Fifty grams
I have a problem. I often eat chocolate and lollies until I’m on the verge of throwing up – and then I keep going, consciously maintaining a state of nausea for hours. I’ll often eat about 250 grams of chocolate plus another 200 grams of lollies in a single day.
In a shocking twist, I’m gaining weight.
On the up side, I exercise three or four times a week – most commonly swimming a kilometre – so that helps. And the SO and I just acquired an exercise bike, which means I can exercise without facing humanity at all (a very valuable thing).
On the down side, if I don’t eat chocolate, I tend to lose the will to live – unfortunately, I do mean that literally (although it has been getting better lately – now it takes me a few days to get to that point).
Since I married in January, I’ve tried several times to get myself back under control – I tend to lose two kilos, then gain three immediately afterwards.
So, new plan: fifty grams of chocolate a day (or 100 of lollies) for fifty days. Starting today.
The thing that’s good is that I can still binge (in fact I HAVE to) – I just need to “save up” my grams day by day before (or after) I spend them. I’m also allowed to eat anything at meals – pancakes, fish and chips, whatever. And I can eat healthy snacks – nuts, corn thins, diet soft drinks (mmm…colouring) as much as I like. And alcohol (including sugary stuff) doesn’t count as long as it’s AFTER all my driving for the day is done, and it’s under one drink an hour.
At present I weigh 74.8kilos, which is JUST within the healthy weight range for my towering heights. My personal weight range (without actually dieting or even cutting out chocolate from what I eat) is 65-70 kilos. So it should be quite easy to get back in the 60s within fifty days. Which hopefully would bolster my sense of fitness, and thus lessen the need to binge – plus fifty days is long enough to change lifestyle habits.
We’ll see.
To Look Forward To
Book 2 of my kids’ trilogy is all converted to first person, and the beginning is rewritten entirely.
The fart book is reworked for a younger audience, and sent to a manuscript assessor. (Quicker than the planned schedule, but I promise to have a two-month break from it later on.)
So here’s what I’m currently waiting for, in estimated chronological order:
Any day now: group certificates for me and my partner, and then money (probably), yay!
One week from now: the fart book critique
Any day/1-3 months: Ilura Press responds to the opening of my realist novel (it’s been there three months)
1-3 months: Harper Collins responds to my YA novel (it’s been there 2 and a half months)
3-5 months: Random House responds to my kids’ novel (“Waking Dead Mountain”) – it’s been there 2 months
When I grow up, I want to be a fish
Rationality, as it turns out, is not a given right – not by God, anyway.
Every so often, like a ray of light, I have a moment when I understand things.
The other day, I accidentally crawled into part of my husband’s head – the part that would grieve if I died. (He’s told me this often enough – it’s pathetic that I need to be told at all, and worse that I simply don’t believe it except with the three remaining rational synapses in my head – which are severely overworked.) I understood for the first time that the best part of his day is curling up next to me at night – and that if I died each night would be a dark island of mocking emptiness that he would be hardly able to endure. My death would damage him forever.
All of this is obvious, but I rarely see it. I often have to work out logically that I’m happy – which goes something like this: ‘I’m sitting in a comfy chair facing a very beautiful clock that gives me pleasure, and my cat is purring. Nothing major is wrong. Therefore, I must be happy. The fact that I feel like repeatedly bashing my head against this pretty wall means nothing; it’s just a mental-illness thing – not real. Really, I’m happy. Honest.’
I know a couple – let’s call them Bob and Mrs Bob – very very well. They’re family friends, and have known me since I was six years old (and they weren’t so old themselves). We see each other as if we’re family, and help each other with family-type things – babysitting, moving house, looking out for each other, etc. When they built a granny flat and tried to rent it out for a ludicrously inflated price, I decided to move in – partly because it was a nice place, partly because I knew I wouldn’t have landlord issues with them, and partly to protect them from their own stupidity.
Similar things happen all the time – usually them giving me money for flights to Jakarta, since for twelve years I planned to move to Indonesia as an (unpaid) aid worker (and I visited frequently as an unpaid volunteer – while still studying and also supporting my own independence).
I was still living in their flat when I became mental. (By this stage, the price was market-reasonable, but still a lot for me.) I realised (after already getting into plenty of rental debt to the Bobs – who charged no interest, and set no time period) that my mental illness wasn’t clearing up as quickly as I’d hoped (I originally thought it would last a year and then I’d get better). Naturally enough, since we are close and since I knew I was incapable of keeping the financial independence I’ve fought so hard for (I have often gone hungry, and sometimes walked – instead of bussing – up to four hours in a day, once until my feet bled) – I asked them to cancel the cost of rent, and let me continue living there for free.
I know it’s a big ask, but these are people I’m very close to (closer than family, really), and the fact remains that I needed help from SOMEONE.
Mrs Bob told me that they were perfectly willing to cancel rent – but she didn’t think it would help me “grow to become an adult.”
*pause for thought*
This was particularly startling since (a) Mrs Bob also suffers from anxiety (less than me I think, but of course I’d think that). (b) Mr Bob is financially supporting Mrs Bob (which to me has always seemed a little selfish on her part).
Later, they cancelled rent and let me continue living there. Which I believe was always the right thing to do. (These people, incidentally, are not poor – though like every Westerner, they think they are.)
Another year passed, and my attempts to erase my debt to them were literally making it worse (eg I took more work, got more stressed, and this caused a car accident which cost me $900 – pretty significant when my total income last year was $8000, including Centrelink money).
So, late last year I begged them to cancel my debt, pointing out that I wasn’t gonna pay it off anytime in the near future (and possibly would never pay it off), and that it was making me sicker. (I understand that young people are often in debt – I am not. I’d rather go hungry than borrow $5 – but being crazy has done hideous things to my usual self-control and made me spend more money, mostly because I “spend” all my self-control on not telling people how much I hate them all).
Mr Bob told me that he “saw no evidence that you are sick”. Mrs Bob told me that being mentally ill was like being hard of hearing – it was an inconvenience, and I could live with it.
I wear glasses, and I know how frustrating it is to be slightly separated from the real world – yesterday some people waved at me in the car, but I couldn’t see them clearly enough to know if they were friends of mine or not. I hate going to public places, because I don’t recognise people as easily as they recognise me (so I’m unintentionally rude – or unintentionally friendly, in some cases). I panic a little at fast food places, because even with glasses it’s hard to read the menus (for this reason, I’ve developed a lightning-fast decision-making process). I’ve been humiliated and devastated as I prayed to be healed (believing that was what God wanted) and wasn’t (many times).
But it really is just an inconvenience. Mental illness has stolen my hard-won independence, stolen several friends, and sucked away my ability to be happy even when things are going well. The fact of the matter is, I am now dependent and there’s just nothing I can do about it. So much for being the girl who wanted to move to Indonesia and make the world better – now I am a burden on the world’s back.
Mr and Mrs Bob then cancelled over $10,000 of debt.
But I’m still angry at the things they said. It was rude, selfish, and wrong of them. They called me a liar and a thief – two things that are the opposite of who I am (even now).
I know they’re wrong. . . but only with those three remaining rational cells in my brain. Everything else in me says they were right to say what they said (it’s worth noting that although they made my debt go away, they never apologised for what they said or told me they believed I really was sick enough to reasonably make that kind of request).
Which is why I’m blogging about it. Because when I blog I get a sense of what readers will think, and it bolsters those three rational brain synapses to almost four.
I still get these moments, every few days, where those Bobbish comments in my head change from a self-loathing background hiss to a sudden glorious epiphany: They’re right! I’m not really crazy at all!
Suddenly I can work! I can see my friends without “measuring” my self-control beforehand to make sure I don’t admit how I really feel! I can be a force for good in the world again! I can actually enjoy my husband! I don’t have to be unhappy or ashamed or afraid any more!
And then I realise the truth – or most of it. None of those things – independence, happiness, pride – belong to me any more. That’s just the way it is. Even my precious intelligence is noticably less (it’s hard to focus when I’m working so hard on my rationality all the time, and feeling so scared for no reason).
The only true thing I don’t realise – not really – is this: it’s not my fault. My three good synapses just don’t stretch that far.
Because I still believe what the Bobs said rather than what they did.
Superheroes of 2009: Paranoia Girl wins the day!
Is it paranoia if you’re right?
I’m housesitting a two-storey townhouse for a friend all this week while she and her family enjoy a jaunt in sunny Queensland.
It’s part of a row of identical townhouses in which there are sets of two mirror-image houses. Pairs of balconies face one another over a tin roof, under which both households park their cars (so the result is balcony, two-car shared carport, and another balcony). The cars face the bathroom windows, which have sills.
I figured out more or less instantly that I would, at some point during the week, lock myself out. It’s kind of what I do. My friends weren’t comfortable with the idea of me leaving a spare key in the carport or letterbox, so I came up with a cunning plan: I left a key on the balcony. I was confident that climbing up the balcony would be a breeze – because of the bathroom window sill. Like a convenient step up to the roof, which is as good as being on the balcony.
My friends accepted the terms (foolishly thinking I was too smart to lock myslf out), and my SO (who knows me better) asked me to call him (if possible) before attempting the climb.
Sure enough, I locked myself out today while checking their mail.
My attire: pajamas (with a hole in a fairly important area); limited underwear; unbrushed hair and teeth; thongs and brilliantly-striped toe socks.
My useful tools: no money of any kind; no phone. Possible fire-starting or lock-picking glasses (if I broke them, and could pick locks).
My surroundings: a park. a carpark. Friendly neighbours who’ve never seen me before.
I took a wheelie bin and moved it between my friends’ parked car and their bathroom window. I removed my thongs and socks for improved mobility and grip. I tucked my ankle-length skirt up into my undies (my pajamas include an ankle-length skirt) for improved ability to move (ie so I didn’t attempt to swing my leg up, get tangled, and fall to my death). For some reason, this made me think of Indiana-Jones type movies (probably because of the traditional ripping-of-the-business-skirt trick).
I achieved the bedroom window in three steps: ground, car, wheelie bin –>window. I’d never noticed that the window sill isn’t flat, but at about a 45 degree angle.
There’s roughly half a metre between the bathroom wall and the inside edge of the carport roof. Unfortunately, the roof was high enough that it was above the level of my chest – definitely above my centre of gravity. I spent a significant amount of time holding myself propped against the carport roof, shivering and barefoot, wondering if I could actually jump high enough to get enough of me onto the roof to be able to get at least one leg up – or would I simply dangle off the roof until I fell?
The SO’s workplace is about an hour’s walk away. My nose began to run in the freezing wind. I couldn’t help but notice that the near side of the carport roof was rather sharp all along the edge facing me. A bus drove past, and I hoped they couldn’t tell that my skirt was tucked into my undies. Several cars also drove past. I examined the picture windows of the row of identical townhouses directly across from me (no significant plants, just carpark – a plain of bitumen only a few metres across). As far as I could tell, I was not being watched.
I imagined my SO and friends’ reaction if I tried to push myself up off their security light, breaking it (and possibly myself) in the process.
Had to jump. Had to scrape leg. Better than walking an hour in Winter to show up at my husband’s work while not wearing shoes, underwear, or intact clothing.
I ALMOST jumped.
*repeat* *repeat* *repeat*
I tested the security light with my foot. It was bolted on pretty good. I tried to push it. It didn’t budge.
Took a breath. Pushed off the security light and landed on the roof. Got my left leg up, and the other leg was easy. I vaulted the balcony fence, found the key just where I left it, and let myself in!
No one will ever know. . .
And for the record, paranoia DEFINITELY pays.
Australia’s most important book?
I’m a fiction reader, so my most chilling “experience” of historical trauma is through books such as “The Doomsday Book” by Connie Willis, and “The China Coin” by Allan Bailie.
Yesterday’s book was far more horrifying, because it was historical fiction set right now, and in Australia – and the atrocities detailed are both preventable, and still happening. (I believe comedian Ahn Do has written an autobiographical book on his own family’s journey, which will probably be read by more people – and no-one can claim he’s being implausible, since he was there.)
MORRIS GLEITZMAN
Boy Overboard
Girl Underground
These books are very funny and action-packed, with boy/girl-next door characters that every kid will relate to. Boy Overboard has some extremely scary scenes, while the second book’s emotional core comes through letters (which strike hard, because Gleitzman is a world-class writer).
I love Australia, and – like anyone who’s travelled elsewhere in the world – I am proud of belonging here. A huge chunk of my mind still struggles with the concept that we – the good guys – are putting refugees in jail. YES, some are rich (rich people can still be killed for having the wrong religion). YES, many are delusional about how great Australia is (is making Australia worse really the best way to combat this?). YES, many don’t talk English more gooder enough (shockingly, not everyone who’s desperate is educated). YES, there are millions of others who would come here if they could (and I’m sure that OUR kids are more important than THEIR kids).
An Indian aquaintance of mine was held for three months because he’d screwed up his paperwork. (And of course he wasn’t told how long it would be – which is particularly worrying, since he had serious anger issues before he went in.)
One of my best friends (from Kenya) was deported with two weeks’ notice because, despite driving herself to top every other recorded score on a (required) computer skills course, and despite being brilliant, beautiful, and compassionate (with perfect English and an ambition to join the UN), she also screwed up her paperwork. When someone that smart can’t make sense of the system, something is wrong.
Another close friend of mine married an Indonesian, and had to struggle for over two years (usually separated) to get permission for her to live here. This one’s the happy one, because eight years later, they and their kid are loving life.
Yes, children are held in “detention” centres. Yes, our system is stacked against ANYONE who tries to come here (apparently, conducting a gay relationship in the detention centre does NOT prove that someone is really gay enough to be in danger in their criminally homophobic home country). Yes, this is really happening here – not in the wacky US of A – here.
The only moment in either book that didn’t ring true was the bit where the general public of Australia stands up and says, “Hey, no! Holding refugee children in jail is wrong.” Of all the things that happen in the book, that’s the only bit that hasn’t happened – and still isn’t happening. At that point I almost threw the book across the room, because I was so upset.
Rating: PG (very scary scenes) – G for Girl Overboard
Recommendation: 8 and up, definitely including adults – kids will laugh; adults will cry.
Which person am I?
In the year 2000, I wrote my first book for children (before that it was all young adults). I was advised that children’s writing should be in third person, so I did that (despite the fact that I’m much, much better at first person). That book is now a trilogy – in fact the second book was originally written in first person, then I changed it to third person.
The second book has been giving me trouble for a while. It has some brilliant bits, but just doesn’t seem to work overall. I looked at the first chapter over the weekend (after realising I needed to write several more ‘training’ scenes into the fart book) and hated it.
So I’ve decided to rewrite the second book – in first person (which I now know children are perfectly fine with). This will not only end up a better book (because first person is something I’ve always done well), but it’ll make it a lot fresher for me to work with. I don’t think anything big will change – I’ll be looking at the original as I go along – but hopefully this will fix it. Of course this also means I’ll most likely have to change the (perfectly adequate) first and third books too.
Best not to think about that.
Staplegunning the plot
Ben pointed out that the fart book I wrote contained (a) farting, and (b) romance – which don’t suit the same age group. After questioning several of my students (between 8 and 14 years of age) it was clear that he was right.
My problem wasn’t that the romance didn’t suit the age group (8-12) that I was going for, but that the farts didn’t suit them (my two eight-year olds laugh uproariously at the word “bum” but my 11-year old thinks the book is dumb). So the romance (second-biggest plot) is gone – the girl in question is entirely deleted. I’m left with a much shorter book (which is necessary for the younger age) and a lot of holes that need to be staplegunned together.
It took me several days to deal with having written a “book” that will be about 7000 words (50,000 is a short book). I’m over that concept now, but struggling to get my head around the “new” book. I sit at my computer with the file open, and my body instinctively twists away so I’m not looking at it (then I go and write a blog entry 🙂 ).
advice for the newly insane
This isn’t going to sound encouraging, but. . .
The first year is the hardest.
Nine pieces of advice:
1. If you’re able to keep working (in whatever work, to whatever extent), then do so. There’s nothing more conducive to mental illness than sitting at home doing nothing (so if you can’t do regular work, give yourself other things to do – as much as you’re able). But don’t push yourself too hard, either – you need to figure out what a realistic goal looks like in your new situation.
2. If you are really mentally ill, you WILL NOT wake up one day and realise you are better. You will probably improve a great deal over time, but don’t try to be extra-impressive to make up for lost time/money or you are likely to make yourself sicker than ever. The hardest thing to accept about mental illness is that change ONLY comes slowly – like year by year (not week by week). The problem is in your head, and no amount of major life change will help you (except with good sense and a great deal of time thrown in). This hurts, I know.
3. Whatever you do, keep up your basic personal hygiene – brush your teeth and hair, wash yourself and wash your hair and clothes. If you can pretty yourself up (neat clothes, makeup, shaving legs/face depending on gender and whether you think a beard is attractive), do it as much as you can.
4. Finances will probably suck – my debts peaked at double my yearly income (mostly because of rent). Keep in mind that you’ll probably be sick at least a year, so if you have savings you’ll need them. There are four things that you actually NEED in life:
a) Somewhere to live – if at all possible, move in with family or friends – make sure you are VERY respectful to all their boundaries, and that you set a specific date to sit down together and decide whether it’s better for you to stay or go – probably 3 or 6 months down the track. Otherwise, pick the cheapest place you can stand that doesn’t isolate you in terms of transport. If you own your house/apartment or have a spare room, consider renting it out.
b) Health – mainly groceries (and soap, toothpaste, and shampoo). You don’t need dairy products to live – you do need protein (cheapest is sausages), vegetables, fruit and starch (cheapest is rice – more edible if you fry it with sugar). Some health issues don’t need treatment (dermatitis, pimples) and some do. Learn the difference.
c) Transport – walking or cycling is brilliant, public transport good, and cars are expensive – but versatile.
d) Maintain human relationships – you’ll need a working phone (it’s unlikely that you need a landline), probably internet/internet cafe, and careful planning for social events (try to arrange parties at your house with people bringing things – you may end up with a free meal. For presents, try burning CDs, making biscuits, etc). Sometimes you may have to skip parties or simply admit, “I can’t come unless you pay for my share of the meal”.
5. Stay in contact with some of humanity – no matter how annoying they are. Be honest – but smart. In my opinion, you need at least three real-life, face-to-face friends who know most of what you’re going through (one is a lot, but three should help that one not to get overburdened).
It is vital that you are genuinely fun at least some of the time – whether it’s seeing a movie (if you’re too depressed to make conversation that’s a good way of hiding your true feelings) or simply lying that you’re having fun.
Be aware that the two most common reactions to mental illness are fear/embarrassment, and disbelief (sometimes from the most unexpected people – including those who are ill themselves). Whatever shreds of a sense of humour you still have – use. You can get away with a lot more honesty if you can turn your horrors into funny stories.
6. If possible, exercise. If you’re holding up particularly well, try to stay in the healthy weight range (but you’ll be very rare if you do).
7. Take prescription drugs. They’re AMAZING. (St John’s wort is a herb with some beneficial effects, so you can start there if you like – but don’t combine it with anything else.) So many mentally ill people don’t remember what it’s like to be sane – until they spend a week on drugs, and suddenly their thoughts get rational again. It’s like the sun coming out after months of blanket clouds.
8. Accept as much as you can (some friendships will fail, you won’t be buying that flatscreen TV, you’re probably not as good at your job, etc). Fight to keep the rest.
9. Give yourself a break. Be miserable, grumpy, lazy etc for at LEAST a day every week – more when things are especially difficult. I have a theory that our stressful, pressured culture causes mental illness. So you have to resist all the pressure telling you to work/clean etc. It’s not easy.
Tar (Warning: mature unpleasant content)
Welcome to another free story. This has been made all pretty by the people at Drollerie Press as a tease for their ebook, Needles and Bones, which features another story “At Sea”, which takes place after this one. This character appears in a LOT of my stories. “Tar” is chronologically her beginning.
Needles & Bones is now available in the Drollerie Press bookshop (buy page: http://drolleriepress.com/bookshop/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=11&products_id=85 description page: http://drolleriepress.com/needles-bones/)
“Tar”
I woke up sticky. My eyes were glued shut, and I smelled that coppery smell. Not again. I remembered the night before, when my rescuer came into my room and smiled, and grabbed at my hair. He licked me on the face and pulled me across the room. I struggled a bit, but I let him throw me down on the bed. That’s where I kept my knife. That’s where I killed him.
Not my first. Not my last, either, the way things are going.
His blood smelled off already, like meat hung on hooks in a drying room. I was tangled up with the sheets on the floor, and my legs ached from kicking his dead body. He was a lot bigger than me, and it took a lot of effort to kick him thoroughly. I pushed the bloody sheets away, and was glad I wasn’t like other girls. Other girls can’t make objects move like I can. A knife, for example, diving into a man’s chest and wriggling around inside.
Time to run away again. Another solo voyage, another deserted beach, and most likely another rescuer. Hopefully a better one.
I rubbed my eyes hard and cracked them open. My mouth tasted rank with blood. I stretched out my sore fingers and chose not to look too long at my rescuer still lying on the bed, frozen with his mouth gaping in stupid surprise. Sleep hadn’t made it better.
I smell awful. I smell of blood.
Tidy up, or you’ll never get away. I went to the door and leant my head against it. My body was sluggish. I wanted to go back to sleep.
‘Shut your face,’ I said to the wood, and it smoothed itself across the lock. No-one would open the door without an axe. That bought me some time. The usual headache came a few moments later, but I ignored it. My stomach rumbled. Wash first, then eat. And don’t wash in the house, or you’ll be seen.
The sea outside my window reached for the shore again and again, but never caught hold of it. I slid out over the sill, banging my elbows, and walked to meet it.
The water caressed my ankles, warm against my tired skin. It would be a hot day. I went deeper, until my feet couldn’t keep hold of the sand. The water filled my ears and nose, and made me clean. I walked back to the house and strode in by the front door, still dripping. My hair fell rough against my shoulders. Good. Pretty ringlets don’t suit me, and shouldn’t belong to me. All they’ve ever done for me is cause trouble.
The kitchen buzzed with sleepy servant girls. I wondered which of them were playthings of the master, and how they’d feel when they found his body. The food smelled off to me, but I ate it anyway; ate til I felt sick. I drank until I thought my stomach would burst. Remember how thirsty you were, when your little boat finally reached the sand. Don’t ever get that weak again.
Still I smelled that coppery smell. No. I definitely washed all the blood off. . . didn’t I? First my father, now my rescuer. What’s wrong with me?
A hand clamped on my shoulder. ‘Oi,’ said the head cook. Her thick face was wrinkled up in concentration. ‘Why are you eating here, instead of at table with the master?’
My mind left me, and I twisted out of her grasp and fled. Every step sloshed in my stomach, and I swallowed hard to keep from losing my precious breakfast. I heard the cook lifting her voice after me, but I didn’t hear the words.
No-one chased me. They don’t see pretty little me as a threat. Not the little ringletted girl who washed up on the master’s beach. I slowed down and looked back. Smoke from the cooking fires leaked from the doorway, dirtying the sky. The air still smelled of blood to me, and my stomach twisted in revulsion. Still I gazed at the kitchen, where I could find everything I needed. With no supplies I’ll die of thirst in days. No-one knows thirst better than me.
I went back, and made myself apologize to the cook. All I need is five minutes alone to grab supplies. ‘He’s in my room.’
Her face softened. She knows what he wanted from me. But she doesn’t know me. Not yet.
She whistled for the butter boy, and he jumped up from his churning stool. ‘Give the girl whatever she needs, Ulandin. She’s had a rough night.’
He nodded his head, and looked at me. I glared back.
His golden eyes widened, and he glanced guiltily at the cook. ‘You need a boat,’ he whispered as she left. ‘Don’t you?’
He knows. But he knows not to tell. Smarter than he looks, then. ‘I have a boat already, remember? Fetch me water, and quickly, and I’ll be gone before she gets back.’
He nodded. ‘I want to come.’
‘What?’ Not so smart.
‘Take me with you. I can keep us moving when you need to sleep. We’ll get farther together.’
He’s no older than I am. I looked at him more carefully. Pale yellow eyes, tight black hair. Good arms – too good. I won’t want to fall asleep near him.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Take me with you. Kill me later if you have to.’
Now there’s a generous offer! He’s definitely serious, too. I held back a smile. ‘If you so much as look at me like the master did –’
‘I know better.’ He saw me wavering, and relaxed. ‘Master keeps – kept – water in his pleasure boat. It will be enough.’
‘I told you I have a boat.’
‘This one has a sail.’
‘Fine.’
He grabbed a near-empty flour sack and filled it with fresh bread. I helped. Even the bread smelled of blood to me. Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it down. Ulandin and I ran to the water; him with bread, and me with more water. There can never be enough. Though I suppose if he bothers me I’ll end up with twice as much.
The boat shed was locked – I told the door to move out of my way, and it did. Ulandin ran his fingers through his hair, but he didn’t speak.
A new smell hit me: tar. Thick and rich and sour as blood, but sharper. My stomach curled inside me, which was good. No blood smell. Not with that around.
There was a barrel of it on the jetty, shadowed by the shed. I made Ulandin lift it with me, and put it in the boat with our bread. It was too big for me to carry alone, and I’d need all my magic to shift the boat itself; an unsteady task when it was sitting on the sea. The only other boat was mine; a little toy of a thing. I left it there.
Ulandin was right; there was more water on board than I could have brought if I’d worked all day. Maybe he is smart after all. Maybe he’s just smart enough to live, without being smart enough to die for it. We’ll see.
I heard shouting as we sailed out of the open sea-doors, pushing ourselves away with long oars like poles. By the time the people reached the beach my magic had gotten our vessel past the breakers. The sail clapped against the mast as it gorged on sea air.
My head screamed at me. I collapsed onto the deck and half-closed my eyes to shut out the glaring sun. The smell of blood tore at my mind. It’s in my head. It will never stop.
Ulandin jumped over me and did something to the sail above my head. He was careful not to touch me. Good boy. I’ll give you a biscuit later.
How can I still smell blood? There’s no death here. Just me.
I sat up carefully. My arms were black with bruising where the master’s body had pressed against mine. I shuffled over to the barrel of tar. The stink of it shimmered the air. I reached in and buried both my hands in the muck. It was warm already from the sun. I took up handfuls of it and smeared it into my hair, pushing it in hard and sweeping back my black curls. No more girly hair. No more blood smell.
The tar sunk in and stuck to me; hot against my scalp. I scooped out more and filled my hair with it until my curls vanished into a solid mass. The smell of it overwhelmed me. I almost fainted. But I didn’t.
I stood to my feet, and turned my back to the shore. The ocean stretched out before me, ready to be beaten.
Felicity Banks 