The door closes behind her. She doesn’t bother with the latch. She stands for a moment and sheds the stench of antiseptic. The fresh air swallows it, carries it, splutters it out on the breeze.
She pushes her bike – prescribed rather than chosen. Helmet on her head, clips dangling past her chin. Sad spaniel ears. She guides it, swerving round pedestrians so carefree she wonders how they don’t simply float away. Rise into the atmosphere leaving flip flops, sandwich crusts, and anxious bystanders to watch frowning, craning back, even heavier than before. Already knowing but unable to articulate exactly why they won’t drift away too.
We understand there’s a burden of treatment. There are ways round that.
Was this what anchored her feet so concretely to the ground? Saddled like a carthorse. Or perhaps a seaside donkey.
Even as a child she was unable to ride without a helmet and shin pads, or unstick her feet from the pedals and throw awkward sparrow legs out, picking up speed down a mountain of a hill. She’d never let herself freewheel. Wobble, whoop, knuckles bleached clamping. Tremble, fear and excitement dancing their dirty samba through her veins. Velocity, cleansing. Pity seeping from her pores, swept away by the wind. She’d always squeezed the breaks just enough. Enough to feel control. Enough that she rode through a squeal.
The treatment is working. Big improvements so far.
The wind whips her hair into a noose. Doesn’t make her like everyone else though.
Does it?
This is good news. Do you understand?
Swallow a fistful of tablets, in 2s, 3s and 4s, for breakfast. Every day. Taste of pennies and mud. And supper. Every day.
Inhale a mist that slinks through lungs to snip the sewage that brews there. Every day.
Inject a needle deep into the thigh. Burns and swells the skin. Bruises bloom over each other. Jellyfish stinging. Every day.
Exercise, heart hurting, move air through the body. Let oxygen rebuild. Every day.
Make it the same time every day every day every day. You don’t want to forget.
To forget means to remember. Memory is the burden.
Make it routine. Make it thoughtless.
Perhaps if she thinks less about her body, she’ll forget it’s a broken cage.
After the treatment, wash the equipment. Scald fingers on water hot enough for disinfection. Hot enough to brand. To wear fingerprints to nothing. Every goddamn day.
Spontaneity is unreachable, top shelf goods not for the likes of her. Sometimes she thinks about taking the pills labelled for another day. Pop in a Tuesday on an otherwise clockwork Thursday. A defection, diminutive, disregarded.
Her handlebars vibrate. Tell her today she could do something remarkable. Something incredible. Something different at least. Not good enough to walk, basket full of good intentions. She could mount at the top of a slope. Peer over, flicker of a smile. Apprehensive that she’ll have to stop, rather than start. Push off. Take off. Soar. Like a tern on a thermal, chasing the troughs and crests of the waves.
She blinks and she’s home. Stares at the gate, iron bars slicing her garden to pieces. Already tastes soil.
There’s always tomorrow.
Martha Lane is a writer from the North East of England. She only started writing flash and micro fiction in 2020 and has been published by Flash Flood Journal, Perhappened Mag, All Female Menu, and Bandit Fiction. She was longlisted for the Strands International Flash Fiction Competition – 9 and narrowly missed the Reflex Fiction and Forge Flash Fiction competitions. Now she loves all things short form she has started work on a novella. Find Martha at @poor_and_clean.
