Rob Ewing - The Last of Us

Mum said the new house would blow down in the next winter gale. But it didn’t: winter’s already been.

They should let me wind back to the moment where I pointed that knife. Where I deleted the pictures of Duncan and Calum Ian’s family.

They should let me do that.

I look up at the sky to ask God.

For an answer he just sends mist-rain in my mouth and eyes.

Mum finds me on the last hill. She starts out by copying my steps, which is odd and very frightening.

‘You’re scaring me,’ I tell her.

‘Don’t mind me, mo luaidh. ’

‘He’s a liar. He’s not my friend, Calum Ian.’

‘Sounds like a tall story.’

‘No – honest.’

‘You’re in deep blue water trouble, my girl.’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’

‘Use a fork! You’re not an animal. Well OK, if you say so. You’re a cat in Chinese Years.’

‘ Mum. I don’t need a fork, and I’m not even eating. You’re scaring me. Why can’t you speak normally?’

‘Finish up your plate.’

Then she’s ahead. I think she’s waving. I try not to follow but it’s like the opposite of the story of the hare and the turtle: we’re always in the same place.

It’s now I search for her letter.

Gone.

I even take my jumper off in case it stuck to my skin. But it’s not stuck to my skin. I must’ve dropped it.

The road goes into mist, behind. I try to look up and scream at God, but my voice only works for screaming if I look down at the wet dark road.

There’s another roadblock. More cars. I think I remember these ones. They’re on the top side of the big hill, before our village. I climb over a fence so I don’t go near. There are lots of seagulls on the cars; some of them go up and squawk when the fence does its noise.

I walk around the edges, staying in the field, so I don’t get close enough to see bad things.

Some of the dogs have come to say hello. I tell them about the places we went: to the headmaster’s, to the family house where we stayed, to Alex’s, to the old woman’s house. I tell them about Mairi, the boat.

The dogs don’t notice when I miss out the bit about Calum Ian and the knife. Dogs are good listeners that way.

Sometimes they’re not friendly when you’re alone. There’s a bigger dog: brown, with black spots. It doesn’t wag its tail like the rest, but only watches me.

When the dogs follow me into the village I pick up a clam shell and throw it, to remind them who’s boss.

They run off: then watch me from a distance, apart from the big dog. I have to throw a stone to be rid of him.

My goggles are pink. Even though I’m not a girly-girl. The bag on my left foot is green with gold writing. It says . The other one is for the Co-op.

‘You can’t stop yourself crying if you’re peeling onions. It’s an example of something that’s not optional. We learnt about optional at school.’

This is what Elizabeth said, once. At the same time she gave us another example: ‘Staying alive is not optional.’

Calum Ian said she got it the wrong way around: that it sounded like staying alive was something we couldn’t do. But I knew what she meant.

With a bit of practice you can stop yourself from crying with sadness. That’s because it’s optional. You can turn sadness into other things: like quiet-voice, or cold-alive, or worst-ever anger, just by thinking.

Anger works best. So I’m angry at the side door. Angry at its rubbed-off paint, at the glass with criss-cross wire.

At the school’s not-turning turbine. At the playground with all its lines for basketball, netball.

Elizabeth used to put wet paper up her nose for the smell. I can’t find my nose-clip, so that’s what I’ll use.

At the Sports Stars Fresco in the gallery above the gym, with its reminder of all our superheroes. I rip a corner, then tear the whole thing off the wall.

Mr Mollison of the butcher’s shop used to say, ‘You been behaving yourself, Rona?’ It gave me a guilty sensation. For superstition you had to tell him how good you’d been, otherwise he’d know the truth.

At the piles of dried-out flowers we left, just here.

At the smell. The fly-noise.

On a very stormy day once I heard Mr Mollison tell a fisherman: ‘Sea doesn’t need you today.’

When your fingers shake they become smaller. Or maybe the world gives them more room?

Alex and I used to practise fainting. We’d lie down, stay still. Alex would get a cushion first to be comfortable for his faint.

I never, ever want to faint here.

I’m careful to be angry. If you cry with goggles on they fill up. It’s the opposite of swimming.

Trails of black stuff on the floor. Mouse shit, maybe rat shit? Duncan’s best at telling the difference.

There’s a waiting place. It’s piled with tins, plus cartons of soup, powdered milk. There’s a door which says PRESS BUZZER + WAIT FOR ACCESS.

I don’t wait, or press the buzzer.

The longest I’ve ever held my breath for is thirty-six seconds. You can’t cheat by inhaling quietly, you’re just cheating yourself.

I feel the stink on my face. The world got filled up with stink. Wind flutters in. It’s like a ghost checking things are all right, as if ghosts had their worries as well.

The flies are buzzing. They blast from one side of the room to the other. I’m worried that one of them will touch me, so I pull my jumper up so there’s no spare face.

I have to rub the goggles, they’re steamed. Now I see – tables from the big school. Scrunched blankets, plastic aprons, more dirty stuff on the floor. There’s a table with hand-sprays and an orange bag stuffed with gloves.

A man sitting on a chair.

I run back to the waiting place. Can’t breathe.

Then I remember: Calum Ian, he spoke about him.

He told us about that man – that man who was sitting, even though he was dead.

Like the old dead lady. She was sitting upright. And she wasn’t too scary, or not the worst anyway. So I warn myself: some people just die on seats. You’d never read about it in books, but it truly happens.

In the waiting area I get my breath back. Then I sing, ‘Made you look, made you stare, even though you weren’t there.’ Even though he was there. I do it over and over until my heart falls back to normal.

If you keep moving it makes the hall less scary.

Plastic, hanging in long walls on metal poles. It makes lots of long narrow tunnels of the hall. More tables in rows, and yuck on the floor. Someone’s slippers.

Curled-up Rona wants to cry. Coward-girl. She has to stop herself crying, cry-baby.

Some of the people are in bags. Some of the people are not in bags. There’s baskets, like washing baskets to put clothes in. One person has no clothes.

The plastic screen has fallen down, here. I have to breathe. The wet paper in my nose stinks, it’s stopped working.

There is a new tunnel. Part of me wants to train my eyes for dark blue. Another part of me doesn’t. But it’s no use, once you’ve had the thought it happens anyway.

Look Mum: your blue jacket. The one with the red lining. Why didn’t you tell me? There’s your work shoes. I never realised how scuffed they were.

Were you trying to tell me something? Your mouth, open wide. Perhaps it was one last yawn.

I’m not angry, not any more, I’m crying. Maybe optional means something else now.

Now I can’t think, can’t believe about it. That there: the person who got me born, brought me up as a baby, cared all the time she could. Who got me presents, made things fun at Christmas. Who laughed so loud it got me embarrassed. Who made jam on toast on Saturdays.