Whiskey Cult: Can You Survive The Demons?

By Dani Carlisle

Growing up, we all have our struggles. We all have our demons. Young adults and teenagers can juggle everything from adolescence, self-acceptance, coming out, mental health, addiction, and finding a place to feel truly at home in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Sep 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228835271

Dani Carlisle

I'm a non-binary parent, novelist and poet, passionate about changing the world and inspiring people around the globe.

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Whiskey Cult

Copyright © 2020 by Dani Carlisle

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-3526-4 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-3527-1 (eBook)

whiskey cult.

Trigger Content Warning:

• child abuse (physical, sexual, verbal)

• alcoholism

• drug abuse

• excessive language

• sexual assault/rape

• sexual content/infidelity

• eating disorders

• mental illness/depression

• self harm

• suicide/death

MAY

[i.]

My father always used to say that it’s impossible to be respected in this world until we stop demanding others to respect us. I remember him sitting me down at nine years old and explaining that there is not a single person in the world who is automatically entitled to your respect, that his fatherhood did not automatically entitle him to mine, and that everybody you met had to earn it. It was easy for him to say: my father was one of the most respected people in the city. So much so, in fact, that his funeral was attended by hundreds of people, most of whom I’d never met: my father the geneticist, the most likable man in the neighbourhood. He was on the verge of a ground-breaking discovery when he died. and since then, it’s been forgotten. Nobody even knows what it was he was working on, not even my mother, who knew everything.

As a child, I remember him wanting to use me as a subject, conduct science experiments: nothing dangerous, of course. As a kid I would have loved to participate, eager to spend time with my father, help him discover new things, but my mother never let me, she claimed it was dangerous, so he never did it. Sometimes I look through his laboratory, the only room in my mother’s house which nobody ever goes inside: the cold metal table, the test tubes sprawled across the notebooks upon notebooks of research. As a child, I always wondered how he knew so much, where he got that endless bound of knowledge in his brilliant head. My sister is a lot like him, in that way: driven and accomplished. Me, I’m just the dipshit son with nothing to show for myself. Not that my father would have agreed, of course. So aggravatingly optimistic, he was, and while I admired him, I’ve now come to realise that the man could be wrong, just like the rest of us.

A gift-wrapped box, purple, sits on the kitchen table. Next to it, a vase of flowers, a gift from one of my mother’s patients. Outside, it’s raining, slamming the windowsills so loudly it sounds pitiful. It rains a lot, and storms even more. I’ve always loved storms; see, they remind me of myself. Nobody is at Mom’s house, besides me, but I’ve got to get going. My mother’s house always gets me nostalgic: the dusty television in the basement I used to watch with my mates, the blood stains in the carpet of my old room, the family photograph on the wall by the front door, taken back when everything was perfect. I am ten years old, in the photograph; my sister, an infant. My mother keeps it up, the last family photo we have before my father died. I’m often told I look like him, and my sister, too. We all have the same dark hair, pale eyes, that smile that just curves up at the corner of our mouths. My mother sometimes tells me that when she looks at me, she thinks she’s looking at him.

Two days ago, I got out of prison. After twenty months behind bars, it’s good to be home. I burgled an outdoor, again. In a week, it’s my birthday. I’ll be nineteen.

My raincoat hangs from the hook by the door. I pull it on, take one last look at my childhood house, and shut the door. Fresh air makes me feel relaxed; it’s calming, in a way. There are piles of dirt dripping off the side of my car, my father’s old car, a red 1964 Aston Martin. There’s a big, jagged scratch down the side, from the time I drove into oncoming traffic and rolled the car down a ditch into a wooden fence. Mom always tells me to get it painted over, but I refuse. I got the window fixed, at least, shattered by the force. My mother worries too much. A drawing from my nine-year-old sister is hanging from my passenger seat visor, a drawing of her and I, holding hands. My tea has gotten cold in the cup holder, but I’ll drink it any road up, and after it’s gone, I’ll make another thermos to sit out and get cold. It’s quiet, except for the sound of rain pattering against my windows. The silence is torture, having to sit and be alone with my own thoughts. They’re drowned out by the rain and the mumble of my old, staticky radio. I begin to drive, one quick glance out the window as the house leaves my sight.

It’s raining, pounding on the roof and the road. I haven’t got an umbrella, and the jumper has no hood, but I haven’t parked far. The radio crackles as I get into the car. My stereo radio is turned up louder than I remember, loud enough to drown out the smacking of the rain against my door. Knoxdale is a public school for kids as young as eighteen months, as old as eighteen years. It’s where I went until I was eleven, and where my sister goes now. She is standing by the door when I arrive, underneath a brick covering, holding a copy of Watership Down tightly against her chest. She begins to walk, droplets falling from the end of her braided brown hair and splashing on the ground at her feet. The back door pops open, and Ellie peeks her head inside. ‘Somebody made fun of my freckles today.’ I hear the clicks of her booster seat, and the slamming of the door. ‘Does my face look weird?’

I turn the stereo down a little, start the car. ‘No, of course not.’

‘You know,’ there is a crinkle of paper from the back seat, ‘freckles are going to be a fashion statement one day. I’ll bet everyone will wish they had some. They’re just jealous that I do and they don’t.’

I glance at her in the rear-view mirror. She is wringing the bottom of her braid onto the floor, staring out the window at the street. ‘I reckon you’re right. How was school?’

A flipping of pages. ‘Good. I drew a picture of a guzgog in art class and Mary said she’d hang it up on the wall in her office. And I got a new sketchbook because mine is almost full.’

Ellie has been taking art classes for a few years now. Every day she comes home with something new, and Mom puts it into a scrapbook, or hangs it on the refrigerator, or takes it to the hospital and puts it on her desk. I’ve always assumed that Ellie will grow up to be a famous artist, or be featured in an art exhibit, or something successful. She’s the one with potential, and everybody knows it, though they pretend that it ain’t true, and swear that I’m destined for great things too.

‘That’s mint.’ I never know how to make conversation, or keep one going, or say anything remotely interesting in response to something someone else said. Ellie is silent, listening to the rain on the roof, flipping through her book.

At a red light, a greying man in a Bugatti stops next to us, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, the muffled sound of a base in the back, vibrating the sides of the car. Ellie looks up from her book, glances out the window to the man, watches him speed away the instant the light turns to green. Her pages ruffle once more, a casual tone floating up from the back of my car. ‘That man must have been having a midlife crisis. Mom says that happens to everybody.’

She’s tall, sprawled ungracefully in her booster seat. At nine years old, Ellie’s already the height of a twelve-year-old, and about as smart, too. She reads a lot, that’s the thing. I’ve never picked up a book in my life.

The rain has let up, now only a light trickle, dribbling pathetically down the car doors. In the front yard of my mother’s’ house, raindrops drip off flower petals, into a pile of mud pooling around their stems. Ellie jumps down onto the ground, shaking her head, sending a spray of water off the end of her braid. The spare key is underneath the doormat, where Mom always hides it. It’s not the best hiding spot, I don’t reckon, but she insists it’s the best one we’ve got. Ellie has already unlocked the door by the time I catch up. I find her mooching through the kitchen cupboards for a snap. ‘Can you help me with my maths homework, please, Bear?’ She looks at me briefly, pleading.

I am already sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the song writing notebook I keep in my backpack. I’m pretty rubbish at maths; rubbish, in fact, at school in general. How hard could my nine-year-old sister’s maths homework be? ‘I’ll look at it,’ I say. A notebook is flopped down on the table in front of me, covered in doodles, taking up the front cover. Ellie sits next to me, drops her face in her hands, watches over my shoulder as I scribble through the problems.

The grandfather clock in the sitting room is in the midst of its eighth chime when my mother walks in the door, tired and distracted, the way she always is when she gets home from the hospital. Her fingers are tight on the locket around her neck, the one she’s had since I was ten years old, a photograph of my father in its heart shaped frame, always draped around her neck. ‘Hi, Mom,’ Ellie says from the sitting room sofa, her eyes peering out over the pages of her book, ‘how was work?’

My mother has had the same job since I was five years old. It’s come in useful, the only real reason I have for still being alive. She is walking absently, back and forth, pacing the kitchen, completely oblivious to Ellie’s question and the fact that I’m here. I watch her for one more minute. ‘Mom.’

She startles, turning to look at us, finally realising I’m there. ‘Are you okay, Mom?’ Ellie asks, setting her book down on the edge of the table. ‘You’ve got a face as long as Livery Street. Did something happen at work?’

Mom’s hand is on her locket, again. I don’t think she realises, her subconscious habit, the same way that I pull my sleeves down over my wrists without even thinking about it. She sighs, sits across from me at the table, folds her arms over her stomach. ‘We lost somebody today.’ She speaks with detachment, the voice of somebody trying to hide their feelings. ‘A young man, around your age,’ her eyes flicker in my direction, ‘brought in by his mom, he’d overdosed on antidepressants, went into cardiac arrest. We tried to defibrillate him, more than once, with no success, he died shortly afterwards…’ My mother doesn’t often cry. She’s not easily rattled, or frustrated, always wearing a calm, patient mask. I’ve never even heard my mother yell. Now, her head is in her hands, staring downward at the tabletop, shaken.

Ellie moves to sit beside her, puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault, Mom. You can’t save everyone. You did everything you could.’ She is staring at me, waiting for agreement, and I’ve always been terrible at cheering people up.

‘Yeah,’ I say finally, unhelpfully, taking a seat on her other side.

Silence, for a moment. Mom looks up, meets my eyes, says softly, ‘It made me think of you. How close I was to having the same thing happen to me.’

I don’t know how to respond to things like this, besides feeling extraordinarily guilty, but that won’t solve anything. Mom has shifted her gaze to the table, again, given up speaking, and Ellie is watching me. She was four years old. ‘Mom,’ I reach for her hand, reciprocate her hug, meet Ellie’s eyes over her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’ For everything.

[ii.]

I’ll be the first one to admit that I know nothing; in fact, I am nothing. None of us are anything, besides blind followers of everybody else, consumed by the obsession to know what everybody else knows. Nobody knows anything. Existentially speaking. Entire lives are dedicated to figuring out how to live without knowing anything. Think about how vast the world is, and how tiny one single, little person is within that world. The only way to survive in the hugeness of the universe is to accept that none of us know anything. Some people think they know everything, but that’s bullshit. There is so much knowledge within one universe that it’s physically impossible to know all of it. Not to mention, so much is being discovered, so much that we don’t even know about. Survival is a game, impossible to win until you accept that it doesn’t matter, and stop trying to pretend it does. We’re all going to be extinct, one day, and then it won’t make a difference whether we accomplished nothing or everything, or whether we were famous, or loners, or if anybody gave a fuck.

I’ve never understood why people put so much effort into pretending to be just like everybody else, or demanding to take part in every superficial conversation, forced into small talk by their fixation of normality, or conformity, when really, none of us know what we’re talking about or what the hell is going on or how to survive comfortably amidst everybody else. I’ve always hated small talk. It’s all anyone talks about: things that happened that are not ground-breaking but still forced upon you as a subject of conversation, gossip about other people, what was for lunch, or what somebody posted on the internet, or a joke that’s circulating, because the only way to get along with other people is to pretend that everything is perfect all of the time. And it’s not, of course, and it’s stupid to assume it is, but the very thought of expression of negative emotion is such an intimidation that it’s forbidden, smothered under pseudo happiness until we fool ourselves into believing it doesn’t exist.

My bookshelf is littered with loose pages, well-read textbooks, a bag of half-smoked joints. In front of me, a philosophy textbook, arbitrarily opened, small print glaring up from the pages, face-up on my dresser. My forearm twinges, the fresh tattoo, gleaming and vivid, completing the rest of the sleeve. The computer screen blinks, flashing from the corner of the room, cords tangled against the floor. My laundry piles up, overflowing over the top of the basket, which I only use because my flatmate insists. The window is open, letting in a light breeze, airing out my bedroom. There is a folded piece of paper on top of the computer desk: a wedding invitation, my sister, an accountant, whom I rarely see, too disinterested in the monotony of her life. My arm twinges. I take one of the zoots from the bag on my dresser, open the window further, light up, blow smoke rings across the room.

There is a knock on the door. I inhale smoke, stride across the room to open the door, regard my flatmate with a look. ‘Are you bothered by the smell?’

Kyran looks at the zoot between my fingers, watches me flick ashes onto the carpeted floor. ‘I suppose you forgot about band practice.’ He’s got that tone to his voice, like a disappointed mother, the tone he puts on when someone is being exceptionally irresponsible. I let silence fall between us for a moment, take another hit. The truth is that I did forget, thought it was tomorrow, but it’s too late now.

‘You drive,’ I say, tossing the filter of my zoot into the ashtray on the windowsill. Kyran sighs, exasperated, walks out of my doorway. I can hear the jingle of my keys from the kitchen. Slamming shut my window, I follow.

When I was thirteen I fell in love with a boy, and my mother told me that I was confused. When I was fourteen I fell in love with a girl, and my mother told me to make up my mind. I told her she was being sardonic. My mother never understood me, never made the effort to, too obsessed with making her life seem perfect, uninterested in abandoning pretenses for even a single minute. When my eldest sister moved out, my mother took the opportunity to transform her room into an office, erasing all signs of habitation, or existence, to fulfill her workaholic whims. When I moved out, she had my room refurbished, made into an exercise room, because she won’t leave the computer desk, busy clicking, clicking, typing away on the keys like nothing else exists. My second sister always says we could replace ourselves with robots and our mother wouldn’t even notice.

It’s cloudy. The garden in the front lawn of the house is still wet from yesterday’s showers. The small river rushes, a peaceful sound, reminding me of nature. Kyran pulls up next to the curb, stops the car, follows me out. There is a lawn chair outside the car park, a bucket of chalk spilling out onto the driveway. Ellie is drawing, waves at me as I step past. A crinkled, half-read copy of Watership Down lies on a circular table, next to a glass ashtray. As always, the overhead door to the car park is open, strewn with instruments and amplifiers. My drum set, fiery orange, takes up the back corner. I go to stand at it. The cord for the amplifier is tangled on the ground. Kyran has picked up his bass guitar, and now strums it gently. Adam drums on the neck of his electric, blue Epiphone guitar. From the driveway, Ellie is singing, scribbling, fixated on her pink illustration.

The door closes, loudly. ‘Soz, lads, I was making tea.’ Finn is holding a travel mug, takes a sip, sets it down on the table next to his sister’s book. The red Gibson guitar is on its stand; he picks it up, slings it over his shoulder with one swift flip. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t envied him: expensive cars, electronics, brand name clothing, although I suppose if my parents were well-respected citizens who made thousands of pounds a year, they’d buy me expensive things, too. I suppose Ariana does it out of guilt, which is foolish, she’s got nothing to be guilty for, but there you have it.

Everybody is looking at me. I’ve only just noticed them talking, staring at me with expectancy or maybe irritation. I haven’t even sat down at the drum set, yet. Adam strums one of his strings. "We’re starting, Avery. Pick up your drumsticks.’ I do, everyone turns back to their instruments. Ellie disappears inside, clasping the book in her small hands.

Finn is always on about making an album. It’s this obsession he’s got: practicing, recording, releasing, as if we’ll ever get any attention. This whole band was his idea, and that was only as a distraction, a thing to do that didn’t involve hiding and cutting. Realistically speaking, the chances of discovery are slim to non-existent, and I’ve said that many times, and nobody listens. Look, somebody has got to be the cynic, and no one else is up for it. I’ve made a mental tally of the number of times somebody has told me to ‘be positive, don’t dwell on the negative.’ It’s codswallop, all this positive thinking bullshit. Telling me to be positive is not going to make me more inclined to do so; it will, though, make me more inclined to dislike you. Give me one example of one time that one person lived their entire lives without once having a negative thought. The idea is not to smother these negative thoughts under quasi optimism, but to confront them; that’s the only way to make them go away. And yet, most people are so offended by the thought that there are people who like to acknowledge the shithole that is life. It’s the reason I don’t trust therapists, with their spewing of positivity as if it’s the only solution. No, fuck that.

When I was fifteen, my eldest sister took me to see a shrink. I’d been questioning my sexuality for quite some time; she insisted the only way to get an answer was to thrust my confusion upon a professional and live my life according to their opinion. It was as if my feelings were invalidated by the fact that I was not quite completely certain, about one thing, and almost too certain about everything else. No, Penelope insisted, this person will know the answer. This stranger, with no bearing on your life whatsoever, they’ll be able to tell you how you feel, because you’re obviously too young to figure it out by yourself. She meant well. I wasn’t always a cynical arsehole. It was the first - and for the record, last - time I went to see a shrink: this puny, impersonal, fakely happy person claiming to have everything figured out. So my detestment of therapy programs and therapists themselves was reinforced by that experience, if nothing else. The only way to deal with feeling shitty is to accept the fact that you feel shitty, and go from there. Drowning it underneath a delusion of happiness will only make things worse. Take from that what you will.

In one of these songs I’ve got a drum solo. I don’t like reading notes, making everything the same every time; it’s much more fun to make up a new rhythm every time, and nobody has said anything about it yet, and even if they did, it’s my solo, and I mean it’s not like I’m cocking up the song completely.

I want to blame my tangents on the weed. The truth is I’d go off either way.

There is a screech, feedback from the guitar. Ellie always says it’s annoying noise. Finn claims she doesn’t understand music. I don’t care either way, it’s a silly thing to make a big deal about, a sound that an instrument makes. Of course, I’m not the one who gets to make the big decisions. Outside the car park, Ellie is scribbling again. I call it scribbling, but it’s really art, like a lot of scribbles these days, and I’ll never understand it. Her long, elaborate green line stretches from one edge of the driveway to the other, overlapped, intertwined with designs. Her sketchbook is open on the grass beside her: wrinkled, well-used. On a piece of paper, Finn too is scribbling, tapping a pencil on the wooden music stand, squinting the way he does when he gets intensely focused on something. I’ve often grizzled about the lengthiness of the song writing process, but I suppose it’s good to have a perfectionist making sure shit gets done properly. None of the rest of us are going to do it.

‘This is not good enough.’ Folding up the paper into a tiny square, Finn looks round at us. ‘I’ve got to redo it.’ He’s got a notebook, divided into sections: one section for scribbling, planning, brainstorming, the other for final drafts, separated by colourful sticky notes. Finn’s got these obsessions, like OCD, but without the rituals, is the way we’ve all explained it. Of course, if anyone asked him, he’d swear there was nothing wrong with the way he does things: I just like things to be orderly, he insists, after spending six hours on the same song, or waking up at five o’clock to scrub the flat from front to back. Orderly. That’s one word for it.

The door opens, Ariana pokes her head inside. ‘Is anyone hungry? I’ve made tea.’ I could use crisps more than fittle, but sustenance is sustenance, so I ain’t aggin’. Ariana’s frizzy brown hair sways from side to side as she walks. She’s quite short, podgy; I’ve seen her get harassed about it, and I won’t stand for it.

Ellie stands against the kitchen wall, watching us, Finn tousles her pig-tailed hair, she beams, taking a seat at the table. My mother rarely cooks, she’s always too busy poring over her business plans, pitching ideas to her workers. Even when I lived with her, family dinners were virtually non-existent; except for holiday get-togethers, my sisters and I usually figured out our own meals. My father took us out, sometimes. He and my mother are divorced, see, they have been since I was fifteen years old, torn apart by my mother’s compulsivity, the importance she associates to her work. My mother the entrepreneur. Nothing matters more than how much money comes out of a business deal.

I sit at the far end of the table. ‘Thank you for tea.’ I poke a potato with the teeth of my fork. A gust of steam escapes. I’ve often wished Ariana were my mother; I think we all have, but she’s as good as.

Now she smiles at me, kindly, the way she smiles at everyone. ‘You’re quite welcome, dear.’

Ariana’s house is always neat and tidy, even though she works late hours and leaves early in the morning. Everything is always in place: no dishes on the counter, no rubbish lying around anywhere. It’s a stark contrast to my childhood home, and my flat now, for that matter. I’ve just never seen the point in trying to keep everything perfectly tidy all the time. Why go out of your way to make your house look like nobody lives in it? It’s a silly thing some people do, using over-the-top cleanliness to impress other people, and put on an appearance of put-togetherness, when really everybody knows that nobody is that neat and tidy when they’re at home by themselves, living in filth. It’s just pretend, really; humans get their validation from the opinions of others. We have to be liked in order to feel good about ourselves, and that’s rubbish, and nobody should give a fuck what anyone else thinks about them. Our jobs are not to impress other people. We are not entertainers of each other, and it’s stupid to filter everything we say so as not to offend someone, or to pretend that all that matters is how we’re perceived by everybody else.

Ellie has handed me a glass of water. I down the entire thing in one big gulp, stand up, set it on the counter. Tea conversation is in full swing, stories about what happened at work or what somebody did at school. It’s mostly all supremely uninteresting, but I listen, and don’t take part. It’s been a few hours, my high is wearing off, leaving me fully alert to what’s going on. Adam and Finn have finished eating, sit in the sitting room, talking about football or girls or whatever else they talk about. Ellie is doodling again. Ariana begins to clear off the table, pack away remaining fittle in airtight containers, and I can’t let her do it all on her own, I’ve got to help, it’s an obligation, as a guest in her home, but she’s always so insistent that it’s not our obligation at all.

‘Oi, Mom, go sit down, we’ll do the rest.’ Finn is beside me, filling a sink with water, scraping off plates. I’m not surprised, such typicality, offering to help in every situation, and I’ve told him time and time again that altruists won’t survive in this world. It’s full of self-serving people, a population of creatures only after their own interests, using each other as means to ends. Looking out for yourself is the only way to get ahead in life. That’s not to say I never give a shit about anybody else. I’m selective, I do things that will benefit me, and other people can worry about themselves. It is not our job as humans to make sure everybody else is taken care of - unless we’re responsible for them, like our children or elderly parents. You’ve got to think about what’s best for you in the long run, if you want to thrive instead of finding yourself destroyed by humanity.

In the sitting room, Ellie is buried in her book, halfway through, feet curled up under her on the sofa. I wish I’d have brought my own book so I could join her, I’m envious of her dismissal of socialisation. I’m not much of a social butterfly, myself, actually people have told me many times that I should talk more, but there’s really no point in talking if you’re just doing it to fill the silence. Most people find silence intimidating, a thing to be avoided at all costs, God forbid getting trapped alone with your own thoughts! So small talk becomes a popularity, a coping mechanism, the only way to avoid being forced to acknowledge your own thoughts. I’m a big fan of silence, myself. It’s relaxing, helpful to let your brain run its course, stop trying to control the thoughts in your head. What you’ve got to do is sift through them, figure out why you think the things you do, understand then how you can use these thoughts to apply to yourself. Self-improvement, if you will. Shutting off the parts of your brain you don’t want to listen to is a detriment, you can’t control what your brain thinks, eventually all of it will burst out of you and there will be no way to stop it. Small talk is a cheap substitute for isolation, and so is television, or staring at a screen so you don’t have to be alone with yourself. Committing brain death is the solution, only it’s not really, it’s just easier than dealing with your shitty life or accepting the fact that you don’t have it all together.

Everyone has gathered in the sitting room, gossiping, exchanging daily news, as if our lives are interesting enough for that to mean anything. Ellie sets her book facedown on the coffee table, bookmark sticking out the top, three-quarters of the way to the end. I’ve read Watership Down, when I was younger, it seems a bit advanced for a nine-year-old, but Ellie is exceptionally smart for her age, even though to add for her age on the end is stupid and means nothing. Ellie is exceptionally smart. Age has nothing to do with it. It’s silly to use age as an excuse for a person’s mental abilities. A child can be smarter than an adult, easy, I’ve seen it happen loads of times. To say someone is smart ‘for their age’ is like saying ‘oi, you’re pretty ace, for a girl!’ although maybe it’s not exactly the same thing, but you get the point. The point is that it’s silly.

It’s raining, again. I am a misanthrope.

JUNE

[i.]

Willow flicks her mane at me, grazing the side of my head. I pet her head, scratching behind her ears. ‘Hey, girl. Should we go for a ride?’ She nuzzles her head into my hand as I grab her saddle and girth and attach them to her. Once they’re attached, I set up her stirrups and hop on her back, eager to get some training in. A beautiful white Arabian, Willow’s the newest addition to the family, and the youngest of all my horses, which means she’s also got the least training. But I’m working on her, and slowly, she’s making progress. I pull the reins to the left, and Willow goes right; why, I don’t know. Most horses, even babies, would know to walk in the same direction the reigns are pulled, but I guess Willow is a different kind of special. ‘No, left, Willow!’ I sigh, ‘You’re supposed to go left! Why is that so hard?’ She neighs indignantly at me, and I pat her head. ‘It’s alright, you’ll get it. Someday.’ I begin to walk her again, breaking out into a sprint. Let’s try this again. ‘Left!’ I announce, pulling the left reign, and Willow goes left. Surprised, I stop her, and lean down to hug her head- or as much as I can reach. ‘Good girl,’ I coo, and she swings her tail back and forth. ‘You’re finally getting the hang of it.’

I jump down and walk her back to the stable, where my other two horses are located. There is a stack of hay next to the door, which I pull a piece from and hold out to Willow by way of praise. She munches it back and lets me lead her back to her stall and shut the gate behind her. ‘See you later!’ I call to the three of them, heading back to the tack shed to hang up Willow’s equipment. Out of the three horses, only one is fully trained. Storm, a thoroughbred, is the eldest, and the most experienced. He’s the one who takes on the inexperienced riders. Then there’s Lightning, a Mountain Pleasure Horse, in the middle. He’s partially trained but very finicky, and he’s got a mind of his own. Half the time he just does as he fancies regardless of what he’s told to do. He’s very stubborn, Lightning is. That’s the difference between him and Willow. He knows what to do, but chooses to do otherwise. I like to call him the Untrainable Horse, but really, he’s just an arsehole.

When I’m finished with the horses, I leave some food down for the pigs and chickens, and go to pet the sheep, and it’s still only 3:00. There’s really not much to do at my house besides ride the horses and stack hay. I live on a farm in the middle of the countryside in Devon, and I’ve got no siblings, so it’s really rather boring most of the time. Well, most of the time I’m at Starhearst, but it’s Easter break so I’ve got a week off. Our farm dog, Dexter, lounges in the cool grass, tail wagging as I sit next to him. I could sit and give him belly rubs forever, the big cuddler, I’ve always loved dogs. In the grass, underneath the sun, he falls asleep.

When my parents got married, my dad built a wooden swing in the backyard for my mother. It creaks a bit, now, but I still enjoy spending time swinging in the sun. The problem is that it’s so isolated out here, and I hate being alone. Mum sits inside, today, grading her primary students’ most recent assignments. I could never be a teacher. I haven’t got the compassion that my mum has, and besides, I’ve never liked children. Mum claims the day will come when I change my mind, but I disagree. In my lap, my phone has begun to ring; shrill and unexpected, it startles me. As I step inside, Mum waves at me, looking up from her piles of paper as I walk down the fourteen wooden steps to my bedroom.

‘Hey, babe.’ The door clicks as I shut it; my room is cold, as it usually is. Mine is the only bedroom in the basement, which means I usually get the floor to myself: the sitting room, a washroom, the laundry room, and a long hallway. On the shelf above my bed, a canister of peanuts I’ve nearly finished. I haven’t made my bed, but I rarely do, and shuffle through the mess on the floor to lie across my bed. ‘What’s up?’

Cleo speaks loudly, over the background noise of what seems to be music, and I remember her foster father is very fond of loud music. ‘Get dressed and wait outside for me and we’ll go somewhere fun and find cute people to flirt with.’ She speaks mischievously, probably grinning to herself, ‘And afterwards you’re staying overnight at mine. I’ve already asked Gabriel. Pack up your shit, bitch.’

‘Wow.’ There’s an empty water bottle on the floor in front of me. I kick it underneath the bed. ‘Fine then. I’ll change. Ring me when you’re almost here.’ The metal pole in my wardrobe is crooked, clothes hang sideways, some dragging on the floor. Last week my mother bought me a long, hooded, plaid shirt, which I pull on over top of some black leggings, and then begin to shove clothing from the floor into a small bag. An overhead lamp hangs above my bed; a line of photos takes up half the wall. On my last birthday Cleo bought me a rainbow flag, which hangs above my headboard. I can hear Mum walking around upstairs and wonder if she’s about to get started on tea.

The grandfather clock in the dining room is ringing whilst Mum rummages in the kitchen. ‘You look nice.’ She glances at my outfit, the two braids down either side of my head. ‘Have you got a boyfriend or a girlfriend I don’t know about?’

I love my mother. We’ve got no secrets, she and I. It’s the type of relationship most people can only dream of having. ‘No, Mum,’ I begin to wash the cucumbers she’s gathered on the counter; straight from my father’s garden, these are. We rarely buy produce; he grows all of it himself. ‘I promise I’ll let you know when I do, though.’ She looks appeased, lining up some carrots for me to wash. ‘Is it alright if I sleep over at Cleo’s tonight? She’ll come pick me up.’ I haven’t really got to ask. Mum lets me do anything I want, mostly, so I’m expecting the nod she gives me, and kiss her cheek. ‘Thanks.’

My best friend lives forty-five minutes from me. It’s quite fun living on a farm, but it has its disadvantages. Living in the middle of nowhere means that I’m thirty minutes away from the nearest city, and I haven’t got a car; I’ve got nowhere to go, but still it would be nice. Really the farmhouse hasn’t even got a proper address. Mum chops the vegetables, sets them in bowls on the table, sits back down with a sigh. ‘I’ve got so much marking to do. My kids are expecting these back after break. Maybe I’ll take the papers outside to mark.’

‘Good idea,’ I say, and take a carrot stick.

Dexter waits on the deck, wagging his long tail until I scratch behind his ears. I’ve always been Dexter’s favourite, he’s quite attached to me, but technically he is my father’s dog. Mum takes a seat at the picnic table next to Dad’s garage. I sit in the grass with my bag at my side and watch her rummage through the papers. A car is driving up the gravel road to the property line. Cleo parks her car at the edge of the driveway, sweeps her curly hair over one shoulder, steps into the gravel road. ‘Hi, babe.’ She waves at me, glances at my mother, focused on the papers in front of her. ‘Hi, Olivia. Lots of marking to do?’

Mum holds a red pen, jotting something down on one of the papers, flipping it over. ‘I’m nearly done now. Hi, Cleo, are you girls leaving?’

The bowl of carrot sticks sits in the middle of the table. I take one, crunching whilst I give my mother a quick hug, swinging my small bag over my shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow, Mum. Tell Dad I said bye when he gets home.’ Cleo begins to babble the instant we’re settled in her car; she eats Maltesers from a bag hiding in the cup holder. Cleo’s had a sweet tooth since forever, but me, I’m more a vegetable person, I don’t remember the last time I ate a sweet, even. Cleo’s trying to speak to me through a big mouthful of Maltesers, turning her radio up all the way and dancing in her seat. The sun beats down on my head, the open sunroof lets in a tiny breeze. ‘Did you have plans for tonight, or what?’ I lean back, cross my feet across Cleo’s front dash; I’m short enough that it isn’t much of a stretch. ‘I’ve packed really cute outfits in case we’re going anywhere.’

A block away from Cleo’s house, there’s the neighbourhood gay bar. She’s been saying she’ll check it out as soon as she turns eighteen, and I’ve been saying she’d better not go without me. Sometimes I do wish we lived nearer each other; I go to Plymouth quite often with my mum or with Cleo, but it’s not really the same. Her tyres crunch on the gravel roads, the radio cuts out a bit. ‘I told you. We’re going out to flirt, later. I saw the most gorgeous girl the other day, she works at the mall, sometimes I go there just to see her.’ With a wistful sigh, she pops another handful of Maltesers into her mouth.

Cleo has always been a romantic. The thing is, flirting with girls is confusing sometimes; I mean, a cute girl could say something flirty, but mean it to be friendly, and telling the difference is just about impossible. Sometimes we joke about just dating each other, and I have considered it. Out my window, the cows in the pasture stand round, eating grass. ‘Girls are so complicated,’ I shrug, adjusting the hair band at the end of my braid.

Fingers tapping on the steering wheel, Cleo shoots me a look. ‘Yesterday a guy hit on me at work and when I told him I’m gay, he insisted I just hadn’t met the right man yet, and then offered to ‘take me home and change my mind’. I should just start handing out cards that say, ‘sorry, I’m a raging lesbian.’ Her hair is sliding into her face, she tosses it over her shoulder with a quick flick of her head.

‘Ugh.’ We turn onto a paved road, a motorway of sorts. ‘Men can’t even pleasure the women who are counting on them, and they think they can turn a lesbian straight.’ Cleo is laughing, eating the last of her Maltesers and crumpling up the bag. ‘Some guys are extremely cute, though.’

The radio starts up again, there’s never any reception in the countryside. Cleo turns down the volume a tad. ‘Yeah, they’re cute, but I don’t want to fuck them.’ A heavier breeze drifts into the sunroof, waving Cleo’s hair around her face; she shuts the roof, combs the fingers of one hand through her waves whilst driving. She’s stunning. I don’t know why she has such trouble getting dates. She’s taller than me, but almost everybody is.

On the front dash, there is a small flower; it was gifted to Cleo by her foster mother, Evie. She’s a nice woman, Evie is. I do wish Cleo had been able to meet her earlier. With the radio playing, and the sun glaring down on the top of the car, we drive the rest of the journey and pull up in front of Cleo’s house. She’s lived here for nearly a year, and constantly says it’s the best thing that ever happened to her. I agree. I remember her moving in here eight months ago, after weeks of staying with my parents and I, weeks of the social worker coming over to talk to her, I remember her crying in my room in the early morning because they’d finally found somebody to take her in. Don’t get me wrong, Mum and Dad would have adopted her; they’ve told me so, if worse came to worst. After six years of knowing her, she’s like a sister to me already, anyway.

It’s noisy, as always; Gabriel’s stereo in the sitting room always has something new playing. Cleo hangs her cardigan on the hook inside the door; Evie sits in the kitchen and gives us both warm smiles as we approach. ‘Hey, Evie,’ I say, as she hugs me, ‘thanks for letting me come over.’ From the sitting room, Gabriel nods, acknowledging us, enjoying his music too much to come and say hello.

Cleo drops her handbag on a kitchen chair, and heads to the refrigerator; she’s always got a stash of soda in there. ‘Come on,’ she slides across the floor in her stocking feet, and runs down the hallway; her bedroom is at the end, we’ve often sat and watched films late into the night, complaining about boys and daydreaming about girls, or ranting about life, or just having a good time. Now, she pulls a film from the shelf on her nightstand, and I sprawl across her bed with my feet up against the wall and my head hanging over the side, watching her. ‘When it gets dark,’ she says, ‘we’ll go for a drive round the city.’ She grins, flopping onto the bed beside me, snuggling her head into my neck. It reminds me of Lottie, the way she used to cuddle up to me, the way she always smelled of apples and cinnamon, her hair falling into my face. But Cleo isn’t Lottie. Anyway that was so long ago I’m surprised I’m thinking about it now. I do hope I see her again sometime, though.

She’s chosen quite a long film; it’s beginning to get dark by the time it ends. Gabriel has shut his music off; from the end of the hallway, I can see he and Evie watching something on the television, her curled up into his side, hands touching. I’m only sixteen. I have years to meet somebody, years to fall in love. Even so, I’m not sure why I feel I’m missing out. The floor creaks a little as Cleo walks. She scoops her handbag from the kitchen chair, grabs her car keys from the counter, shoots me a wink whilst pulling on her jacket. ‘Let’s go!’ She’s always enthusiastic. So am I: eager, excited, I tug on my trainers and follow her outside.

In the centre of the city, there is a water fountain; Cleo parks there, we sit on the edge for a while. I’ve never liked the dark; even at home, I still sleep with a night light under my bed, but Cleo loves the darkness, and holds onto my arm, staying close. Even underneath the dim light of the streetlamps, I’m fearful, on edge, Mum says I’ll grow out of my fear of the dark, but I’m not sure that’s true. Besides, it’s strange walking outside at night. I’ve never done it before, really, except for the occasional starlit walk to the backyard at the farm. it’s different in a populated area, a public place, I’m not sure I much like it. It’s chilly outside, a breeze tousling my hair. There is a nightclub nearby, a light pulsating inside the windows, a heavy beat busting through the walls. Cleo stares wistfully in the direction of the building. ‘I can’t wait until I’m old enough to get inside. I bet all the cute girls in the city go there.’

Something bumps; down the street, a man yells. My grip on Cleo’s arm tightens. ‘I don’t like this. Let’s get back in your car, we can just drive for a bit and see if we notice anybody.’ I suppose the dark is a tiny bit less frightening when I’m not alone, but it’s still not somewhere I enjoy being. I feel safer in the car, tugging Cleo back towards it, she begins to drive again. ‘It’s only ten o’clock,’ I point out, jabbing a finger at the luminescent clock on her radio, ‘Should we try the community playground? I know loads of teenagers hang out there after dark.’

‘Wait.’ We’re slowing down, Cleo stares out the window, ‘there’s loads of neighbourhood lights here! I want to go sit out in the grass for a bit. C’mon. There’s other people over there, too.’ My mother always tells me it’s dangerous to walk after dark by myself. I suppose it’s just an instinctual thing to be afraid, even if there are other, older people here. Cleo takes my hand, turning on the torch light on her phone, holding it in front of us as we walk. There is a playground nearby, a group of people huddled together: laughing, telling stories. I wonder if they’d mind if we joined in. ‘Look,’ Cleo says, sudden, pointing down the sidewalk in front of us.

Underneath the streetlamp, somebody wanders back and forth: a boy, alone, and looking confused, squinting when we get closer. Cleo wiggles her eyebrows at me. ‘Hey, come on, let’s go see if he’s lost, he looks quite drunk, and it’s late.’

I’m not sure that’s a good idea. ‘That sounds unsafe.’ I pull my light jacket tightly around my shoulders. ‘Maybe we should just go back to your house, I don’t like the dark.’

Cleo’s already stopping, swinging her door open. ‘Come on. It’s very brightly lit up over here, and there’s a huge crowd of people nearby. Nothing will happen. I just want to make sure this guy doesn’t wander into traffic or something. Come on, he’s cute, don’t you think?’ I suppose she’s right, and follow, making sure to observe my surroundings closely. ‘Hey,’ she says, soft, calm, close enough to the boy to be heard, but far enough to remain out of reach, ‘are you lost? You look a bit lost.’

The boy has sat down on the sidewalk, and watches us carefully, tapping buttons on a mobile phone. ‘I can’t find my hotel.’ He shrugs, holding the phone up to one ear, mumbling into the speaker. ‘I just went for a walk and now I can’t find my way back, fuck, I don’t even live here.’ I thought this would be a bad idea, but I’m not worried much anymore, and walk closer, taking a seat next to the boy on the sidewalk. I suppose he’s at least eighteen, old enough to be served alcohol; eyes unfocused, he pores over my face. ‘Hey, you’re cute, stranger.’

A round of laughter comes from the playground down the road. Cleo has come to sit on the boy’s other side, smirking at me, that smug way she does sometimes. This is quite a peculiar way to meet somebody. ‘Thanks, stranger. You’re cute, too. Did you say you’re looking for your hotel?’

It’s getting colder, the boy has begun to shiver, and mumbles some more, although not to me. ‘But where the fuck am I? Oh, shit, it’s dark, and cold, I’ve got to ring Adam, I wish he weren’t so far away… oi, stranger!’ He seems to have just remembered I’m here, and inches the slightest bit closer. I should move away, but I’d rather not. My mother would say I need to make smarter decisions. ‘Can you help me find my hotel?’ He looks tired, more tired than I’ve seen anybody look in a long time, staring, head leaning back against the brick wall behind us. I can barely understand that accent, sounds midwestern, but what do I know?

Down the street, the crowd of people has begun to disperse. Cleo is typing on her phone, a streak of light on her dark face. ‘What’s the name of your hotel? I’ve got a car…’ Her eyes flicker up to mine, a quizzical look, I shrug one shoulder, she knows what I’m thinking, ‘or we could call you a taxi, but you should get home.’

He didn’t know she was there, judging by the quick turn. ‘I’m tired. I want to call my mom.’ As I fold my legs up to my chest, his head begins to slide sideways down the wall, and plops onto my shoulder. Cleo is wiggling her eyebrows at me, teasing; she’s ridiculous, sometimes. ‘What’s your name?’

In my handbag, there is a pen and a small notebook I usually use to write down my tasks for the day. I admit I’d never remember them otherwise. As I dig through the bag to look, Cleo stands, holding her phone to her ear. ‘I’m Addie,’ I tell the boy, using the sidewalk in front of me to scribble down my name, phone number and a short message: just in case. ‘What’s your name? My friend is calling you a taxi to take you back to your hotel; you stay there for the rest of the night, alright?’

This boy has the deepest green eyes, such an intense gaze my face feels as though it’s burning. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He laughs a little. ‘I’m Finn, and you’re fucking cute, do you want to go on a date?’ Cleo is listening, excited, shooting pointed glances at me. I wish she’d calm the hell down.

My legs are beginning to fall asleep, and so I stand, and hold out the piece of paper. ‘Here. Text me when you get back to your room, okay. And get some sleep, mister, you look exhausted.’ Headlights approach from the end of the road, a taxi appears in front of the place where we stand. Finn takes the paper that I hold out, stuffs it into a pocket, and climbs into the front seat of the taxi. ‘Please don’t lose that paper.’ I don’t know why it’s so important to me. Cleo is clapping her hands: the rapid, overzealous kind of clapping that results from excitement. ‘Shut up,’ I say, grinning, following her back to the car. It’s late, I want to curl up underneath the down blanket in Cleo’s sitting room.

She laughs as we begin to drive away. ‘Aren’t you glad I stopped the car to check up on him, huh? You’re welcome.’ She does an awkward bow, twirling a hand through the air, and pokes me in the ribs. ‘Are you going to go on a date? Wouldn’t that be the cutest thing? Imagine the stories you’ll tell your children!’

‘Alright,’ I shoot a look at her across the car, ‘you’re being silly. Probably nothing will even happen, we live in different cities, and you know I hate children, will you relax?’ Cleo turns the radio up, looking at me long enough to wink before taking us home.

[ii.]

When I wake up, there is a note on the nightstand, and a pile of clothing on the floor. My hotel room bed is hard and cold, it makes my back and shoulders sore. The piece of paper on the nightstand is folded crookedly: written on it, a name, phone number, I don’t even remember meeting anybody. My head hurts, a little. In my phone, messages I don’t remember sending, to the number written on the paper. I reckon I should meet the girl properly, whilst I’m still in this city. It’s raining outside. A puddle of water pools on the top of the table on the hotel balcony, and down in the car park. I need some water. My mother left a bottle on my kitchen counter last time she came to visit: something about how I don’t drink enough. I might drink more if it weren’t so bland and tasteless. Usually I just put vodka into water bottles and tell my mother it’s water. She doesn’t question. A travel mug sits on the television stand, a tiny bit of tea left over from yesterday, and a vodka bottle lies beside it. I fell asleep wearing the jumper I nicked from Adam, although it’s possible he may have nicked it from me first.

Once, right before I turned ten, I went out walking with my father, Adam, and my babby sister, who slept in a pram. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew my father, he’d often stop to talk to them whilst we were out walking or happened to bump into them. The thing about my dad was that he was always extraordinarily likeable without putting any effort into being that way: the kind of charisma that Adam oozes and I envy. On this day, it was sunny, Ellie wore a tiny pink dress, two months old, a head full of fuzzy brown hair. My father let me push her to the playground near our house, and we played football whilst she slept.

My dad had brought a picnic lunch, which he opened and spread out on a blanket in the grass. I held Ellie in my lap, she suckled from the bottle my mother had packed for her, that tiny hand wrapped around my thumb. Afterwards, she fell asleep, cradled into my chest; I’ll admit I always loved having her sleep on me, giving her bottles, carrying her around. My mother always says I’m overly sentimental.

I’ve got a date today, with a girl I don’t remember meeting, but have talked to long enough. My mother says I’ve got to cut back on my drinking, I’ve been getting pissed since I was fifteen, it’s hardly a problem. On the south side of the city, there’s an aquarium; I’ve never been, but this girl called Addie says she wants to go. Shit, it’s been years since I’ve been on a date, mostly it’s just been hookups and never seeing each other again. I’ve always thought that to be best, prevents people getting too close to me. Adam does hookups for fun, I do them because it’s safer than getting too attached, and I’ve always done that far too easily.

With a sigh, I head to my car. I’ve got my tea in a travel mug, a bit of whiskey mixed in with it, and the address open on the screen of my phone. Why am I so nervous? It’s a long drive, forty minutes or so, still barely long enough for me to prepare, and then I’m parked in the driveway of a big farmhouse. There are wammals everywhere, a guzgog lies across the gazebo in the grass, my allergies are acting up already. I straighten out my jumper, tugging the sleeves all the way down my arms, leaving my tea in the seat to walk up to the door, at which I take a deep breath and knock.

A woman answers it, and smiles at me. ‘Hello! You must be Finn. Addie will be down in a minute; come in.’ She’s very friendly, reminds me a bit of my mom, although that does nothing to ease my nervousness. I’m fairly undateable, I reckon, I haven’t forgotten what my last girlfriend said to me, and that was five years ago, nearly.

I return her smile, step inside, make casual small talk until the girl called Addie appears at the end of the hall. She’s beaming at me, wearing a sundress and a braid. She’s really pretty, shit, I don’t think I was expecting that. My head pounds, and I don’t think it’s from the booze. Addie smiles, she looks a lot like Clementine, and I haven’t got a clue why that thought has just come into my head. ‘Hey, stranger.’

Don’t stare at her. You’re being creepy.

I manage a smile back, and then let my eyes drift off her face, I’ve never quite figured out how to look at a person for more than five seconds. ‘Hi.’ Tell her she