Dear Memory, Dear Imagination (prose for Sarah Moss’ class)

Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. Why didn’t you take the eye mask. Close your eyes. Close your ears. Close your fucking mouth. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re not in some shitty medical tube waiting for your fate to be determined. No. No that’s not it. They’ll tell you you have lung cancer and then you will decide what happens. Jesus. You just wanted to outlive your mother. Breathe out slowly. Don’t cry. There is a landscape in your mind. Jesus. You’re not a fucking philosopher who thinks about fucking landscapes. Blow your savings and live it out on some island. Give everything away. None of it matters anymore. You don’t even like looking at photos. It just makes you so fucking sad. Fuckety fuck fuck. All the cigarettes. Your first one at thirteen. Cow shed. It’s so disgusting but you play it cool. You want to like it. You want to be like Claire. Cool as fuck. Have a fag and a Smirnoff Ice. A Bacardi Breezer. Get drunk and snog a guy. A first kiss with cigarette breath. He grimaces and lights up and then kisses you again. That’s better now. Christ, they’re going to bury you beside her in a bloody Catholic graveyard. Even if you told Maisie you just wanted to be scattered in the ocean, she would never listen. You’ll haunt them forever if they do that. Your poor bones trapped beside her forever. Trapped in life. Trapped in death. No, no. None of it matters now. Your spirit will be free. Jesus, do you even believe in spirits? Don’t scream. Clap for me. What a performance. Daughter of the year. Friend of the year. Employee of the year. Clap. Clap. Clap. How long now? Count. 1 2 3 4. Tickety bomb bomb boo boo. Just think - you’re in a bath now. You’re not trapped. They’re not counting the tumours in your body. You’ve never wanted to dance more. How you love the tango. Watching insta videos of sexy tango dancers in the dentist’s waiting room. You always fancied yourself as a sexy tango dancer. If you weren’t so fucking fat. Smokers are all skinny. Another lie. Lie. Lie. LIES. L-I-E-S. Try saying a prayer. Listen, you thought you were Bridget Jones at eighteen. Everybody smoked. Your first boyfriend at uni thinks he’s so fucking mature and says loudly, after fucking you quite mechanically as if you were a sex doll, that he’ll have a ‘postcoital fag’ because they taste the best. Feeling so fucking proud of himself. Smug bastard orgasm fag shitshow. Don’t open your eyes. Breath in. Sigh out. Was it the menthols? Grandad smoked like a chimney and never got a cold. Aunt Liz was pickled with booze. Live long and prosper with vodka in hand. You knew it was the menthols. The odd cigarillo. A pipe. Pot. Fuck, it was the pot. Isn’t that supposed to heal you or some shit? This is it. This is what you have always wanted. Start smoking again. Go out in a drug-fuelled blaze. Be less polite. Tell the truth. Have as much sex as you want. You have the upper hand. You can’t be hurt. Have meaningless sex. Why is your throat so tight. It’s that thing again. Oh,that thing. Love. You’ve never been loved by a guy. You’re thirty-five and you know that no guy has ever loved you. Jas cared for you but he didn’t love you. You both knew that.  You’ve been infatuated…. Infatuated maybe four times. A dozen crushes. You have never been in love. Fuck. What’s wrong with you. Google sociopaths. Why haven’t you ever been in love. You’ve always been open with the wrong people. Always too fucking trusting with the wrong guy and your heart couldn’t take it. Your legs are going numb. You’re going soft. It’s happening already. You’re going to end up on a fucking American talk show and they’re going to lap it up. The terminally ill woman who has never known real love. Find her a knight in shining armour. Shit. Stay still please. Clap some more. Take a bow. This is my final performance. Is it over now? Is it really over? See Venice. Swim in a lagoon. Breathe. Your body is on fire. They did this. Fuck that cute doctor. Fuck the nurse too. Try orgies. A sex club in Berlin. Get an STD. Die of syphilis. Shit. Don’t laugh. Stay perfectly still. Embark on a life of crime. Raid a bank. Live life large. Give money to David for his mum. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Write a novel. Everybody writes memoirs now. Why does every Tom, Dick and Harry think we want to read about their sad fucking lives? Guess what guys. We don’t give a shit. Somebody tell them they’re not that special. They’re still going to die. Christ, this is like that movie with Cher…Moonthing. Moonstruck. I just want you to know that whatever you do you are sill going to die. Craving immortality? A memoir ain’t going to fix it, mate. Vampire Lestrad. Don’t you look delicious? BITE ME. Christ, any guy who looks like Brad Pitt is free to suck you dry. You should have spoken to Will. Turn back time. Speak to a friend. Tell them the truth. Don’t be frightened now. Open that mouth of yours. Tongue moves. Vocal cords. Sound. Hello. Hello. Hi Will. I want to be your friend. I want to be more than your friend. Don’t listen to that dickhead voice. Speak. Will they see? Could they have known? He would have just felt sorry for you like the rest of them. You would take a pity-fuck right now. FUCK, WOMAN - HAVE SOME SELF-RESPECT. Who dies at this age without having known love? Fuck the patriarchy. Fuck romcoms. This is what got you into this mess. Don’t chase fantasies. Eat, shit, puke. No, that’s not it. You wanted to love them. Dear memory. Dear imagination.