Bloomsday

Stefanie Gold

11/03/2022

Content warning: sexual abuse

Image description: an eye stands out of a red-purple background. It has a dark, nicely shaped eyebrow above it, tears welling up and spilling over dark eyelashes, and a red-purple rose in the middle of the iris in place of the pupil.

16^th of June 2018: Bloomsday

Muriel looked up at me from the passenger’s seat still licking her pâte coated lips. I impulsively stroked her on the head, without taking my eyes off the water smeared screen and the incessant sound of the wipers. The road was now a fog of steam and deluge like sky blending with sea, but I could not stop. I flicked my hand from the wheel and pressed my window slightly down. Air misted into the cabin like an ocean breeze, dissipating Muriel’s canine imprint from the passenger glass. There had been no blood. No, I couldn’t have seen him like that. His life silently seeping out onto green grass. No. I glanced across at the rear-view mirror, glassy eyed, as silent salty streams flowed over my cheeks. How could I live without him? I looked at the fogged road in front of me, my foot pressed firmly to the pedal. I could not stop. Then, I remembered him. I saw his face in the blurred screen. His chestnut eyes and dark red lips like pomegranate and I remembered when his hand had grasped mine. When I was his flower of the mountain, yes.

6^th of January 2018: The Church

I only went once a year. A visit that had nothing to do with God. My grandmother had been devout, and a part of me had envied her imminent bond with Christ. The visit was to revisit her. Not Christ. Maybe once, when I was the curly-haired child who held her hand and strolled in from the packed car park. All the men had shined shoes and starched shirts. The women meandered in, dipping their fingertips in the oily holy water by the door. Myrrh would plume the stale air. We would take our pew. Her knees on the kneeler, the priest would drift by like a ghost placing holy tokens into our open clown mouths. She was happiest then. Now that she was gone, I came alone on her birthday, or the closest Sunday to it. This year it had fallen on the Sunday. I stretched my neck upwards and glanced at the thick blanket of muggy grey sky that smothered the sun. The air was stifling. I knew he was up there, somewhere, but he did not shine the gentle rays of the sun on me, instead my sins stuck to me the same way that my sweat clung to my starched shirt, standing out like a sore thumb. I looked across at the dwindling carpark, I ran my hands through my curls and tried to unstick my sweaty shirt from my skin, without success. I strolled up to the stone arched entrance and walked inside.

The thick summer air made it hard to take a breath. I scanned the room and noticed that the vessel that once contained the Myrrh now sat on a dusty shelf in the entrance hall. My mouth formed a half smile as I remembered my gran. I looked down the wood floorboard path that led to the golden altar. I glanced over at the pews, scanning them from the back of the room to the front. Twenty pews on each side. We had always sat on the left side. Pew fourteen on the aisle, next to the Morris’s and Fitzpatrick’s. I slowly made my way forward. Each step resounded cleanly off the polished wood. Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen. My hand brushed the dust-lined surface of each pew that I passed. I stopped and kneeled towards the painted porcelain martyr that hung above the golden altar and then shuffled my way along the polished surface of the fifteenth pew. The Morris’s and Fitzpatrick’s now long gone. I sat down directly behind my grandmother’s place. I could feel her presence. The place where I had sat on the right-hand side of her was now taken up by a tall young woman who looked to me like Snow White with her jet-black hair and cherry lips. To the left of her with his back facing me, was a man of equal height with matching jet-black hair flying loosely around the nape of his neck. A rich sandalwood scent enveloped his whole form cutting through the thick air surrounding me. I shuffled back into the rigid pew and breathed him in. The woody notes refreshed me. His presence lit me up. I heard the priest droning on from the distant altar, but my eyes were fixed on the loose jet hair of the man, then flicked down to slowly scan the square of his broad shoulders, and then along each slender arm. Each part of him was beautifully detailed, intricately moulded out of the finest material. Then he stood up, interrupting my reverie like a soldier called to attention. I turned to see the priest chanting from his golden altar

‘Let us offer each other the sign of peace.’

I gradually rose from my pew, my breath stalled as the man turned to face me and I saw for the first time his kind chestnut eyes that were like gentle rays of sun filtering light upon a pitch rainforest. I dwelled in the darkest part of that forest and when his light touched my skin, colour filled me.

‘Peace be wit ye,’ he said as he pressed his perfect hand into mine.

His chestnut eyes fixed on me. I smiled back, unable to speak after hearing the lilt of his Irish accent. His hand released mine and fell away as he turned to offer peace to Snow White.

‘And also, wit ye,’ she lilted back.

She was Irish too. She then turned to me with proffered hand. I took it gently, avoiding her gaze.

‘And also, with you,’ I replied as the sun’s rays dissipated and darkness crept back in.

I sat back down. The priest chanted on, floating back and forth along his golden altar. I.H.S was striped across his gowns like the wounds of the martyr. I felt like I was floating myself. Like I was in a dream. I had never felt enlivened like I did in the moment I had locked eyes with him I looked up at the wooden architecture of the church ceiling.

‘Happy birthday Gran,’ I whispered.

God, what would she think of me? In church of all places. I glanced up at the porcelain martyr, hanging from his wooden exhibit. He looked back at me disdainfully. I sighed, then sidled my way out from pew fifteen. I genuflected towards the floating ghost, made the sign of the cross and walked back to the entrance and out into the carpark.

I walked over and stood under one of the flowering gums. I fumbled around in my jacket pocket and took out my phone. I glanced at the time. Ten minutes left until the end of church. Ten minutes until this was over for another year. Ten minutes left and I didn’t even know his name. Ten minutes until his sandalwood smell would fade into the floorboards forever. Ten minutes to think of an introduction. Then I heard footsteps crunching gravel. I looked up and smiled as I saw him coming towards me.

‘Are ye on for a pint then?’

‘Uh huh,’ I replied.

He came and stood next to me.

‘My wife’s stayin on at the church for a while.’

I couldn’t stop smiling.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ciaran.’ He extended his hand to me. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Luke,’ I replied as I shook his hand.

‘We’ll take my car.’ He smiled, revealing a string of teeth like pearls.

1^st of March 2018: Lotus Eating

It had been two months since his hand had pressed life into mine. I had imagined Snow White on more than one occasion, softly tending to the flock in her Christian kingdom. All the while her handsome prince tended to me, filling me with the lotus fruit. I ate, insatiably, swallowing without tasting, every word that left his pomegranate lips.

‘Luke I’ll call ye soon,’ he had said as he drove me home from the pub to my terrace house.

I lived in black and white on the days he couldn’t leave her palace. Dormant I lay, like a chaste fireplace waiting for a spark. All sense of time and place… lost.

I stood, waiting. I scanned each corner of my living room. Carpet clean, where is the spray? On the shelf? I hope he likes patchouli. Maybe I should have bought sandalwood. His arms, God his skin, the little split in the centre of his lips, each like a cheek of peach. The couch-I’ll mist it. TV- no time, just his body against mine. Two glasses, yes, whiskey, sandalwood sweat, jet-haired chest. My teeth- I’ll check them again. Clean. White singlet with faded jeans. Coconut cream smoothed over my skin. Stop pacing. Stop. His car. I can hear it. Now I can see it! He’s walking up. Okay go to the other room, act busy. Fuck, stop pacing. Shit, he’s knocking, just open the door.

I open the door to his warm eyes.

‘Good te see ye Luke,’ he says as he walks inside, taking in the features of my home.

High ceilings envelop milky walls that smooth into translucent views of a leafy Eden. The ornamental fan that nests within the cobwebbed timber architecture. Splendid strips of cedar that lie dormant, smothered by an obsolete shred of olive, coated in a century of tread. He walks over and sits on the cotton couch cover, then leans back into its patchouli pores. I walk over from the door and sit down next to him. I place my hand casually on his thigh. The touch of him fills me instantly and I feel as though I might burst. He smiles at me, then sighs.

‘Luke.’

He glances at me in the same way the porcelain martyr looked at me in church that day.

A surge of unease moves through my body.

‘I know who I am, and I want to be who I am, it’s just… Aoife. I’m sinning Luke, she’s, my wife. I’ve fucked around before ye know, but it didn’t mean nothin. It’s different wit ye.’

I lean over and touch his face. ‘Ciaran,’ I say, fixed onto his sullen eyes. ‘You can be who you are with me.’ I reach down and pour him a glass of whiskey and hand it to him.

He sculls it, then pulls me into him. I taste the red of his lips. I sit across him and feel his body react to mine as his mouth presses against my lips. As I eat from the lotus fruit, a musk of sandalwood blended with coconut cream infuses the air around us. Ciaran’s jet hair flicks back and forth with the movement of our bodies, like a gently thumbed guitar string. Our clothing litters the lounge room like a pack of discarded cards. Afterwards I lay drunken across his flawless body having taken my fill of the fruit. I draw carefree circles on his chest with my finger. I look over and smile at the saturated patches of couch cover. Ciaran smiles too. I gaze into his eyes.

‘You belong here with me,’ I say sincerely.

24^th of April 2018: Muriel

Another month passed. Ciaran now blended in with the milky walls of my lounge room and the couch cover permanently leeched his sandalwood scent. He never came on Sundays.

On one Saturday morning, I heard the familiar sound of the parking brake being applied, followed by the click of the driver door and then unsteady steps resounding off wooden stairs. His face silhouetted on the frosted door pane. I opened it before he knocked, with a mouthful of pâte biscuit. My eyes widened as I glanced at a wriggling shape held in Ciaran’s arms.

‘I thought you could use some company when I’m not here,’ he slurred as he handed me the dog. ‘I bought her from a shelter.’

I pulled him close to me and skimmed the stubble on his cheek with my lips. As he exhaled, a pungent, fruity odour filtered out of his pursed lips.

‘Are you drunk?’ I asked as I pulled back from his face.

‘What? I had a pint.’

I sighed and took the wriggling dog from his arms.

‘Thank you, she’s lovely.’

‘We’ll call her Muriel,’ he said as he walked over and clumsily scraped some pâte onto a biscuit.

I shifted in next to him.

‘Muriel.’ I touched my nose onto the wet tip of hers.

‘This is liver… right?’ Ciaran held a pâte laden biscuit up to the light.

‘Yes, chicken liver.’

He looked through the biscuit as if the light made it transparent.

‘I’m allergic to crustacean ye know,’ he said, pulling it away from the light and placing it into his mouth.

‘Oh, well, it’s liver,’ I stroked Muriel’s silky form.

‘Ye want some Muriel?’ he offered the pâte biscuit towards her nose.

Muriel’s face shied away and she attempted to bury herself in my shirt.

‘She doesn’t know us yet.’ I placed her onto the floor.

Ciaran walked over and sat down on the cotton couch cover, and leaned back into it. I watched from the kitchen bench as he closed his eyes and slept.

31^st of May 2018: Harry

Another two months had passed since the day I had met Ciaran at church. I glanced out of the window of my terrace house at the gathering of leaves beneath the oak tree. Flecks of brief colour glimmered out of the decaying brown curls of Autumn. Ciaran came as often as he could, but just as the summer leaves were fading into brown, so to was the happiness I had found with Ciaran. A darkness had crept inside him and replaced the light he once shone on me. A darkness I referred to as ‘Harry’. Harry would have a few pints and then turn up at my door.

I stood, waiting. Muriel sat near the door, ears forward. It’s going to happen… again. Whiskey ready, two glasses, I’ll check again. His breath, reeking of tobacco. Face red with rage. He’ll hold me. I won’t move. I’ll talk. I’ll breathe. White singlet and quick Mitch Dowd briefs. Don’t shake. His car. I can see it. Rushing up. Harry at the door… Bashing at the door.

‘Open the fuckin door, Luke.’

I reached for the door and slowly pulled down the lever.

I straightened up and breathed in deeply.

‘Come in,’ I gestured towards the couch.

I looked up at his face full of foreign expressions as he walked over and sat on the couch. I knew that those were Ciaran’s chestnut eyes, but saturated with drink. His jet hair, but reeking of smoke. His tall posture, slumped. His lilt just a slur. No glint of Ciaran, just all Harry. It had been gradual but Ciaran was being consumed by him. Muriel followed me over as far as the couch edge, eyeing me closely.

‘It’s okay, I will get some blankets so you can rest,’ I spoke calmly.

The chestnut eyes thought for moment, then fixed on me.

‘You little bastard! You made me like this! I’m a good catholic man. Aoife’s a good Irish girl.’

He found his feet and rose up, looming over me, he grabbed at my throat and squeezed hard. I struggled and fell back onto the floor. I pulled at his hands, my eyes about to burst. I ripped them free, spluttering as I sucked in air.

‘Stop!’

I reached up at the couch and tried to pull myself up onto it. I felt his arm like an iron bar lock around my neck. I grabbed at it with both hands, using all my strength, but it was no use. I felt his breath in my ear, lips motioning words, but my insides shook and I could not make them out. His body pressed me hard against the couch. I felt his knee pushing my Mitch Dowd briefs… down. I let my hands release. A tear nestled silently into the corner of my mouth as I glimpsed the white of Muriel’s body as it slipped into the dark hallway.

Muriel scampered faintly into the dim bedroom. Her tail anchored firmly between her shivering back legs. She stood in the centre of the room, flicking her ears back and forth at the filtered howling sounds coming from the lounge room. Her quivering shape, invisible in the darkness. Then the jangle of keys and the unsteady but clean squeak of leather on slate, the creak of an opened door and the conclusive slam. He was gone. Muriel sauntered slowly, out of the dark room back into the lounge. The air was thick with the tang of liquored sweat. An empty bottle of whiskey lay uncapped on the floor. The couch cover hung dishevelled over one of its arms. Luke lay nestled in the crook of its other arm. Muriel found his face and began soothing it with her tongue.

‘He’s all just Harry now Muriel,’ he pulled her up onto his chest. ‘Harry is who Ciaran is now. I can’t be treated like this anymore.’ He pulled himself up to sit. Everything ached.

16^th of June 2018: Bloomsday

Ciaran was not an avid reader, nor an admirer of classic literature, but on Bloomsday he was Irish and a Dubliner at that. Traditionally he would gather at the church with Snow White to listen to spoken excerpts of Leopold, then attend some small festivities that took him right back to Dublin. I rubbed a clear circle into the fogged kitchen window of my terrace house and peered out at the dwindling gather of leaves beneath the oak tree. They were now nothing but colourless bones of decayed brown curls. Dewdrops glistened atop quiescent branches, touched by the faint rays of the sun. Even the bare branches were worthy of the sun’s rays. Ciaran never came on Sundays.

Just now he called. He said he’s coming. That’s how much he loves me, yes. Today, on Sunday. Sunday, the martyr’s day. Bloomsday, he chose me, yes. Wait…he’s just Harry now. Forgiveness? Should I forget? It is Sunday. Oh, the basket, the wine. The pâte. The pâte. His car, yes, he is here.

I grabbed the picnic basket and blanket and opened the door. Muriel followed closely behind. I jogged down the terrace steps and stepped into the open car door. Muriel sleeked in, avoiding Ciaran’s gaze and pawed her way into the back seat.

‘It’s a fine day for a picnic Luke.’

‘Happy Bloomsday.’ I smiled at him.

Ciaran drove us down to the quiet end of the town’s parklands, and parked next to a narrowed stream. The surrounds were thickly carpeted in emerald grass, decorated with spontaneous arrangements of garden colour. Daffodils, soaking up the sun’s rays like snakes. Yes, venom laden in each of their forked yellow fronds. We got out of the car. I walked around to the boot and opened it to lift Muriel out. She looked around hesitatingly before slinking out to sporadically explore the new terrain. I flung the picnic blanket out onto a patch of emerald green and sat down with Ciaran. I opened the wine and poured out two glasses.

‘Luke, I’m sorry,’ he stroked my face.

‘I’m sorry’… I’m sorry,’ the words echoed in my ears.

I knew what they meant. It’s going to happen again and then again and again. My stomach sank and my hands reverted to their new default setting of trembling. I reached inside the picnic basket and lifted out the container of pâte. I removed the plastic film. I opened a packet of biscuits and scraped one through the pâte. I drew it to my mouth, eyeing Harry as I placed it in and crunched down.

‘Liver?’ he inspected the unlabelled container.

‘Chicken liver,’ my lips made a brief smile.

He reached across and thumbed a biscuit out of its packaging, then fingered some pâte onto it. I looked away and refocused my gaze onto a small branch that was suspended on a rock in the stream nearby. As it swayed gently back and forth on the current, I heard the rustle of the biscuit packaging once more, then the jolt of Harry’s frame, with the splutter of biscuit pieces. I glanced up at his scarlet face and at his wide chestnut eyes that showed the whites.

‘I can’t. I can’t…brea…Help,’ he snatched at my arm desperately trying to cling to something alive.

His eyes desperate, blinking and watering fiercely, then blinking intermittently, slowing with acceptance, then petrifying into eternal glass. His body slumped in submission to the ground. His mouth lay ajar and thickly pasted in the lobster pâte. Muriel had slunk out of a garden bed and had come and sat next to me. She stumbled over to Harry’s stationary mouth and began licking at its contents, coating her own lips thickly. I got up and gathered the picnic basket without looking at Harry’s still body. I collected Muriel in my other arm and his keychain. I walked over and sat in the driver’s side of his car. I looked up at the sky which was now covered in a cloudy blanket of grey. I turned the key in the ignition and drove away. I could not stop. I had been his flower of the mountain. His perfect hand had pressed into mine, and he had illuminated me with his gentle rays, but just like the gown of the church’s floating ghost, the words I.H.S. striped his back. I have sinned I have suffered, yes.

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Stefanie is a creative writer whose work has appeared in Kill Your Darlings magazine. She resides in the regional town of Ballarat, Victoria. Stefanie is a creative writing academic, holding both a Bachelor of Arts degree majoring in creative writing and a Bachelor of Arts Honours (First Class) creative writing degree from Federation University. When Stefanie is not writing, she enjoys collecting antique French and British tea sets which she uses to host high teas. Stefanie also enjoys drying and pressing flowers and herbs that she grows in pots in her miniature English cottage garden.