franzshooting 2 - Denis Laner

Day ain’t night denis Laner

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shooting â„–2 franzmagazine.com CULTURE ON WEB AND PAPER ottobre Oktober 2010

photo Denis Laner Cancer Girl a short story by Matt Wilding www.magpiepress.co.uk www.denislaner.com

Cancer Girl a short story by Matt Wilding

I first see her as I step out of the video store. I notice her instantly as there is something about her that is not quite right, something I can’t put my finger on, something that requires further investigation. She crosses the main road in the direction of the supermarket and I cross right after her. I don’t struggle to keep up, her movements are laboured, footsteps short and each one of her hollow breaths are taken with a struggle. She wears grossly oversized sunglasses, not particularly strange on a summer’s day, such as today, but she accessorises them with a headscarf wrapped tightly around her head. This strikes me as somewhat odd and sparks my curiosity to the point that I follow her into the supermarket.

She collects a trolley and leans on it

for support, the central bar seemingly carrying the full weight of her admittedly fragile frame, as she wheels it towards the fresh fruit section with great delicacy. I keep my distance, not wanting to arouse suspicion, but loiter close enough that I may stalk her inconspicuously. There is something so tragically frail about her every movement, like she has known the darkest times and experienced genuine struggle. It is this that compels me to observe her, for I am strange and I can’t ignore the inexplicable urges within me to know of her hardship and in turn understand it.

With an obvious discomfort she leaves the security of the trolley’s reassurance and leans somewhat awkwardly into a crate containing celery. She peruses with a great intensity the options on display, until finding a selection that takes her fancy. She holds the sticks of celery with skeletal thin fingers and checks them for quality and freshness.

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I notice that her hands shake and that her wrists fall limp under the slightest weight. In her fragility, with hunched back and ribcage on display, I understand her struggle and know her life. Oh chubby child and focus of ridicule, oh how you sought the control to suppress the casual urge of indulgence. Poor child, poor pretty child, what have you done to yourself?

We go on, ignoring aisle after aisle, slowly, slowly goes the anorexic shuffle.

I browse everything and feign disdain at price and quality here and there as I keep up the charade of casual shopper.

She does not notice me as I lurk in the background; the charade is for the benefit of all, who for all I know are in here to protect her.

She turns into aisle fourteen, where all the young parents come for tubs of this and that to keep little brat healthy.

Mother and father are very keen that little Jimmy has the healthiest tub on display, mother and father love little

Jimmy very much, but mother and father don’t notice that little Jimmy has dropped his dum dum and is about to spontaneously combust into tears at any moment. She approaches, her angular frame gliding somewhat as it comes to little Jimmy’s aid. I hear her bones creak from my vantage point as she bends down to retrieve said dum dum and replace it in its eager hole.

I watch as she provides affection and comfort to Jimmy in only the way a mother can and realise that I may have misjudged her. Sunglasses scan from left to right, bottom to top, as she seeks out something particular. She takes tub in hand and examines ingredients for baby must have the healthiest grub and she must do the best she can as father has never taken responsibility for his actions.

I admire her now, for she has put the child of her womb before her own happiness and indeed her own physical comfort. Since child was born she has

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not known a peaceful night, young mother has run herself into the ground and all in the name of love. I want to embrace her and tell her that she is doing a wonderful job, call her saint and bathe her swollen feet, but I am not done watching her yet. There is one final stop she has to make, her body can go on no longer and she must get back to the apple of her eye. On the bottom shelf, her favourite bottled water. With every grain of energy she can muster she takes this bottle in both hands but still it will not budge. She puts her hand to her head like an old film star to signal that she is in strife and as she raises her sunglasses to rub her blackened eyes, sunken above her apparent cheekbones. I see her for what she is, a poor girl in ill health and I make my way outside to wait for her.

Leant against the exterior wall I watch as she allows her shopping bag to fall helplessly to the ground before locking up her trolley and collecting precious

pound. I choose this moment to make my move and rush dashingly to her aid.

I insist on carrying her bag and I can see from the relief in her smile that she is grateful. We make our way slowly, at her pace as she shuffles each sickly step down the road. I keep my eye on her, in case her body and her will cave in sending her tumbling to the ground.

“I have cancer” she says so nonchalant and my heart beats wild frantic bursts of compassion as she tells me of her plight. Tears well in my eyes so forcefully that I must blink them away knowing that I must stay strong for her.

She stops abruptly and for a second I think that this may be it, this may be the end for her, a tragic death on this highway of passing cars and only a fool like me close enough to hold her as she leaves.

“How did I do?” she says a confusing smile bursting from her once sad mouth.

I don’t understand.

“The whole cancer thing...was I convincing?”

Are you some sort of actress?

“No, no,” she laughs, mocking me, “it’s the new celebrity craze don’t you know.”

What is?

“Cancer, it’s the new thing.”

The new thing?

She lists the name of the eighties heartthrob who has it in the lungs, the A list film star who has it in the throat, the seventies starlet who has it in the breast, the fading reality TV star who has it just about all over. She continues with the pop princess with cancer of the ovaries, the former boy band member who has it in the balls, the list goes on and on. She calls it the elite club. She says everyone is doing it. She says it is the in thing. She says it is the new fashion. She says it is fashionable to be sick. She’s sick alright, sick in the head.

She explains the how to guide or how to perfect what is the new look for this

season. A strict diet of baby food, celery and purified bottled water helps her maintain her gaunt physique. In terms of the look, headscarf and sunglasses are the in accessories, besides she lacks the conviction to shave her head and go bald for her vanity. Clothing should be purchased loose, preferably a size too large and pulled in hard at the waist to enhance discomfort when walking.

Pale concealer should be smothered thickly over the entire face with a subtle application of dark colouring just below the cheekbones and dark circles painted below the eyes.

She is very pleased with herself as she tells me this. But poor cancer stricken child if only you knew, if only you knew that I have my own idols, all the great murderers, the serial offenders, the famed assassins, the passion killers, the drunken punishers and the murderers of innocence.

This cancer girl repulses me. I have never been in the presence of someone

so vile and barren, so calculated and depraved. The vanity of her self destruction turns my stomach. The rage comes uncontrollable, seizing my opportunity I take her firmly by the wrist. She squeals slightly but my other hand is quickly up and over her mouth to silence her. She bites me, I don’t mind. I push her into the alleyway and force her designer cancer stricken body to the ground. I straddle her and feel around on the floor for something sharp or blunt, anything will do. My fingertips fall on a loose shard from the broken pavement and I smash her little bald skull in.

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