The Birthday by Franki Barker-Johnson

The Birthday

BY FRANKI BARKER-JOHNSON ILLUSTRATED BY VIKTORIA HRISTOVA

1

It’s ten to ten and he tells me to call. I do, push-pushing Alex and Anna aside to make room for the flat dry grass in winter. He used to behave like summer, hot as hell. We continue to talk and see each other naked but we have already had our fun. I’ve slept with other people but it’s not really cheating if we were on a break for like, an hour. Having bipolar disorder is an excuse, you can’t concentrate on one thing, and that’s fine, we are free, aren’t we? Parks are only for prostitutes or for people to piss in. I’ve never sat in a park or anywhere for long. I know God is watching. He was amused for a while but now his pissed off. It’s over, its over it’s over, now. You have done all you can. You are exactly where you need to be.

He doesn’t want to listen to us. The song has sung itself to pigeon shit. Words are scarce and they lie. Real words, don’t you wish you could mean them? Don’t you wish you could feel them as much as you did when you wrote them down? But now they’re gone, as the spoken word, they say, don’t they? Gone, Gone, Gone.

There is no such song and if there was I wouldn’t sing it with you. We don’t speak the same –you don’t want me to move my limbs.

The birds mate and make more noise science is a clit surrounded by barbed wire secrets you weren’t supposed to spill God is angry, is it him who makes me ill?

His calling me and I refuse to look up I wear guilt darker than the bruises of a lady battered by her boyfriend death is living in the pockets of my mind cuckoo-ing at moments when I’m not switched on most of the time - you’re still on the phone you wait for the yes, less energy to say I hang up again and now I wait.

He arrived, late as usual. Crazy girl. Crazy girl. He drives a BMW but we’re drinking so were getting cabs tonight is that alright with you?

My mother is the devil she wants to make me cry my mother is the devil don’t sing no lullaby

“Don’t make jokes like that”, he said, interrupting my prosody, he wouldn’t find this funny would he? His mother’s an angel. I made him open the present I bought him that sat in the fridge. We didn’t need to go to a bar. He is Muslim but he likes prosecco and sex out of marriage.

My mother is the devil she doesn’t want me to smile my mother is the devil Lord, she is so fragile

A bottle of prosecco with two glass flutes. I poured us both a glass. I’m not planning to get him drunk. I bought him the prosecco because I wanted to drink prosecco.

My mother is the devil and I fucking hate the truth my mother is the devil breathing fire under her roof

The smell had punctured my nostrils before filling me with a dizziness like the bubbles that were rising up, popping, few by few, to the top of the glass. Who’s going to love me tonight? You are. You will. He drank his before I drunk even half of mine, greedy bastard and as we left for the cab in the spitting, ashy rain – we shared my glass.

My mother is the devil blazing hisses of disrespect my mother is the devil Lord, I must reject

I had bought a black lace dress for the occasion. It stuck tightly to my body from my shoulders to my ankles, hugging my slender body, exposing my tiny, tiny curves, leaving a gap below my breasts and above my hips for him to hold if he got cold. He always tells me how warm I am. How I am like a radiator. Burn, parrot, burn.

Here I am, Stepping out of the darkness you can’t see my burning halo anymore. But you have devil’s horns too, don’t you? They curl up slightly, when you have nothing to say. You walk away, facing me, you walk away

Is this farewell? I am NOT an angel. I am NOT a princess. And I DO NOT have WINGS made of FEATHERS and BEAUTIFUL THINGS.

2

We sat in the cab with my legs resting up on his knee. The lining of the dress stopped at my knees, and the lower part was only lace – exposing my white, white legs underneath. “I love your skin, I love your skin”, he whispered. We drove slowly as the darkness fell, through the West-End that shined all its lights on us. I had this woozy feeling, like tonight I would murder him?

My mother is the devil please deliver me from her claw the women whom I loved so much, looked up to and adored, And she, did this – to me?

Before eight. “I told you to stop touching me…carry on and we won’t go to the rest…” We arrived in the low-lit restaurant and were invited in through the big glass doors that extended from the ceiling to the floor. “What are you going to get?”.

Then we ate slowly, and sometimes we looked up and smirked at each other from across the table. We always smirk like we are committing a robbery. I grabbed a cheeky kiss from him from behind the menu, because even though the lights were dim and we had a booth – he was still brown and I was still white. We were both sitting together, our knees touching and our anxiety fading into cocktails. The steak knife rested on the wooden board, the blood of a cow wrongly wetting its edge and smelling like beautiful metal.

I already knew what I was getting and what he was getting. I planned this months ago. After an hour or so, he went to the toilet and as I raised my head I saw the painting;

It was the gone girl with her head thrown back and black lace covering her weak and tired body. The whitest, palest skin and the smallest feet that could possibly carry her body

around were slumped on the ground as if she was taking her last breath. Save her, save her. Her eyes rolled back like she was lost and you would be the knight that should find her, give her roses, make her smile again. The background blacker than life, her skin; ill white, drowning white, no-white; hazard, warning white. Corrupted bride waits in the painting for all to see and feel sympathy for the lady in waiting, who is damaged without a bruise to bare, the painted lady given life by the gentle, receptive painter. He must have caressed and controlled the brush until she looked so delicate she could almost be an angel if it wasn’t for the black lace wrapped around her skin, (not so much as to hide her breasts or the gap between her thighs, but enough to give her to the world as corrupted, unclean and broken).

3

I paid the bill. We left the dimly lit glassy room into the night, and I handed my bag to him. The golden strap had fallen off after repeatedly being tangled with the dress of lace I wore like it was really me. “You got to hold on to that, mate”, I reminded him and we got back into a cab. We both sat in the back. He didn’t talk much and I ignored him when he told me that he was already drunk. I am sick of already.

We got to our final destination, a rounded town house with lights that shone against it. We walked in. The posh red of the carpet, cushioning my feet, was met by my pointed posh black shoes. I took the key. We got into the lift. It was an old-fashionedposh-lift. There were metal rails across it that required a pulling to be shut…great big buttons that needed a press inwards before they could shine, dimly, then take us to our floor. The key opened the door easily, like it hadn’t even gone in, and we walked through it. Oh my God. The long, long, long, velvet, grand, heavy, deep, red curtains were the first thing that I saw.

And as we dance, moving to the same rhythm I wonder why this is not allowed to be

Forget the wasted red petals on the bed symbolic of dead nature, dead love, human wreckage of earth snatching Gods beauty for our own delight, the chocolate strawberries on a plate covered in dusting that will eventually go off, and the towels placed neatly on the bed in the shape of two swans, (swans break arms with their long, long necks; not as graceful as Swan Lake), I adored the curtains – the deep, red,

heavy, heavy, heavy, long curtains. They blackened the room with their closing. The best feature of the room! “I want those curtains”, I shouted. “They are like the ones in the theatre”, I said, more macho than the first time.

4

We had more prosecco, some weed, some water, some slightly bland chicken kebab skewers with rice and bread and chocolate covered strawberries dipped in hummus. That’s what he’s made of chicken and protein shakes and chicken liver. Chicken liver pâté.

If my body is an animal then I am attracting a mate swelling nipples, my body is in want of your offspring,

- 13:14

We made love and to be honest, he can’t really be that racist – he knows about the one drop rule.

I, swim now, in your oxygen, and you keep on breathing my lungs are filled, I want to pop like a chicken would our eggs be free range? I ain’t sure

We woke up. Made love again. I ran myself a bath and then I closed my eyes. I listened to all his sounds, muffles… his jacket, his trousers, his big old belt-buckle making a tinning sound in the background.

And I shall die with Mercury painted cheeks

Stained, harmless Making me blind. Growing, monopolizing like graveyard ivy

We ordered breakfast. Both; full English. His without the bacon.

Life is not what it says on the tin There are far more ingredients that need to go in Never managing to spill the beans or the spaghetti -

Our breakfast came on large trays, covered by silver dishes like the ones in the films. I anticipated lifting the dish; I wanted to be the one to lift the dish. It was such a fancy thing to do. He passed me the trays, trust me trust me trust me trust me, the dishes surrounded by tissues, (good for blowing your nose) tea, sugar, milk, apple juice for me and orange juice for him – in long glass flutes again, of course, forks and the sharpest of knives. The reflection in the dish was on one side; the great, grand, long curtains; and on the other – you.

5

We dressed. We got in another cab. The rain was spitting again. The car was red. The music played.

England is an amazing place to sightsee because it’s not like you have much choice stuck in the middle of the M25 in Luton.

COMMENTARY

Inspired by Dostoevsky’s register in “Notes from the Underground” (as the speaker directly addresses and interrogates the reader), by his incoherence of form, (the prose falls into poetry) which alarms/dislocates the reader. Adopting these tech-

niques resulted in a multidimensional piece – enjoyable to create, allowing me to “think outside the box”. Sentences permitted me to write inconsistently; challenging yet reforming. “Suffering being the sole origin of consciousness” constructed the central idea, bringing each element together. Imitating Dostoevsky’s style by mentioning judgements which renders them invalid; “he was still brown and I was still white” forces reader to observe interracial relationships, live with them – silencing technique.

Inspired by Confessional poets, readers may identify influences of Sexton, Hughes and O’Hara, when considering the instantaneousness/time-conscious awareness of the piece – a result of living in a city and of having a mental illness. The self-consciousness of the text may burden readers with anxiety/contradictory thoughts which illuminate selected themes.

Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chambers inspired me to intertextually attack and satirize fairytales which reinforce hegemonic narratives and ideals of gender roles, particularly female: socially (to be subject to danger and victimized). Grand theatrical setting and colour red exemplify joke plays with reader, harks on “little red riding hood” where the lover plays the “wolf”, the orchestra; created using multiple voices; exposes trauma and rebellion against conformity which educate and inform the speaker’s choices; written in poetic lines of irregular, evocative lexis which distract/ disrupt the pace of the piece, adding incoherence and indeterminacy. There are also nuances of Cinderella; “the golden strap had fallen off”.

A creative performance: allegorical features; caesura, italics, poetry and prose combined, work to entertain and surprise the reader with the audibly unstable dynamics. Using lists, food items become props – adding to playfulness. Self-conscious use of pathetic fallacy forces reader to feel opposite to the signified – adding to the indeterminacy. “Red” unconventionally represents acute awareness which creates tension for the reader: symbolic of anxiety and the burning red face (scarcely seen in media or described in literature as a valid/natural emotional/physical reaction).

Role reversal: The speaker adopts wolf-like traits; attention to texture and detail highlight the speaker’s critically attuned senses which allow her room to have fun without harm due to her power of knowledge, contrasting with Fairy Tale tropes. The text exemplifies the largeness of the man’s physicality; however, not mentally, vocally

or sexually “already”. Despite using him as subject matter, (it’s his Birthday), the piece disregards him as Hero, saviour, teacher (note the lack of attention to sex) and the focus lies upon the female character, her agency, and, creative power.

This story is, in part, a light satire of the westernized ideal of a Woman; who is either angel or devil, who must perform a feminine, domesticized role which is often fantasised by the young girl, the consumer of art, the painter himself, the creator of art, the media and literature, who produce fairy tales, stereotypes and false representations of women, which reinforce hegemonic narratives of the submissive, domesticated woman and underline patriarchy. The speaker abandons these expectations and represents; not so straightforwardly her own individuality, consciousness, internal “no” saying, and an awareness of past generations and their influxes and influences upon her – the sardonic tone adopted echoes the astuteness of speaker, whilst also playing with incoherence.

Filled with deception and secrets, key reflections are exhibited throughout. Incorporating symbol and allegory is a technique of illumination… perhaps the role of a woman here is purely fantastical, a “fun” role to play however not a genuine or viable lifestyle choice. Some reflections used are the restaurant door, the second; (a pastiche) the painting, the third – the silver dish. The speaker deceives the reader through costume as she performs her role whilst remaining acutely aware of the past, the present and her plan of the future as it rigorously unfolds. Slowly leading to the truth through a fast paced, partially erratic yet subduing tone; the speaker is revealed at the end as the director of the performance, not a reflection of the painting.

2

THE OTHER SIDE