Chapter Three: My Recycled Soul by Lynette Ferreira
I pull at the leather straps in my hands and stop. Turning
in my saddle, I wait for him to catch up to me. When he reaches me, I ask, “How
do you know my name?”
He smiles down at me. “I have seen you around. Where are you going?”
“Circling our land. And you?” I ask politely.
“Same. Just making sure everything is as it should be.”
“So, you know my name, should I not know your name?”
“I am Gerard.”
I wake up with a start. My room is still midnight dark, and
I do not want to reach for my phone on my bedside table to see what the time
is, so I close my eyes and soon I am fast asleep again.
Gerard is sitting on the wall, beside his horse. It is as if
he is waiting for me. I smile happily, but reluctant to let him see the joy on
my face, I look down at him arrogantly and nod my head in acknowledgement,
while I continue walking my horse past him.
“Morning Eilish,” he calls after me, but I ignore him,
keeping my back stiff and straight, sitting as ladylike as I possibly can.
I feel his eyes burning into my back and I chastise myself
for not stopping to talk to him.
It is as if my mind is set to repeat and this happens again
and again, until he gets up and grabs onto my horse, just as I am passing him.
He looks up at me. “So, how long is this going to carry on?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” I look down at
him pompously.
He laughs loudly. “Yes, you do.”
I answer insulted, “No, I don’t.”
“Stop awhile, if you don’t mind, and talk with me.”
He reaches his arms up toward me, and with my heart in my
stomach, I lean down to him. He helps me down from the horse and then I sit
down next to him on the wall. We sit there silently, looking out over the
fields, the grass gently swaying in the breeze. The silence feels comfortable,
and I feel at ease in his company.
The sun starts to set over the horizon, painting the rolling
hills in a cascade of pastel colours and still neither one of us say a word.
I get up to go and he holds me back by taking my hand. The
sensation, which runs through my veins at this simple gesture, the touch of his
skin to mine, makes my heart race.
“Will you meet me here again tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” I reply coyly.
I pull my hand from his gently and walk away, as he calls
after me, “I hope so.” My unbelievable attraction to him is intense. It is
scary and daunting.
The memory of this dream remains with me longer than the
others. In my everyday life, my parents continue making plans, packing boxes,
shipping favourite pieces of furniture, seemingly oblivious, as always, of how
I feel. My mum starts to pack the things in my room. Slowly my cosy,
comfortable haven starts to resemble an empty shell with four walls and a bed.
All my memories are slowly stripped from the walls and my surroundings. With
trepidation I feel the inevitable future rush toward me.
Sometimes my mum creeps into my room late at night. She
often asks me softly if I am sleeping, and when I say no, she sits down on my
bed next to me. She takes my hand into hers, smiling encouragingly, and then
she tries to convince me how great it will be to make new friends, to widen my
horizons and how I will do well anywhere in the world, because I am such a
clever girl.
Whatever.
Once she leaves my room, thinking she has convinced me
enough, I turn myself to the wall and I cry myself to sleep.
On other nights, when my mum is too busy disrupting my life
to be worried about me, I lose myself in a fantasy wherein I meet Gerard at the
stone wall. I imagine us sitting there, and sometimes we will just sit there
next to each other, but other times I’ll make up long intricate conversations
where I tell him how unhappy I am to be moving across the globe, to another
hemisphere, until I tumble into unconscious sleep.
Standing up from the wall to go, he pulls me into his arms
gently and holding me close, he fleetingly brushes his lips over mine. The
feelings it rouses in me can never be forgotten. His hands are around my waist,
drawing me into him. He presses his lips against mine. It is simultaneously
magical, frightening, irresistible and sensual.
As the days became shorter and the frost remains thick on
the ground, we meet discreetly in the stables each afternoon. I can feel the
way his hands caress my skin, the way goose bumps erupt over my entire body at
his mere touch, and his soft murmurings as my body is cradled close to his.
The day of leaving flies at me with unexpected speed
and I am sad to say goodbye to my room, my house, my street and most of all my
friends.
I cry discreetly in the taxi, all the way to the airport. At
the airport, I walk a few steps behind my family, letting them lead me away
from everything that makes me who I am.
The tears continue running down my cheeks silently on the
airplane, no matter how hard I try to swallow away the sadness that has become
my every moment.
My mum sits next to me, and while I stare out of the little
window to my side, trying not to sniff too loudly, she leans closer to me. She
whispers softly, “Stop crying, Elizabeth. Change makes you a more independent
and emotionally stronger person.”
I ignore her and I cannot understand why she does not leave
me to wallow in self-pity by myself, because I honestly just want to be alone.
I now dislike my mum for her ignorance, and I really despise
Sean for his selfishness. I wish my mum had never met him, ever.
