by Eleanor Norman

Too much By Eleanor Norman fre de o m

Blood. Sprinting. Flowers. Anyone can do anything here. The two of them walk through the field, full of roses, daisies and buttercups, to sit in the big, old oak tree, which stretches up into the sky as if leading into heaven where they watch the rest of the world go about its day. At dawn the sunlight glints through, winking at Henry and Anne as they sit in their tree. Her grandmother talks about the stories that her grandmother used to tell her; about the dark days when people were restricted, stuck, trying not to offend anyone. Grandmother seems to think that rules are important, but she doesn’t know anything, sitting all day staring out of her window. What can she know? She is always in the house, never leaves and never does anything at all. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence.

“What do we do now?” His breath, hard and heavy, hits Anne’s face.

“I don’t know.”

She looks down at her hands painted in thick crimson, still slightly dripping down onto the dirt. “This was your idea.” “You seemed willing enough to go through with it.” Silence. What had Gran said about calming down? Deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth. So she tries, but all she can smell is what they have done – copper mixed with the sweet aroma of flowers. Her stomach heaves.

Breathe, ignore the sticky, sickly smell of your crime lingering on your hands. Silence.

“Fine. It was both of us but what are we going to do?” “My house, no one is ever there. We can clean our clothes and no one will ever know.”

“Your Gran is always there.” “She doesn’t do anything. Come on, we can’t stay here.” She takes his hand, the rouge viscous liquid mixing. What does it matter; they are both painted in their guilt. Running. Keeping low. They’re getting faster and faster, not running anymore, they’re gliding, flying. Wings lift them off and up high into the sky; clouds roll over them and the wind whips through Anne’s hair; it’s almost peaceful but still she can feel the liquid heating, boiling. It’s burning, crawling up her arms. And back on the ground running, nearing the house. Through the open window, tumbling, falling. Silence. Gran hasn’t heard. Into the bathroom. Lock the door. Breathe.

Henry turns the taps, water rushing to meet their eagerly waiting red hands. It doesn’t look real. The pretty pink flows down the sink away from the prying eyes of swallows on the windowsill. No trace of guilt, apart from the splatter on their clothes. Nobody talks. Silence. Sneaking out into the laundry room washing the clothes. Done. No one will ever know. Safe.

Mouth agape… Volume building… deafening…. Magenta showering down…. I’m submerged….

Silence… silver clattering to the floor. The blood once again is fizzling on my drenched hands, burning me… Crawling up my arms: hissing as it engulfs me… Awaiting a command. Flowers start to grow locking me into the ground, their wilted heads dripping with guilt and betrayal. I start to scream

Still feeling the heat on her arms she gets up and washes them, but it won’t come out, this one little bit. Gran looks at Anne whenever she walks into the room. Somehow she knows - Anne’s certain of this fact. One little bit of wine red luscious liquid is always on her hand, like a kiss from a lover. Once again she trudges to the bathroom under the gaze of her grandmother as the sunlight streams through the open window, signalling the start of day.