Photography by Pip Murphy-Hoyle
“I” ~ The adult self.
“You” ~ The teen.
“She” ~ The child.
“We” ~ Maeve.
The neighbour’s grey kitty dashed under a parked car this morning, it was pretty like silver, and our head flicked over instinctively once she’d noticed. Our toes twitched to tiptoe over, and the pspsps was on the tip of our tongue. She knelt and peered under the car; she longed to reach out and collect the soft kitten into a warm cuddle where we could bury our nose in its fur.
I felt morning dew soak our jeans and decided this was far enough. Her excitement wasn’t nearly worth our while when we were already late for class. She receded and I turned our head forward, clutched our coat tighter, and marched up the hill to the train station.
A yawn overtook our features as you rose from your slumber and a faint headache pulsed. You stood us on platform 1 where the middle door to the front carriage always stopped. Guided by the yellow lights of the train, we sat on the orange disabled chair, next to the old woman and not the man opposite, right by the door, emergency button within reach, where you had a perfect view of everyone else. You eyed anybody with jitters, greasy hair, odd-looking clothes, or carrying an overly large bag with a cigarette-smoke-soaked smell.
I pulled our phone from our pocket to end your pointless spiral.
*
I pinched the bridge of our nose and tried to ignore the bustle of the tram stop to lessen our migraine. You’d been overly insistent on the train today; whatever the case, you’d been determined to shake control from my grasp and leap from the strangers that came a little too close.
She stirred slightly when you sat us down on the tram opposite an older lady. The woman had wiry black hair, and her puffer jacket was an odd greenish colour, and she was sporting brilliant purple and white striped stockings. An image sprung forth in our mind of a witch who appeared in childhood picture books Mum read us. I had forgotten, but she remembered the kooky witch perfectly.
She came to the surface, convinced that witch sat across from us now. When the witch leant over, she was waiting to greet her.
“Sorry, Miss, but...” the witch’s accent, most likely eastern European, had her enthralled. “The- the library?”
We nodded, understanding. “Just stay on this tram and get off in two stops. It’ll be right in front of you.”
“Thank you,” the witch smiled, and a warm bubble rose in our stomach.
“I love your stockings!” she blurted and I felt you still. You hadn’t been expecting her to take the reins after your presence had been so stifling. The knot in our throat clumped and we swallowed stiffly as our nervousness caught up with us.
But the witch only laughed with crinkled crow-footed eyes and got off the tram at her stop.
*
You fumed in the back of our mind and encouraged our migraine to throb a little harder. We winced at the sensation as we walked through the empty hallway to our next class. It didn’t matter that nothing had happened, you were always overprotective of her. You writhed in displeasure, but I had resumed control, and I wasn’t letting it go so easily.
We hung our coat over the back of our chair. I’d taken our normal seat at the front of the class, a quieter spot where I wouldn’t have to worry about you getting out of hand. I watched uncomfortably as a group of strangers poured into the classroom, and you grew itchier by the second. Their class had been cancelled this week, so they had joined ours.
“Do you mind if we sit with you?”
Our head whipped up at the voice. Fucking perfect, I thought.
A boy who usually sat on the back table where the strangers have taken territory stared at us expectantly. He wore jeans and a baggy knitted sweater with a mop of messy brown curls, and I knew you were drooling. He seemed to be a magnet for other people like him—a girl carrying a tote woven with plastic bags, and another whose platinum hair was too short to wear all up. Said collection of people was waiting in front of us.
You bubbled to a boil, but I covered you with a lid.
“Sure,” we said and chatted with them. The class started and I felt you failing to flick our eyes across to Mr Messy Curls and the platinum girl you assumed was his girlfriend.
It was while we were working on the group activity that the tutor approached us.
“You name was Maeve, wasn’t it?”
I nodded and tried to shake the sense of foreboding that had settled on our shoulders. Our tutor knelt by our chair, and I felt you start to tick through possibilities of what she was about to say in our mind. Though, I don’t think you ever would have guessed this:
“About the essay from last Friday…” our tutor swallowed, and I felt you hit the panic button before she had even said a word. “I didn’t receive your submission. It’s perfectly alright if there was an issue with the online portal, but you’ll have to send an appeal to get this overlooked…”
Her voice faded into nothing, and our face stared blankly at hers. You had turned into a hurricane, ripping the ropes of control from my hands in your storm of thoughts and anxieties. Our migraine roared as I desperately tried to pin you down and limit the mess you were making.
Images flashed quickly while you rampaged, tying knot after knot after knot. Thoughts of getting an appeal approved, not getting approval, having a late assignment and losing marks, potentially failing the assignment, everything being fine, and nothing being fine.
Stay calm, it was obviously the portal. We submitted. I called into the chaos, hoping you’d hear me.
Our head nodded and thanked our teacher for her help, completely on autopilot. We returned to our work and felt the prickles run across our back. A thousand tiny eyeballs stared at us, wondering why we’d been spoken to.
The final straw was when you saw platinum girl and plastic girl whisper to each other before flicking their eyes to us. At that moment, you threw me and I fell back more and more in our mind as your presence became too overwhelming for us all to fit in together.
Everything was black.
*
I pressed our palm to our head. Even in the inky darkness and damp cold weather our migraine throbbed at every glimpse of the streetlights which fractured our shadow three ways. The darkness only perpetuated your anxiety, and the knot you’d tied so tightly had sunk deep in our gut.
When your anxiety abated enough to let me back into our mind it was a mess. It looked like our bedroom but with thoughts flung left, right, and centre instead of dirty laundry. It was so cluttered I could barely think.
While your thoughts echoed, I pieced together everything that had happened. Every sidewards glance, every fiddle with a bracelet or ring, anything that could be capricious, you’d latched onto like flies on shit. Nothing had happened, as usual, and you’d extrapolated whatever you saw, all in your effort to shield her from possibilities she’d never imagine.
Our migraine pulsed and I brought our feet to a halt, squeezing our eyes shut.
You need to calm down, I thought to ourselves. Just stop.
A meow broke the silence. A very close meow. Our eyes opened and the grey cat was in front of us. It strode over confidently, eyeing us just enough to gauge whether we were friendly, before curling between our legs. I couldn’t feel its fur through our jeans, but I imagined it was softer than clouds.
She pushed forward before either of us realised it, rushing out of your protectiveness and away from my instruction, and knelt us down.
“Hi kitty,” she smiled. Our hands ran along the kitten’s back, fingers tangling in longish grey fur. It meowed again and shut its yellow eyes in delight.
Our hands must be magic! A giggle reverberated in our mind. I needed to push forward again, drag her back so we could stand up and just get home. We needed to cook dinner, finish our homework, take a shower, and, most importantly, get our hands on the migraine pills we keep in our bedside table.
But I didn’t. We knelt with the kitty for a while. You and I watched her coddle it and scratch under its chin and run our hand over its feather-duster tail. You and I watched her look up at the sky and count the twelve stars we could see and name all the colours that were hovering from the dusk. You and I never agreed on much, but we agreed on this.
It was her turn.