Sunburn

by Chloe Michelle Howarth

Now is the time between birth and slaughter. Another Summer has arrived. I spend my days waiting for something to happen. Something glorious, even something tragic. Nothing ever happens.

Life in the Summer goes slow, like one long, drawn-out fade of the sun.

Perhaps she has forgotten what it is to only get glimpses of independence. Those glimpses are everything to me. Feeling adult is everything to me. It gives me a sense of self, which is important, I think. Recently, I have really wanted to figure out who I am.

These days the girls let themselves crumble when the boys come around. I’m hoping that I’m just late developing, and in a month or two, I’ll start to crumble as well. I can’t stand being on the outside of what everyone else is feeling.

If the older girls knew how we idolise them, if they knew all the intimate things we have been told about them, I would be so embarrassed I’d have to change schools. But they must expect it, when they see us with our jaws on the floor and our pupils fat in awe as they pass us by. This admiration is the natural order, I’m sure.

The warmth and the wet of her mouth. What a thought to think! How suddenly and vehemently I think it. And how hot my cheeks are. It makes perfect sense to want to be inside her mouth, to be torn to pieces by her; until I catch myself wanting it, and I am shocked, I am disgusted. I almost laugh at my own absurdity. That wasn’t me at all, just a bad notion that got into my head to make trouble.

Even at my small age, I understood that there were limits to love, and I felt sure that one day people would run out of love for me.

Now that I am getting older, it doesn’t matter whether I am right next to her or out of sight, I’m heavy in the air, I am something always on her mind, she cannot be without me, even when she is dying to be. Maybe I deserved it, maybe not.

Afterwards, outside the church, I did not wish Susannah a good day, because my own day was ruined by her poise and beauty, and her terrifying grace. I never knew a person like her, nobody else made me so afraid.

It’s alright, I’m sure in every group there is one friend who is superior to the rest, and everyone admires this friend. I am sure the other girls look up to her the same way.

What is worse, to be remarkable or unremarkable? I wish I had never noticed that we girls replace the women, that the boys seamlessly replace the men, and that we all follow a pattern.

Imagine a place where I could scream and not be heard, and fail and not be seen. A place where my insignificance would not hurt, because everybody would be insignificant. That is not where I am. Here, every breath is heard, every evil thought is known. It might be beautiful to look at, but it is abysmal to exist in; a sweet, sad dream. And while I could think of a million places that I would rather be, I fear that I will never have the nerve to leave. I fear that Crossmore is too deep in me, and I would not know how to exist elsewhere.

Something must happen when you get older that makes you see the joy in these small things.

Even when we exist as diametric opposites, I never feel lonely when I’m with them. Apart, we are weeds, but together, we are wildflowers, we make a beautiful garden. We make each other. I wouldn’t make sense without them. I might not even exist.

Perhaps Mother is right to be concerned. To avoid being found out, I’ve started to casually mention boys’ names and make up things about them that I like.

For the sake of my reputation, it’s probably good that I am uninterested in these things. It’s a blessing, it must be. It means my greatest fear is not teenage pregnancy, nor is my greatest shame a sordid affair with a boy in the year above, nor is my greatest regret a funny taste in my throat.

My fear, shame, and regret are elsewhere; I know them all combined in one sickness when I stare at Susannah, deep and long, and without permission.

How am I supposed to get past this delusion when she comes directly to me? My heart lurches, as if it wants to leave my awful body and go make a home in her. All I want is to avoid what I feel, yet it seems that all Susannah wants is to bring these feelings to the centre of my attention.

The best. Tonight and every night, I will defend my title and write her more letters that chronicle my tiresome evenings and do all that I can to keep her warm in her big empty house. And she will read them while eating, lounging, and in bed.

I would drape my own soul over her body to protect her from eyes like mine.

Susannah is right. I like her. Isn’t she clever? Doesn’t she know me well? Of course I like her. I like her so much sometimes that I wish the other girls wouldn’t talk to her or touch her, and that it was only me and her. Is that too much?

The village isn’t supposed to know about her, but we all do, we all call her a dyke. Does liking Susannah make me the same as that? I don’t want to be a thing that the village isn’t supposed to know about. How can I fix this? Do I want this fixed?

‘She’s her mother’s daughter anyway.’ I am afraid that we might all be our mothers’ daughters.

Being alone with her now, I feel I am the nearest I have ever been to God.

I must leave now before she rolls over and gives me a reason to stay, before I fall in love with the remains of last night’s eyeliner under her eyes. Her makeup is on the pillowcase, the sweat of her neck is on the sheets, and I wish that a piece of me would be left behind the same way. Is that dirty? Is that fair of me?

Even in this life, we should be together. He wants his girl next door. I want the girl in the big, echoing house on the other end of the village. She wants a normal life. We will all be disappointed in the end.

We are so far away from everything. Mothers, money, men, all miles away. Our small world explodes and is made new. We are the only two people in it. Long may this last.

You seem to think I have all the power here, like I was going to decide not to want you anymore. I’m powerless. If you want me, I’m yours.

Another girl like me exists, and she is the most perfect girl in the world. The awful deed is done, our perfect love comes to life. I am hers, and she is mine.

Even if I told her that I finally feel like a proper person, that I can breathe, that I no longer need to imagine what it is to feel peace, it would be my end.

As long as she is good to them, and a little mean to me, nobody notices. It’s all so subtle that nobody thinks twice when Susannah comes over and spends all day in my bed, playing with my hair. It’s just female adolescence, nothing we do is taken seriously.

For now, let it be our perfect and precious thing. The privacy makes loving easy. And the privacy makes loving sad and frustrating. I have to save all my affection for the solitude of our bedrooms or the cold, dark outdoors.

It feels as though I am living upside down, breathing animosity in place of oxygen, as though I have slipped into the Otherworld, and I am now an invisible thing living in an invisible place, parallel to my human family.

It is a fight to exist in my own home. Is that not exhausting? Is it worth it? It feels like the good parts of loving have been thrown on the backseat and forgotten about.

I should stop bathing or wet myself at school or make my father cry, so that I have a real reason to feel ashamed. All I’ve done is fall for Susannah. It is not shameful or radical or wild. Anybody would fall for Susannah. I never meant to upset anybody.

She is so bright, so colourful, I get sunstroke from looking at her.

Then again, it’s hard for me to imagine him in love. It’s hard to imagine him as anything but a mumble at the kitchen table and the smell of the farm. In a way, he is a stranger. We don’t really know each other. So why not tell him? What have I got to lose?

The days of her decomposition are plain and slow. Dark, dim Summer evenings. Hot air, and not a slice of sun in the sky. Any minute, it could rain, and she might come to life again.

If I choose Susannah, I will be left motherless. I have seen what being motherless can do to a person.

The last of August is peeling off my shoulders, revealing softer skin for the Autumn to destroy. It seems cruel that the Summer should leave me in a way as physical as this.

A childish part of me is sad enough to think that we could carry on. If we are clever, and very determined, we could make this work, and we would not be reduced to a bleak memory. The rest of my life could be something to look forward to, if she was only willing to bend to the point of breaking.

That I am gay. I’ve been saying that a lot recently. I’ve settled into it now. It feels nice. I used to think it would always feel like an inconvenience, or at best, a numbness. But it feels good. I like it more and more.