live. You realise that you are not doing well. You think of the anxious look your mother gives you whenever you come home and you remember, dimly, a time when you didn’t know that look. You realise that you should be trying harder. You’ve just been doing what they tell you and waiting for something to happen, because something always happens if you give it time. Eventually you decide it is time to talk. You say that whenever you are on your own you end up thinking the same way. You say you think about seeds and then you think about circles. A plant sprouts, then grows, its seeds are scattered and copies of it are made. It lasts. You think that you are growing now, but a time will come when you give part of yourself away and something new will take root. You will teach it what you know, but you have known fear and weakness and loss, and you do not want to share these things with something that has the hope of innocence. So you try to find new patterns. You count and you try to break the cycle by withdrawing. You think this will make you stronger. When you leave the surgery the clouds have started to gather, but the air is still and quiet. The city is muffled and a siren in the distance sounds like it comes from somewhere deep, like it is only half-real. You walk towards the high street and you don’t see anyone else, even though you are looking frequently to the left and right. Then you walk past the new flats and when you look back you see a face. Your heart tightens, ÉCLAT FICTION
27
MAY 2012