Cherie Jones

My voice played musical chairs before leaving. It bounced apologies around the jogger who found me, the policeman, the nurse at the hospital – trying to find itself seated and steady when the music stopped. What it said was ‘sorry’. Sorry for not remembering the rule about offers of rides home, for failing to escape, for forgetting to say thanks when rescued, for shrinking at the sight of a speculum.  The speculum came closer, my mouth dropped open and my voice tumbled out, grew legs before my eyes and did not look sad to leave me. I wasn’t mad, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay with me either.  When you arrive at an end you never saw coming, everything is retrospect. I last remember my voice echoing from the nurse. Sorry she said, this might hurt. 

A man’s hand came through the wall behind our bed, made a web of cracks around it and shuddered a minute before it was still, bruises starting to set on the fingers. It was a left hand, with slightly curved fingers hanging loose and limp.  Geoff insisted I call the police. That’s what you get for choosing a dinky hotel no decent tourist had ever heard of, he said, now, thanks to me, we’d be in the middle of a murder investigation. Who said the guy was dead, I wanted to know, and Geoff rolled his eyes like unjustified optimism was why we were there in the first place. Geoff hadn’t wanted to come, 13 years or not. I dialled in the shadow of that hand, my eyes on my ring. Geoff didn’t wear his anymore. On our first night, we’d heard the fighting through the wall, instead of the ocean, and Geoff had used the noise to explain his lost erection, and I had kept my eyes on the pale band of skin where his ring used to be. Of course he’s dead, said Geoff, they really should refund you your money, for all this ruckus.