Paula
by 
Anna Reynolds
|
Posted: Wednesday, March 26, 2003 Word Count: 461 Summary: I wondered what writers would feel like writing in response to ongoing world events. So I thought I'd better put my money where my mouth is. I wrote this for a recent writers' conference on this very subject. |
PAULA
Once upon a time is how the story starts. It’s always the same. The ending changes but it always begins the same, it has to. I get off the plane. There’s nobody to meet me, there never is, just a blanket of thin snow and a high wind lifting the flaps on the wings and an empty building in front of me, windows blown out. There used to be a bar but now there’s just shards of glass lying on the floor. There’s blood on some of the shards. I pick one up. It snags at my hand. I bleed but the freezing air heals my wound almost straight away. That’s when I think it’s going to be alright.
I follow the signs. They don’t lead anywhere. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I see some people, standing by a truck. They might be waiting for me. They’re strangers to me. They do not smile at me. Not once. They stand by the open door at the back of the truck. And I get in, I don’t know why, it isn’t sensible, it isn’t recommended but I get in. Inside suddenly it’s dark and hot and then nothing.
Somebody speaks. Very low. I can only just hear the shape of the words.
Listen. There’s no time but you must listen very carefully. I think it’s about to happen. They say it won’t but I think it is, I know it is, I’m the only one who seems to know and NOBODY IS LISTENING TO ME. This is how it starts. We are waiting to die and not knowing what to do until we do. In the end, in the end she will beg me to go, to leave her, to get help, but when it comes I won’t go. I can’t, how can I? She will say, and there’s a certain kind of logic here, she will say that one of us has to survive, one of us must or nobody will know the truth anymore, but why should it have to be me?
I don’t know what to say. The truck starts and bumps, suddenly, just once, and then somebody sighs and I realize there are other bodies. I can’t see or hear them but I can feel them. Near me. Pressing in on me. Afraid, hot, trying to say something without speaking. I reach out and touch a hand. Fingers, dry and thin. Warm. Warming me up. Gripping me. Hurting my hand but I don’t let go. I can’t. We’re sharing the same air. Breathing the same breath. Going to the same destination, not knowing where that is, if we’ll make it. I’ll wake up soon. I’ll try and wake up soon, before it gets to the end.
Once upon a time is how the story starts. It’s always the same. The ending changes but it always begins the same, it has to. I get off the plane. There’s nobody to meet me, there never is, just a blanket of thin snow and a high wind lifting the flaps on the wings and an empty building in front of me, windows blown out. There used to be a bar but now there’s just shards of glass lying on the floor. There’s blood on some of the shards. I pick one up. It snags at my hand. I bleed but the freezing air heals my wound almost straight away. That’s when I think it’s going to be alright.
I follow the signs. They don’t lead anywhere. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I see some people, standing by a truck. They might be waiting for me. They’re strangers to me. They do not smile at me. Not once. They stand by the open door at the back of the truck. And I get in, I don’t know why, it isn’t sensible, it isn’t recommended but I get in. Inside suddenly it’s dark and hot and then nothing.
Somebody speaks. Very low. I can only just hear the shape of the words.
Listen. There’s no time but you must listen very carefully. I think it’s about to happen. They say it won’t but I think it is, I know it is, I’m the only one who seems to know and NOBODY IS LISTENING TO ME. This is how it starts. We are waiting to die and not knowing what to do until we do. In the end, in the end she will beg me to go, to leave her, to get help, but when it comes I won’t go. I can’t, how can I? She will say, and there’s a certain kind of logic here, she will say that one of us has to survive, one of us must or nobody will know the truth anymore, but why should it have to be me?
I don’t know what to say. The truck starts and bumps, suddenly, just once, and then somebody sighs and I realize there are other bodies. I can’t see or hear them but I can feel them. Near me. Pressing in on me. Afraid, hot, trying to say something without speaking. I reach out and touch a hand. Fingers, dry and thin. Warm. Warming me up. Gripping me. Hurting my hand but I don’t let go. I can’t. We’re sharing the same air. Breathing the same breath. Going to the same destination, not knowing where that is, if we’ll make it. I’ll wake up soon. I’ll try and wake up soon, before it gets to the end.