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I remember that feeling of skin. It's strange to remember touch more than thought. But my fingers still tingle with it.

Lucy Christopher

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Lucy Christopher
Age: 54
Author
Writer
WAL
Feelings
Thought
Tingle
Skin
Stills
Skins
Remember
Fingers
Still
Touch
Strange
Feeling

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If there'd been an astronaut on the moon right then, I'm sure I could have seen him. Perhaps he could have looked down and seen me too... the only one who could.
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I didn’t look back, but I knew you were still watching. It probably sounds weird, but I could just feel it. The hairs on my neck bristled when you blinked.
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It was like I’d stepped out into an afterlife. Only there were no angels.
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Where are you going? I asked. The middle of nowhere. I thought this was it. Nah. You shook your head. This is just the edge.
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The land wants you here. I want you here, you called. Don't you care about that at all?
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How would she find her herd? How would she find you?
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Your beautiful mouth was moving like a caterpillar. I reached out and tried to catch it.
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This be OK?' I asked, innocently. 'You want me to have no skin left?' You rolled your eyes. Actually, don't answer that one.
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It sounded weird to hear you talk so much normally you only said a few words at a time. I'd never imagined that you'd have a story, too. Until that moment, you were just the kidnapper. You didn't have reasons for anything. You were stupid and evil and mentally ill. That was all. When you started talking, you started changing.
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It was so big, that view. I’ll never remember it properly. How can anyone remember something that big? I don’t think people’s brains are designed for memories like that. They’re designed for things like phone numbers, or the color of someone’s hair. Not hugeness.
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Had you been lying all along? Mum gently stroked my hair. I whispered into her shoulder. “I can’t go back. Not yet. I can’t leave.” And she held my head tight to her chest and wrapped her arms around me. “You don’t have to,” she said, rocking me. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, not anymore.” And I cried.
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I want you to see that the person I glimpsed running beside the camel, running to save my life, is the person you can choose to be.
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But what else can I do, other than to plead with you like this? Other than to write down my story, our story, to show you that what you've done . . . to make you realize that what you did wasn't fair, wasn't right.
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I could hear you, talking to the daffodils and tulips, whispering to the fairies that lived inside their petals. Each separate flower had a different family inside it.
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I remember the lights turning into blurs of blazing fire. I remember the air-conditioning chilling my arms. The smell of coffee smudging into the smell of eucalyptus.
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Far, far away something made a single ghostly howl, like a banshee in the dark.
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I love you, you said, simple as anything.
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And it's hard to hate someone once you understand them.
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Doesn't that hurt? I said. Yep. How do you keep them in there? I'm stubborn. You grinned. Stubborn as a waddywood. And anyway, pain means it's healing. Not always.
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There were tiny stars behind my eyelids, a whole galaxy of tiny, spinning stars.
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