Her Deleted Scenes

Her head was found perpendicular to the lake. The sight almost eventuated a myocardial infarction, that’s a heart attack to you and me. An elderly man walking his dog or being walked by him made the grim discovery. She had always been the bird refusing to fly in formation. Her hair moved with the vibrancy of a skirt’s recalcitrant pleating; her words never left the mocking plinth of plastic that sealed her throat shut. In her defence, she didn’t have any wings, so expectations should have been lowered. She was also a doll, so there was that to rely upon too.

Her owner, Miss Charlotte Edwards, 5 Shrewsbury Road, was a dreamer, and everyone knows dreams find it very difficult to sit still. She had set out on her adventure on one of those days when it feels like the sun has genuflected to worship the horizon and forgotten to rise again. Had someone, anyone, or the investigating officers bothered to notice, her diary had provided a day-by-day account of her anticipated itinerary.  

DAY ONE 

Visit the abandoned school and sit at the double desk with inkwells that think they are owl eyes.

DAY TWO

Find food. You will be hungry by now. Trust no one. 

DAY THREE 

Befriend a dog but know that it isn’t yours. Form a bond if you must but don’t divulge your secret. 

DAY FOUR

Travel using words. 

It had all begun a week previously when morello cherry jam sandwiched itself between her and them. Her parents had stood across the table from her, protected by a sickly barrier of Black Forest gateau. A bizarre choice on a record-breaking day when the sun resembled a lemon drop in the sky. Nothing about the scene had piqued her interest, and when the words had come, and her mother had caught her in a hug; the shock had been fresh and bold.

‘I’m having a baby – you’re going to be a big sister.’ 

Through clenched teeth, she had spat her contribution 

‘You won’t love me anymore. You’ll love the new baby more than me.’

The melodrama of the moment meant her mother’s eyes were extra spherical, extra loving, extra wistful, as if that could be still her yo-yo-ing heart. She had barricaded herself in her room for a time afterwards, but she exited once she had decided on her plan. It would have only served to arouse suspicion if she hadn’t. 

It’s five o’clock, and the traffic on the motorway disregards her presence on it as if she were no more unremarkable than a candy bar wrapper straddling a tree branch. Progress is slow and certainly hindered by the fact she is dragging half her wardrobe behind her on a rickety cart designed for dolls’ afternoon teas. She doesn’t break character when a car with one occupant moves in and matches her stride as she battles against a strong easterly wind and the steep incline of an exit slipway. 

‘Hello there, little lady. Where do you think you’re going?’

The voice is unfamiliar, condescending, and despite its lilting, upbeat nature, bleeds arrogance with no note of pride. This causes the majority of her fear to decant itself into her legs as her brain screams at her to run. It’s happening now, she’s running, and she’s running out of breath; her legs feel traitorous, and that’s when a rough arm sweeps across her stomach and lifts her into the backseat of his car.

Sometimes when you look in the mirror at your teeth and the light surrounding you is bright and unrelenting, the illusion is created that your teeth have ghostly shadows. This is the first thing that Charlotte thinks about when she awakens from what feels like a short slumber. The second thing she thinks about is her mother’s repeated assertion that ‘birds of a feather flock together.’

When her feet reach the floor at her bedside, there are quilted slippers waiting that aren’t hers but fit as if they are. A sensation tickles her soles as they tread bare boards; she will learn later that this thrumming was one of the vital signs of a lie. The smell of salty, crisped-to-perfection bacon has climbed the stairs and takes her hand to guide her to the kitchen. The people at the table are not surprised when she enters the room, but she’s stunned by the surge of anger that swells in her stomach. Who are these people? Why is she here? What’s going to happen? 

Her mother is gentle, her smile a simulacrum of itself as she presents her with a stack of pancakes bedecked with icing sugar, and really there’s just one problem – she’s not her mother. The imposter seems flagrantly unfazed by this inconvenient truth. She hums a pop tune as she half-heartedly scrubs dishes in the sink. Charlotte opens her mouth to seek an explanation but shuts it again, knowing that life doesn’t always supply the footnotes it should. Her mind is flat like water starved of bubbles, but she’s still here on this spinning sphere of dust and sound. She thinks of a question, ‘Are you going to kill me?’ but she doesn’t ask it because she doesn’t care to know the answer.

When Charlotte is older, she will sit on a park bench and consider if happiness can be kidnapped. She will stare at the doubts that have outnumbered the certainties in her life. There are some splinters that hurt less if left in place. There’s nothing soft or futon-like about the falls or fails acquired when jousting with reality. There will be drooping snowdrops, and she will close her eyes and let the warmth of pure autumnal sunlight dance millimetres from the epicentre of her greatest blessing, her independence of mind. It is the only parasol truly capable of sheltering her from the glare of sun that emerges after the world has spewed its daily dose of rain.