Snowflake

by Louise Nealon

A bearded avocado is talking at me.

I tried to follow Mam’s logic but she let go of my hand along the way.

I feel so insubstantial that I imagine myself easily being knocked out of my body and into hers.

It is socially acceptable to be an alcoholic in our parish as long as you don’t get treatment for it.

It seems like a waste of a shave for nobody—not even drunk girls—to take a sneaky look to see how presentable I have made myself.

I don’t really have girlfriends anyway. Some of the girls in school would tolerate me the way you would a stray cat.

I sprint the last kilometer every time, no matter how empty I’m feeling, just to prove to myself that I still exist. My heart hammers the message home. I’m here. I’m alive.

“You need to teach me your ways.” “I will.” She hands me a cup of tea. “Oh my God, I love you,” I say. “I love you too.”

I push myself into his mouth, wanting to suck the emptiness out of him, but he pulls away.

She doesn’t register the existence of anyone or anything beyond the pages of the book.

“Unfortunately, the waiting list for inpatient treatment without private health insurance is insane.” He says the word with no irony.

I saw a bank statement on her kitchen table. She has five thousand euro in her bank account. I can’t remember the last time my bank account was out of overdraft.

“My mam used to read me a story about a snowflake who didn’t believe in snow,”

I’m always uncomfortable leaving the kitchen when the radio is on. I feel bad that it’s rambling away to an empty room. I’m also afraid I’m missing out on something, like the voices will say something interesting, or bitch about me when I’m out of earshot.

The other tasks seem impossible. Apologize to Xanthe. Don’t drink alcohol. Don’t kiss people I don’t fancy.

You want to know how to get a first? Give out to yourself. Constantly. Be disappointed in everything you write. Tell yourself you’re worth nothing if you don’t get over seventy percent. I actually like hating myself. It’s my comfort zone.”