit on the edge of the bed.
A dead body.
You don't want to touch its grey skin. There are bruises over the back. You watch the face down body for five minutes, ten minutes, half hour, hour, two hours. You glance at Jenny's digital clock. She'll be home soon. You need to tidy this mess. You need all your strength to roll over the body. A familiar face stares back. The frozen shock blue eyes, mole under the left eye and dimples. They're all familiar but look strange. There are small cuts across the face as if someone's sliced with an edge of a mirror. You examine closer. Your face stares back. You stumble and fall on a pile of clothes. Everything's quiet. You can't hear your heart. The eyes of your body stare at the ceiling. You stare at her. You're thinking about your body in third person. She looks stiff and unable to move. You poke her with a hanger.
She's dead.
Jessica Patient was born in the year of Live Aid and the first British Glow Worm day, 1985. She won the WorldSkills Uk Gold Award in Creative Writing in 2008 and has several short stories published, including 3:AM, The Beat and Sleepy Orange. Links to her published work and updates on the progression of the novel she is writing can be found here, www.writerslittlehelper.blogspot.com. Jessica lives in Bedfordshire, England.
