Secret Spot

I’m in a big, open field on the side of a crumbling country road. The field itself should be about three and a half acres total, but because of all the overgrowth and shit there’s about an acre of space left. It’s been passed down for a few generations in my family, but ever since it was inherited by the incapable, insufferable fucking man-children that are my father and brother, I think its days are numbered. There’s broken glass, mould and rats under every single fucking floorboard in the old house on the hill, even though the pair of retards have collectively spent years coming down here to apparently ‘sort everything out’.

I’m with some old friends. In the past, when there wasn’t so much black mould lining the walls, or mice talking underground, we’d run and roll around on the grass together, chasing birds and picking elderflower to make cordial. When I think back, I find myself missing the old me more than the old them – I was a lot skinnier. I’m fat now. I got diagnosed with an eating disorder last year. I can’t run anymore and rolling would just be embarrassing.

My friends and I decided to make a campfire to cook some food: we brought some beans and pork to stew. I prod the burning logs with a stick and the white wood is pulverised into jagged glowing embers. A plume of dust poofs up into the air and smoke rushes directly into my face. For fucks sake. I just switched seats. My friends can tell I’m annoyed and they all giggle. My eyes are very dry and I can feel tears start to well up, plus some of the smoke I breathed in is irritating my throat. I get up and say I need to piss. Someone says something about how good the food tastes.

Walking up the hill to the old family house, I can hear the strained voices of cyclists shouting to one another, and I see muted car headlights whizz pass behind the thicket of blackthorn and bramble. I look back at the campfire. It’s nighttime now, about 8:00pm, so none of the others see me. I decide to trudge back down the hill, but toward the rotting, short wooden gate guarding the entrance of the field. I heave myself over, almost slipping on the slimy rot but making it to the other side. A few cars shoot past me and cool me down, as some sweat starts to trickle down my armpits and forehead. I walk a few yards down to a bend in the road. I stand at just the perfect spot by the bend. Distant headlights, slowly creeping over the horizon, are suddenly ten feet away from me. I can make out the scruffy beard and bored eyes of the driver. For a split second, this huge painted hunk of metal is pointing directly at me and I can picture it trampling the curb and shredding my body. Then, it smoothly turns away. I let out a nervous laugh. My skin feels cold now but my cheeks are burning. I feel sweat drip between my thighs and down behind my knees.

I start walking back.

Someone asks what took me so long. Someone else mentions how all the food is all gone and the rest giggle because eating less will be good for me. I tell them about my secret spot and how I go there every night to picture exactly what it would look like right before I kill myself, which, I say, I’m planning on doing a week from now. Their faces shrivel and squint – at first it looks like suspicion but the gleam of orange-yellow light in the tears dribbling down their pale, smooth, slender faces makes me realise they’re crying. Then they start wailing. They plead with me not to do it. They stare at me and tell me how there’s still so much to do together, how they were discussing moving in with me and how they all feel sorry for the shitty, abrupt, unexplained way they stopped responding to my text messages. They tell me that they know they’d been spending too much time with their new friends and that they feel awful for not inviting me. They offer me the rest of the food still in their bowls and I eat it all.

I make my way up to the house on the hill. I want to go inside but I know the smell of damp will make me throw up, so I squat and piss by the front door. I walk back down to the campfire and sit silently in my chair. I think the others are telling horror stories. There’s enough food left to make myself a bowl, so I do – it does actually taste good; whoever said that was right.

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Pub: 03 Feb 2025 03:18 UTC

Edit: 03 Feb 2025 15:46 UTC

Views: 82