Words to Tie to Bricks (9 page)

And swallowed the key.

Now only rain

Beats down on me.

Right down through,

Soaked to my blood,

I make my way

Home through the mud.

This path was once

As clear as glass.

I hope that soon

The pain will pass,

So my life can heal

And my heart can escape,

To be held by a boy

And not by an ape.

C
AELEN
F
ELLER

Scuttling.

No light.

No shadows.

Just Dark.

Slipping.

No warnings.

No help.

Just Dark.

Watching.

I know you.

I know

You are there.

Scratching.

Glass shattering.

Scattering.

Silence.

Coming.

You are near.

You are close.

You are here.

A
MY
C
AMPBELL

I
CAN FEEL THE BLOOD PUMPING
in my veins, feel my heart struggling to keep up a rhythm, feel that strange rush of adrenaline that kicks in just when you
know that you physically cannot run anymore. I stumble on, trying to keep at the incredibly difficult, yet necessary pace I have set for myself. I chance a look back, and breathe out a ragged sigh
of relief. My pursuer is nowhere to be seen. I have lost him. For now.

I run to the beat of my feet pounding against the ground, like music only I can hear. The rhythm keeps me going, and I keep running. Where I’m going, I’m not exactly sure. Just so
long as it’s somewhere that he can’t find me. I dodge in and out of the trees, and hop over roots and fallen branches on the ground. The woods have always been an intimidating place,
with big trees that block out the sunlight and strange sounds. It’s even more frightening when you are being chased.

I feel my breath catch in my throat and my chest begins to protest. I do some quick math in my head. At this rate, I should only be able to keep going for about three more minutes before I
collapse. I’ll keep running for now. I count the number of times my feet hit the ground to keep my mind occupied. It’s better than thinking about how tired I am, how dark it is, or how
close he is. I figure out the average number of times my feet hit the ground in ten seconds. And, despite the seriousness of the situation, a smile breaks out across my face.

Math has always been something I can rely on. It has been my safety blanket. About a month ago, a man started following me. He left messages on my phone in the middle of the night. He was always
behind me, although I never saw his face. He left notes around my house. He would whisper my name and wake me up. And now he was chasing me. I recited the seven times tables in my head to calm
myself. The last month I have been on edge, always looking over my shoulder. Everything disappeared around me, things I thought I could count on were suddenly nowhere to be found. But numbers
don’t change. One plus one will always be two, whether or not there’s a man chasing you.

By my calculations, I should only have a few seconds left. I find one last bit of energy to push myself forward, to give myself that last rush of movement, and then it is over. I collapse onto
the ground. It is cold, and uncomfortable and rough. I breathe in, trying to soothe my aching lungs. I lie there for some time, just counting. And then I hear the footsteps again.

It is him, he is here. They get louder, he is catching up. I need to get up, run away. But I have lost the ability to move. My legs are no longer controlled by me, and no matter how much I will
myself to move I am still trapped. The footsteps get louder and louder, he is coming to get me. I fight the urge to scream. And then, I can hear him breathe, so loudly that I know he must be only
inches away. I can sense him next to me, feel his glare. I force my eyes open and take a frantic look around.

I see only trees.

I wake up shaking, and look around me. Everything is white. White walls, white floors, white lilies, white hospital bed. The man. Running. Counting. Falling. People. Doctors.
Being sent here. The lock on my door. The drugs they pump into me every day until I can’t even remember my own name, never mind what exactly happened. I still don’t quite understand. I
get flashbacks, like I am watching a slideshow. It doesn’t seem like these are my memories; it is as though I am watching someone else’s life.

All I know now is the things the doctors tell me. There never was a man. Aside from that, nothing is certain anymore. I can’t remember my name, age, address, phone number. I don’t
remember a time before this, a better time. And if you ask me what one plus one is, I won’t be able to tell you.

H
ANNAH
O’B
OYLE

You are a flirt, I’m sure

and I am misunderstood.

If this wasn’t real life

we would make the perfect movie.

But since this is,

I’m sure we are destined

to fail beautifully.

C
AELEN
F
ELLER

The knives licked her skin, a laced cloak of flame,

Criss-crossing, weaving lines of red,

Interspersed by the deep pricks of the needle,

Her face was unrecognisable to me.

I picked her up from the bed of needles,

Still dripping with the serum of her overdose,

But despite the bag that covered her eyes,

The petals unfurled. It began again.

The rose continued to grow.

O
RLA
M
C
G
OVERN

I shouldn’t have said that.

It probably came across very preachy. I should avoid condescension.

I’m terrible at talking to people. It never goes right.

Why do I hate it? I don’t hate it. I just need the excuse. I want the upset, the self-loathing.

Why do I doubt my motives? I should stop questioning my thoughts.

Why do questions scare me?

What am I scared of?

Why am I asking questions?

Don’t I know already?

If I know, why can’t I admit it?

I wish I could stop.

Why do I want to stop?

I want to stop thinking.

Why can’t I stop thinking?

What is wrong with me?

Please stop thinking.

Stop thinking.

Please.

Stop.

C
AELEN
F
ELLER

T
HE KNIFE IN HER HAND
is cold, but only just. She walks out into the hazy twilight, whispering her name for reassurance. ‘Linda, Linda, Linda ...
Linda?’ Thinking for a while, she comes to the conclusion that this name is simply not suitable anymore. She will have to acquire a new one, as soon as possible. Simply making up a name
won’t do though, a name must be taken. But where to find one?

As she grips the handlebars of her bike, Linda’s arms shake, almost imperceptibly. The guttural growl of the bike’s engine shatters the heavy silence that lies in the air. A bat
drops from the trees above. It lands in front of the bike, startling her. She regains her composure quickly, realising there is no danger from the small creature. Linda likes bats. She had one as a
pet once, but she can’t remember what happened to it in the end. The bat’s name was Jenny, maybe? No, something else ... Vera? Yes, that sounds right.

‘I’m going to call you Vera,’ she whispers to the bat. The bat does not understand this, unsurprisingly, but as it is much too dazed to fly away, Vera goes with Linda.

Linda used to read books, before. She still has some in her room. As she goes to the shelf, she feels a strange tingling at the back of her mind, as if she has forgotten something. However, she
ignores this. Sitting, she picks a book from the shelf and begins to read to Vera. Her voice is hoarse, and she struggles with the words. Linda enjoys reading, but does not often get the chance. As
she reads, she remembers, but not very much. She reads on, until sleep takes her.