Somewhere a bird sung, and below the bird its feet gripped what felt to it like life.

Love is beauty.

‘Why isn’t it love?’ I asked myself.

A bird sung outside.

A hedgehog. Startled, the fox sprung back. Its cub moaned from hunger.

It was night.

Sadness wouldn’t cover the loss. I tried my hardest to make that clear. She told me to forget it. I told her I loved her. Crying and angry, she slammed the door behind: ardent, fixed, focussed on her idea, an idealist, which is what I loved and loathed about her. I was relieved. And I turned my phone off to avoid any temptation to chase her with messages. Somewhere, though, she had done the same, so no difference.

I sat at home worrying, alone, sad though relieved, and I did so till this day. I’d go walking the streets wishing I’d bump into her. Yet she’d never stay close enough for that. I went in and out of other relationships. None of them were happy, all of them sensing my mind was elsewhere and one of them thinking I needed to ‘grow up’. Grow up, and past this shade I’d find happiness again, but once I found the sun here, and so I wait. So I never left the house. I took Vitamin D.

‘I lost you,’ she said at night as I drifted, in some garden and with a Christ-like tone. I’d run away from the thought eventually. The next day it had never happened, until that evening.

I hear it now every day and wish I’d gone back. ‘Bye.’ Age won’t rot this love.

The light was too much. ‘Turn it off,’ said Yvette.

Diane checked the closet door was locked then crouched next to her.

Head between her knees, Yvette asked: ‘What if he hears I’m tired?’

‘He’ll ask why... and then you’ll break down.’

‘You’re right.’

‘Stay strong.’

Yvette sighed. Her fingers dug into her forearms.

‘Don’t.’

‘Let me...’

Diane lifted Yvette’s head up in her hands. ‘I need you to be strong.’

Yvette closed her eyes.

‘Look at me, please.’

‘Diane...’ Yvette squeezed her eyes tighter. Splashing against her inner walls, the feelings wouldn’t die. ‘We killed him.’

‘Shh. Yvette.’ She gripped her arms. ‘Listen. Nobody will know.’

‘And I’ll live a lie... lamenting his loss...’

‘We’ll both...’

‘Diane?’ came a call from outside the closet.

‘I have to go. Are you...’ He stepped away. ‘Let me go. Clean yourself up,’ said Diane.

Diane left. Yvette sat in the closet feeling sick. Vomiting the truth up and washing it away: that would be the best outcome. But it was stuck in her. Stuck like a pin, holding her broken body together, fused with her bones. ‘It will be my meaning,’ she thought. ‘This endless nausea, this endless fatigue. I’ll live around this pin.’

‘No, no,’ I can feel my inner child wince as I call back to him. But he can’t really hear. I call at night back to where it began and imagine just eating the cake. Time, time. What are we to make of it? Regrets are all upstream and done, but they muddy all our currents. We’re all doomed, you know, not just me. I am your problem, yes, but we’re all in this same problem. Regretting. Where’ve you been pushed? You know where I’ve been pushed to... the destination wasn’t good, so I’m hated. Yours is acceptable, and you’re tolerated.

One way like a stream, not like the wind that adventures. But I’m getting distracted, I know. And you want the facts. I hated her. There we go. Release postponed! Motive clear! Back to the cell...

Blackbirds sung on the windowsill. I used to love the park. Oh don’t worry. I can see you are. Like a stream that follows, does what it’s told by the waters that rushed before: I ended up doing the same, yes. I know the world hates me for it. That’s why I’m telling this story. Don’t be hurt. You’ll want to hate me still if I say some more. Can I? I’ll never get anything back - I don’t expect it.

I pulled my arm back. My tummy grumbled. The kitchen was empty, though. It’s all that’s there. I reached back for the cake stand. In the living room, my mother tuned her guitar. Everything was almost ready. Just these final twangs. No, not quite right. Twang. Better. Twang. Good. And the next string. Twing. No. Twing. Still no. The knife hit the bottom of the cake stand. I paused waiting for another twing. Had she heard? Worried, I stared at the knife plunged deep into the cake. I pulled it out and ran to my room. ‘John!’ I heard her call. ‘Johnny...’ I hid under my bed with the blade. Creaking floorboards told me she was on her way, and there was nowhere to hide the knife, nor the currants and chocolate fudge streaked across it. I took to it with my tongue. Gently I scooped the pieces off.

I know you think I was an idiot, I could have cut myself etc. What would you have done, what does your inner child tell you? I know it was a long time ago that people saw you as a child. But your inner child... it sticks with you. It stuck with me. Stuck like the fudge stuck to my face.

In a panic, I tried to rub it into the carpet. That’s what she beat me for more than anything. I said sorry. She cried as she drew her shoe across my head. Again. Again. The knife, I thought, when the blood began to pour. Her party would have been ruined. Then I’d really deserve it. Kids don’t think these things through and it stresses the rest of us. I ran to the park and watched. Watched like you’re watching now. She was upset as she ran to the ambulance.

That’s the story I’m telling you. Is it the one you need?

‘No,’ said Susie.

‘Well then I’m going home!’ said Hannah.

‘It’s my birthday. Stay. You can be the patient.’

‘You don’t want that!’ said Hannah. ‘You’re just saying it.’

Susie blushed and handed over the bandages.

‘I can’t do it.’

‘Put your arm out.’ Susie wrapped up Hannah’s arm.

‘Hannah! What are you doing? I told you...’

‘Mom!’ Hannah struggled as her mum took the bandages off her.

‘Play another game, kids.’

‘My mom hates bandage games.’

‘Your mom hates games!’

‘No!’

‘Why do you always play the patient, Hannah?’

‘I asked Susie. I want to.’

‘I don’t trust Susie. You should be the doctor or nurse. You don’t want to be sick, again.’

‘It’s just a game, mommy.’

‘Mommy’s worried.’

I slipped the mask off and drew close to her. Somewhere, a nurse was caring for another patient, confident that I’d understood the rules. Somewhere, a manager floated the corridors and would blame the nurse for this transgression. Somewhere, an inspector reviews reports and prepares to admonish them all. But here, in this room, here those rules are like thin air. I rested my cheek on hers. She was warm, which scared me. Was this right? Meanwhile she lay there thinking... maybe... feeling... probably... hearing... hopefully. I couldn’t know, but I spoke, said whatever came out my mouth, but not what came to mind. Not ‘goodbye, I know you’re passing’. I wish I did. I’m crying. But you want to know what it was like for me then, not now. How can I relive that then, though, as it happened, without the lens of ‘now’? How can that past mean much except regret... Don’t get me wrong, sister, I am so grateful for those private moments. I know the jealousy thousands would feel at knowing I had them. I know I should be more grateful, but they weren’t perfect. So they’ll linger, and I’ll revisit the stories and my memories again and again. You’ll hear my stories again and again. You’ll hear them jumble and change. You’ll wonder what was then and what is new, fabricated - and so will I.

My regret’s broader than those moments, for which I’m thankful, I promise. I regret not knowing. Maybe if I knew she wouldn’t be scared, I would be honest. Maybe I could have mustered a goodbye rather than an update and a kiss.

Somewhere a nurse didn’t know I’d lowered my mask and lay my head on hers, kissed her cheek twice. Somewhere an official would lament my transgression. Inside, I lament the lost months before, when things could have been different, but for our leaders. We’re all living it now. We’ve all got our 2020 regrets. What are theirs?

I was coping, sure. But that’s where I went wrong. That’s why I turned.

The corporal didn’t know - his last moments were blissful, drunk - seventeen shots in. That’s how he coped. And it had left us all in the shit. We’d talk about telling someone. Next time we spotted anyone with a single stripe more we’d blurt it all out. Then he’d be a goner - or we would. Difficult to know whether speaking out works before you do it. Maybe they’ll punish you. As if the messenger’s the problem. Yeah, that’d be it.

He cracked his head when he fell from his chair. I’d hoped maybe that was him gone. But hope’s no good. I ended up disappointed when I creeped closer and he let out a huge snore. It frightened me, like a zombie. As if someone who has died will know all your secrets. As if he’d have seen the fantasising and seen the pistol loaded. Then I’d be in for it. But he was no zombie. He was alive and prepping for another day of shit, hungover decisions.

I returned to my seat. Nothing like a surprise to spoil a plan. I felt so uncertain all of a sudden. Lee will kill me if I don’t kill him. Then I’ll never see home. Then the promise will be broken. Denise would kill me all over again the moment she saw my coffin. My parents wouldn’t be able to cope. And I’d be there watching it all. No way to change any of it.

And he just lay there. Without any of this to think about. He’d coped with loss by leaving everyone behind, breaking off from them. He’d broken two women’s hearts and left three children fatherless. Wonder what they’d think, I thought, as I cocked the pistol and pointed it at his drooling mouth. They’d hate me, nonetheless. Maybe his snores would smother the gunshot.

We’d be without direction for a few days until someone came to work out what was going on. We’d have to scarper by then. We’d have to leave most stuff. Take a bit of food, maybe. Hal would get hungry. He always was. Maybe we’d have to leave him with the corporal and the others. Hal would know, though. Unfit, but hyper-sensitive. He’ll come with.

But here we are. I better do it. The boys can’t go on.

Corporal made a few jokes earlier about clueless generals. I wonder what they’d think about his loose mouth. Maybe they’d kill him. But we’d be suspects too. Sidelined. Broken up. He was making a serious point though. He felt he’d failed. But he thought that was the generals’ faults. So we sat around resenting them until we met another platoon passing through. Motivated, fit, well-fed. We felt all the shitter after that. Were we the worst they had? Corporal had to give us a pep talk. But he must have been nervous, because he was blind drunk giving it. We hardly understood him by the end, and all this sacrifice seemed to be for nothing.

That’s why we’re caught in this hole. Bastard. Because of you.

I stand and point harder at his sloppy jaw. It’ll be too loud. A pillow. But the pillows here are rocks. Shooting through a rock.

I put the gun away and step over to him. I hold my boot across his neck and press. His head rolls a bit. I have to readjust my foot. His voicebox slips. I readjust. I press. He begins to gargle. A sound outside. I press harder and draw my gun again. He’s not going. I take my boot away and hide in the corner. A soldier pops his head in. I stay still. He doesn’t see me. ‘Rob - come here!’ Another head pops in. ‘He’s a mess.’

‘Let’s get him into a bed.’

They come in. They’ll see me in a couple of seconds. I’ll shoot them. No. Their helmets. Too much of a gamble. I crouch to the floor and play drunk myself. They see me. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I play drunk. ‘You idiot. We’re marching tomorrow.’

Tomorrow. Will I have to act hungover? Maybe this is when...

I can’t remember, now, how I shot them both. The whole thing woke everyone up though. I was committed and finished the corporal off. Then Hal had to shoot the others that came to check. He was shaking after. I offered him a drink. He said he wasn’t thirsty, but he took the corporal’s rations. I said I wouldn’t tell, but the next day when they counted what we had, they said too much was missing and asked Hal why his bag was full. Rick almost shot him there. But I shot Rick.

Eating, drinking, shooting. Always coping at the expense of others. So long as somebody else was to blame, we had some purpose. But now it was me leading us out. It was all on me. I slept with my pistol at each stop on the way.

The invisible winds

That draw a lover’s eyes

Down to flood this desert inside,

Drink, drink, sand.

Freeze that stare,

As the water begins to bubble inside,

Feel that the trickle

trickling,

trickle,

drip

drop

Through your wordless pupils

Might in this stare tip you empty into me,

That I overflow into you, air

Into me

You into

Me into

You into

Two flooding waters

Indistinguishable,

Tipping,

Breathe.