We (and by we I mean Claire (the woman I swore (vow (we still vow, we still pledge ourselves, like honourable (‘honour you’, that’s a wedding vow (there’s that word (words hurt, she said (where did she say it? Was it in the park? (sunlight streaming through the branches by that willow (there were willows by my old school (I met Claire (first time (so many firsts, eroded (standing on the Devon cliffs (a first holiday, funded by pennies (God, we’ll need to divide (promising in front of an obsolete altar (you laughed when I said we should go to church, in case we had kids (the perennial question (how did we not talk about this? Surely we should have talked (we didn’t talk (I never talked (I don’t talk, my therapist (therapist not psychiatrist, that’s a firm line I draw (that’s another issue I have, apparently, drawing arbitrary lines in the sand (the pebble beach, scratty (one of her conjured words (words matter, she said over a coffee in Cambridge (when did we go to Cambridge? Why did we go to Cambridge? That’s gone (sitting for the first time alone on the bed (we bought that bed second hand (the first time we went to IKEA, so proud of being able to buy joint, new furniture, but we never did (despite the years (years gone, years faded, all chucked into a pile of memories (I read an article today that said all memories are constructs (so what do we remember? Seeing Claire in school for the first time, was that real? My mother’s (I should (lots of things I should be doing, instead of standing here (how did I get here? Who are all these people? I can’t recognise (I realised a few days ago that I can’t remember my father’s (a tall man (I’m short, not like him (I don’t even look like him according to the few photos (discovered one wet weekend a few years ago, nestled beneath the coffee table (I wonder if they bought that table together, so proud (he was (is? was? There’s a quiet horror (it was a horrible divorce, I remember that, screaming and hurled plates (I’ve a temper (another reason for Claire to leave (he left, my father, he went one day and that was the end of our relationship (we never had a good (not terrible not violent, but we never truly connected (bar a shared love (I say love, for him it was a deep burning passion while I simply enjoyed casually watching (tucked up on the old green (green was a colour between us – the colour of the countryside we lived in where he’d drag me (I wish I’d gone willingly, wish I’d walked with him knowing how little time (there’s such little time (my whole childhood with my father is nothing but a small book (like the mid-century book of tennis rules he found (I never (like so many (an endless list that stretches (my father stretching out his arms (before he was gone (my parents divorced (my father left me) when I was eleven) forever) for me as I jump over a creek) ever growing before me) things undone) found him) and gave me) of recollections) for us) we had before he vanished) on endless dog walks, Plymouth Argyle kit, his favourite coat) sofa) alongside him) of tennis) in the way fathers and sons are meant to) relationship, mind) in its entirety) in the end) too, like him I suppose, so maybe that’s what passed down) and lawyers, the whole nine yards) in that I’ve no idea) very houseproud, mother says) of buying joint furniture) I had ignored my whole childhood) my mother didn’t destroy), according to my mother with broad shoulders) face, not really) faces) with a glass in my hand gurning like an idiot) call her) face? My father’s smell? Are all these strong held things simply fabrications?) and I realised I was having a panic attack) and tourist tat) we didn’t do so many things) replace the bed) online) and the light was somehow greyer and stiller because she had gone) now, another memory that flickers but vanishes) as rain pounded the windows) that has stolen its way into my vocabulary) sand laced with rough stones that chip the sole) over issues without consulting others), the difference between casual help and medical attention) says, as a way of coping with potential past trauma), I don’t know why) enough about things that mattered) about this?) that tore everything up) and they needed a good school) to remain together until death, that’s a laugh) assets, won’t we?) barely saved from jobs that barely paid) with the wind buffeting, wondering when the whole coastline would evaporate into salt water) into past) seeing her, in the sixth form, just another girl that piqued a teenage interest) at that school), I think, though they didn’t sit over water) by the lake, gold and green and red) In the kitchen? Maybe she said it more than once), words cut deeper than you think) again), isn’t it, that’s one) people, like knights), promise, commit) to remain with until death) and I) got divorced.

About Charlie Kite

Charlie Kite is a cross-genre, off-centre writer focusing on nature, mythologies and communities in change. His plays have been performed at the Edinburgh Fringe and VAULT Festival, and his poems and prose have been published by the Oxford Review of Books, 3 of Cups Press and Forget Me Knot Press. He is currently studying Creative Writing at the University of Oxford.

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fiction Litro #182: Experimental print fiction Print issue