Easy Listening by Lucy Walton

‘Can you tell me what happened, right from the beginning?’ She sat across from me her eyes searching mine. The Parker pen was perched ready to inscribe on the headed paper.

‘All, all I can remember is the lake.’

‘Ok let’s begin at the lake and we’ll take it from there.’ She pushed the cup of water my way and I took a sip.

‘Ok, well there was no-one around. I, I knew there wouldn’t be.’

‘So you had been there before?’ She made her first note, her eyes leaving me for only a moment before I was under facial examination again.

‘Yes, though I wasn’t supposed to be.’

‘And why was that?’ Because it brought me happiness.

‘He wouldn’t let me.’ It felt silly even saying it now.

‘And why wouldn’t he let you?’

‘He didn't like it when I left the house. He didn’t like it when I wrote.’ He locked me in when he went out to work and burned all my notebooks so I couldn't write.

‘What did you write about?’

‘My feelings, but he knew if anyone found them they would know what he did to me.’

‘Did you write about your feelings by the lake?’

‘Yes. It’s where I could do my best work. Where I would not be disturbed.’

‘So you knew no-one would see you by the lake?’

‘Yes, the path behind me was smooth. It had been that way ever since I had gone there.’ And if anyone had, the tree by the bench shielded it from view.

‘And how long had you been going there?’

‘Every day.’

‘Every day for how long?’

‘Every day since it began.’ But this time unlike the others, my heart was beating so fast I thought blood was going to pour out my ears.

‘And how did you feel at this point?’ How would you feel?

‘All I wanted to do was cry but I had learned over time how to hold back my tears.’

‘What did not crying achieve?’

‘He only touched me if I cried.’ Crying was a sign of weakness and I wasn’t weak.

‘It’s as if I am still there.’

I remember the cool air reducing the pressure that pushed hard against my temples. There was barely any sound. The gentle lapping of the water upon the pebbles on the beach before me or at the underside of the line of rowing boats tied to the jetty. No-one around. The faint rustling of the trees that framed the lake like candles around a birthday cake of someone of many years.

‘What is it about this lake that brings you so much peace?’

‘It’s my friend. My only friend.’

I did not have to prove myself to it, to speak false ‘hellos’, show false interest or provide any excuses for how I spent my time. It knew that I could be myself without embellishment; I did not have to glaze over my insecurities to impress. We had a common understanding that I would not demand anything from it and it would not demand anything from me, all I had to do was sit by it once in a while.

‘Can you describe it to me?’

‘It’s hard to say out loud.’

‘Could you write it down for me?’ She moved her pen in my direction and slid over a piece of clean paper.

‘Yes I believe I could.’ I took the pen from her and began to write. The words came so fast, so eloquently, like I had planned it though, every little detail was still in focus in my mind. It was poetic, lyrical, the way it landed on the page.

The soft dusk light was kind to my eyes. At dusk, every ripple was like a beacon of light.  Like rain droplets made of diamonds had silently fallen from the sky in an invisible shower while my eyes were shut. All of them floating on the surface of the water.

As if a million paparazzi were clicking the button on their cameras all at once, all set to flash. Another profile, another angle, another pensive look that would be twisted or moulded into a perception based on nothing other than a stereotype or probability.   Why would anyone be so interested in my story? So many others had suffered what I had, why was I so special?

No-one would see and get upset. For no-one ever came here. No-one would feel uncomfortable at my sitting here looking at it, no-one would ever know. Just the lake- but it would not tell anyone, it would just be there for me, for whenever I called upon it, and all it would do was listen.  Just our little secret.

I placed the pen down. The freedom to write was exhilarating. As I read it to her, she listened with patience and interest. Something I was not used to. ‘Do you think you can tell me what happened to your husband now?’

‘I, I can’t. I’m not ready to yet.’

‘Why don’t you go on and then read it back to me?’

The pen was my vessel of creativity and it sailed through the imperfections of the thick paper.

The body of my husband bobbed in each roll of the water close the shoreline. Teetering on the pebbles. Just like the rowing boats. On his back, eyes open in a photographic fix, the only thing missing was the posed smile. His mouth was open slightly as if still trying to capture his last breath. The only air that rushed by his lips was that of the breeze coaxing his corpse to generate it on its own. Mocking his inability to by persisting in its movement. His arms and legs swayed independently from the rest of his body; the lake taking hold of his movements now. A puppeteer with strings made of water. His clothes were bulging about his small frame, squelching, as the air battled with the water to touch the skin beneath the layers. His hair spread about his head like tentacles reaching towards the centre of the lake, pulling him further in. Birds circled above in quiet speculation of the thing that floated on their feeding plane. None dared to swoop for it was much larger than their usual catch.

My hands were still tensed from gripping his neck in the vice. I rubbed them together in circles and moved up my forearm, caressing all the old scars. Each one brought back a sickening memory. My body was a story book of tolerated abuse. All my clothes were selected and bought to hide the damaged, fleshy pages of my marriage. My frumpy jumper and skirt were still damp from stooping in the shallow water. The blood seeped through my knickers at the back. The lake had bathed my wounds. The bruises about my hips ached where he had grabbed me and the pain as I sat on the bench was excruciating. It had been easy to hold him under. Why had I been frightened of him for so long? I would never have to see those eyes alight with anger anymore.

As my hands had tightened around his neck I could see he finally felt something for every time he hurt me. As if every hit, every cut, was being relived and he was the one feeling the pain. He no longer saw my face through his fish-like eyes, but snapshots of why I was hurting him now. Images he had stored in the books at the back of the library in his mind, on the top shelves where no-one could reach.

I could see her throat move under her skin as she swallowed down the foul taste of murder. ‘He leaned back into the water as I let go. And his eyes, his eyes did not leave me. I let the lake take him away from me.’

‘Is that the last you remember of him?’ She struggled to ask the question, clearing throat first.

‘I decided not to look at his body again and I stood up and walked away.’

That was the last time I saw the lake and it had never looked so beautiful. 

I am 26, live in Warrington and a part time creative writing masters student at the University of Bolton.  Easy Listening was one of my submissions for the module last semester.