It was
the displacement of her weight alongside that broke Brother Skunk quick from
sleeping, easing himself upright simultaneous, staring, waiting, as his eyes
sought confirmation of what was known to exist in the room’s immediate night.
Her
spine became a pale arc, her head lay on one cheek flat against the bedside
table, across the surface of which her palm was rolling a crayon back and
forth, over and over.
Skunk
felt his leg begin to bounce from the ball of its foot, breaking through the
tension of being held so still at the bed’s edge. He clamped his thigh tight
and hard, dug his nails deep into the flesh that leapt on regardless, and then,
afraid she might wake at this vibration, carefully rose and moved around the
bed to gain her profile.
The
dark and otherwise silent room seemed to exaggerate the noise of the rolling
crayon, become amplified with each successive sawing movement of her naked arm.
At either terminus its paper wrapper would sideways drag but just, slipped
friction beneath the rolling motion pressure of her palm.
Over
and over: out drag back drag, and time lost in the attendant deafening
crescendo.
Skunk
was full of this noise, standing hypnotised as the neverending rumble of paper
over paper coerced his breathing into synch with itself.
Skunk: No way. What are you saying? Are
you trying to
and laughing.
Skunk: I don’t think so. No.
ache1: Skunk don’t laugh at
me. This isn’t something that, this isn’t. You know, why would I lie?
Skunk: I’m not saying you’re lying,
it’s just that it’s... I don’t know. You have to admit it’s a bit weird. The
the writing thing I’ve heard of before, and auto- I think it’s called automatic
drawing, when people or autistic people get, they can do
ache1: Yeah but I’m
not autistic. You know, this isn’t, look at these
showing him again the sheets of paper
crawling with messages
ache1 (reading): “no years
old” “consume by fire” “freshborn ash”. This is antler.
Skunk (sighing): Yeah but how do you
know? I I understand, or, okay, I can’t understand what you’ve been through
but, I know that... it’s... I think you’re looking for a kind of psychic or or
even mythical explanation for all of this, but I think it’s all just the stre-,
you know, I think it’s a stress-related thing. It’ll go when you let it.
ache1 (close to tears): What,
like these?
pulling up her shirt with one hand, her
jeans down with the other to bare the scratchmarks across her abdomen.
The
noise had stopped.
His
ears continued to register the echo, the dying fuzz of sound; then inside this
he heard the crayon’s point pass across the page, the lines of wax forming in
its wake.
ache1
rolled back and into bed, curling up tight and pulling the sheets protectively
round her body, while Skunk stared at the cabinet, staring until the paper
seemed to fall away to leave the text floating new and dark upon the air, his
eyes unblinking, drying, waiting: “tell
Skunk I have met the twins”
