Carousel
disconnect.
1st May, 2005.
He picked it out. We didn’t have a lot of money, well, we hardly had any money. But he had smiled and said he’d fix it up. We went shopping together, and he chose the paint while I chose the brushes. A cheap white and red paint. We had stayed up to 3am, painting and laughing and smoking. Imperfect lines because we couldn’t even afford the tape that would help us to stay in line. He liked it, though. The not-quite-straight lines of red and white, it reminded him of a circus tent, he said. Blown by the wind.
He loved the circus.
We couldn’t afford the tickets – but he didn’t mind.
He sat on the floor that night. Jack Daniels sat next to him, he stared at the walls and he smiled. ‘It’s like I’m six again’ he said, eyes blurry and smile loose. I sat next to him, smiling back as he cried.
We made our own circus, in that room. We had a mattress, and we had a duvet he’d had since he was eight. Covered in carousels and faded lights. He told me he’d hang it from his door and imagine back years ago, when his dad took him to the circus. He said the carousel had been exactly that, and the lights had been brighter once.
Clowns and rides, candyfloss and colours brighter than the sun. He told me his dad had bought him that duvet two years after their visit. It was the last thing he’d given to him, before he left. Then he’d smile like it was fond when it was really tearing him apart, and he’d say that his dad never forgot his birthday.
And now he’s stands there, in the doorway of our circus, haggard and ill looking. He looks sad, and he looks so, so disappointed. The walls have faded since 2000, and there are cigarette marks and small blood stains we don’t mention anymore. There’s still a mattress though, and a circus spread over it. Drug paraphernalia spread over that carousel like it has a place in his memories wonderland.
“Not anymore.” And he smiles, like it’s fond but really it’s tearing him apart. He walks over and he holds the corner of the duvet, tipping the needles and the bottles to the floor. He looks so dead, inside and out as he walks back to the door, free hand barely scraping the walls.
“The circus closed years ago.”
And then he leaves.
He picked it out. We didn’t have a lot of money, well, we hardly had any money. But he had smiled and said he’d fix it up. We went shopping together, and he chose the paint while I chose the brushes. A cheap white and red paint. We had stayed up to 3am, painting and laughing and smoking. Imperfect lines because we couldn’t even afford the tape that would help us to stay in line. He liked it, though. The not-quite-straight lines of red and white, it reminded him of a circus tent, he said. Blown by the wind.
He loved the circus.
We couldn’t afford the tickets – but he didn’t mind.
He sat on the floor that night. Jack Daniels sat next to him, he stared at the walls and he smiled. ‘It’s like I’m six again’ he said, eyes blurry and smile loose. I sat next to him, smiling back as he cried.
We made our own circus, in that room. We had a mattress, and we had a duvet he’d had since he was eight. Covered in carousels and faded lights. He told me he’d hang it from his door and imagine back years ago, when his dad took him to the circus. He said the carousel had been exactly that, and the lights had been brighter once.
Clowns and rides, candyfloss and colours brighter than the sun. He told me his dad had bought him that duvet two years after their visit. It was the last thing he’d given to him, before he left. Then he’d smile like it was fond when it was really tearing him apart, and he’d say that his dad never forgot his birthday.
And now he’s stands there, in the doorway of our circus, haggard and ill looking. He looks sad, and he looks so, so disappointed. The walls have faded since 2000, and there are cigarette marks and small blood stains we don’t mention anymore. There’s still a mattress though, and a circus spread over it. Drug paraphernalia spread over that carousel like it has a place in his memories wonderland.
“Not anymore.” And he smiles, like it’s fond but really it’s tearing him apart. He walks over and he holds the corner of the duvet, tipping the needles and the bottles to the floor. He looks so dead, inside and out as he walks back to the door, free hand barely scraping the walls.
“The circus closed years ago.”
And then he leaves.
♠ ♠ ♠
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