Scorched MemoryA Story by KWP Task #4 It’s hot as hell out here. The kind of dry heat where body movement requires an upheaval of force. Decisions are never over thought, for if they are, there is every likelihood they to will disappear into the unreachable oasis of water always up ahead and out of reach, on the highway. The fifteen hundred kilometre drive west bore me witness the vibrant coastal colour and life that is Sydney, to dissipate into a pallet of drab, dirt encrusted, sepia portrait of disparity. To say it’s dry out here is an understatement. It’s dead. As much as I want to remain immune to the cause and effect of the outback, it’s hopeless. The sun is unrelenting, screaming in intensity, pushing down, adding, it’s own heat to the already boiled melting pot. It smothers the scraps of life that remain with such an oppressive strength you are able to feel the air being sucked right out of your lungs. I am driving atop a scorched earth. Parched cracks criss-cross in arid, valley like formation across the horizon. The landscape yielding to the sun. The hope for rain long since has been replaced, the norm is now the sterile existence in its place. Wind picks up dust and it cakes itself onto my skin, gets caught in eyelashes, forms mini mud rivers at the creases of elbows, knees and, if it’s windy enough across the fold my belly as I drive. In the rear vision mirror I see more tiny rivers of muddy sweat cascade from my hairline looking for some kind or refuge before they too shrivel and cease to have even been. With windows down, this road is leading me back into the sapless history of my childhood. Thirty years ago I left this place, vowing never to return. Now it seems, my mother, who deemed herself incapable of helping me back then, is about to die. If it were my own decision, I’d let her die. Let her live out her remaining days alone. I imagine her lying comatose unable to feel, no, that’s too kind. She’s able to feel, yes, let her inaction of the past penetrate her comatose body. I want wretchedness to scratch and naw unceasingly at her soul until her last breath. And why not? Her actions, all that time ago, or perhaps I should say, inactions, have caused me to pass my own life paralysed to emotion. At times I see my moments as a tiny sand particles passing through the hourglass of my life. Each coming and going without fanfare. Each dropping into the ever increasing pile of infertile memories. ‘It’s about closure.’ Pamela, my current therapist, in a long line of therapists said. ‘If you miss this opportunity, you may miss your last chance at a new life. This will be good for you in the long run.’ ‘She did nothing for me then, I can’t imagine her being on her deathbed, she will do anything for me now.’ ‘As I said, it’s about closure. And let’s put it this way, if you don’t go, you can find yourself a new therapist.’ She had me then. We both knew it. Over the last year, I’ve kicked all kinds of hurdles with Pamela. I believe I’m even starting to get a sniff at what people describe as happiness. I’d call her a friend, but as I’ve learnt in the past, therapists don’t have clients as friends. Which means the countless dinners, lunches, picnics and walks along the coast, exchanged subtle glances have all been ‘uncharged’ therapy sessions. Pamela can even touch me now and I no longer flinch. A light tracing of her finger down my cheek, an occasional embrace that feels as if she could to rest there forever. She’s my long road back. I just need to figure out the point where I currently stand. I drive past the town sign. The sign which encases the start of a book holding so many chapters of my life I never wish to reread. Yet here I am. ’Tibooburra, population 252’. I feel the cracks from the enduring drought of emotion resurface within. Population 252. My mother is about to die. 251. If he is still alive, he’d be over eighty by now. If not, population 250. I’m hoping for the latter. At the thought of him, my hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are popping white. I need to calm myself, but it’s not easy. Snippets of myself as a fourteen year old girl slam onto my already bug ridden windscreen. Unlike the bugs, the memories are demanding my attention. I begin to falter. With all of my inner strength, I turn my thoughts to Pamela. ‘Look to your future.’ That’s what she’d say. ‘Focus on what’s ahead, not what has already passed. You cannot alter life happened, you can however alter life ahead.’ When I am with Pamela, she makes life seem so easy, graspable even. But right now, Pamela and everything she’s jumbled into our relationship seems to be vanishing with the dust cloud behind my car. I see nothing, my vision is blurred. The distance I have come with Pamela all whisked away into the exanamite Tibooburra landscape.. As I drive down Main Street I notice time has taken it’s toll on this town. There’s nothing new, not one building. The same bakery, the same pub, the same post office. These still open. The fifteen or so other buildings lining the street look long since closed. Windows either boarded up or so full of dirt you can’t see through them anyhow. Surely the whole place will be known soon as a tourist destination. ‘Tibooburra, The Town That Never Did’, that’s what they could call it. My plan was to speed past the Police Station. I see the blue and white sign ‘POLICE’ has been replaced, making it seem like the shiniest and most well looked after piece of property in the whole town. I’ve stopped. In the middle of the empty street my car is at a standstill in front of the Police Station. My heart has decided to masquerade as a native indian drum, beating its way to an ominous crescendo. Is is trying to ward away evil? My hands grip the steering wheel even harder than before. My nails pierce the skin on the palms of my hands as I try to put an end to my body shaking from my hands down. One man deemed himself chief of this area for four hundred kilometres in every direction. The State handed him his own privilege of being the sole police officer in his own single unit police station. State put him here, then they turned turn their backs let him do as he pleased. His perfect scenario. How one man could suffocate a whole town into believing he was their saviour still leaves me wide eyed and bewildered. I’m not sure if it was stupidity, ignorance or fear that froze this place into its own inertia. ‘You okay there?’ I’ve slid into the cracks of my own memories. My car is idling out the front of the Police Station. I have no idea for how long. A young guy in uniform approaches. In the quick scan of his face I allow myself, I believe I see a softness to it. That’s what Pamela has given me, a softened view of life. I put the car back into drive and place my foot on the accelerator so fast I hear the dirt skid and slide as the car resumes its motion. I don’t bother looking back. A kilometre away from Main Street I turn into the driveway of my childhood home. It’s exactly as I remember it, besides the fact it doesn’t look like it’s been painted in the thirty years since I left. When I was young, much younger than fourteen, the bright blue paint covering my house reminded me of the vastness of the sky. Now, the paint is peeling with such ferocity the grey undercoat resembles treacherous storm clouds. The corrugated tin roof is no longer silver. It’s rusted over complete matching the red of the earth. Fly screens are missing. The garden has long since surrendered to the drought. I note all the places this house is broken. The second of three tiny concrete steps cracked away, the mailbox fallen from it’s post now resting on the lifeless grass, a shattered window taped up, holes in the lifetime old faded curtains. The house number eleven has been reduced to number one. What a joke. Number one. No not ever. Her car is in the driveway, flat tyres, doesn’t look like it’s been driven in years. Spiderwebs cover the side mirrors, bonnet and wheels. Dead leaves mound the wipers. The vinyl seats split with age spewing foam from the sunburnt cracks. Sitting in the car I check myself. I can do this. It’s about closure. I can’t help but to picture Pamela in my minds eye. She wants to know that I have put my past behind me before our relationship deepens. She hasn’t said this of course, I feel it. I know I am right. My mother is inside, death is calling her, I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel anything at all. Therein lies the problem, so I’ve been told. My mother never helped me. She knew what was happening, but she never did a damn thing. I had to learn to build brick walls so strong around myself just as a survival technique. In doing so I protected myself from the world. In doing so life was locked out with the rest of it. I can’t help but think of my mother as I see her dilapidated house, her unmoving car, this derelict town with death calling out from every direction. The years are not kind out here. Kind has never visited Tibooburra. © 2016 KWPAuthor's Note
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KWPSydney, NSW, AustraliaAbout'The kernel, the soul — let us go further and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances — is plagiarism. For substantially all ideas are sec.. more..Writing
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