Short Story Competition: Retreat
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“Lily. Please come out.”
The phrase was repeated several times. Then silence. Much better.
“Lily, I’m asking you nicely. Come out, now!”
This one-sided conversation had been going on for nearly 20 minutes, and Lily still had absolutely no intention of coming out. He could ‘ask her nicely’ all he wanted. He could even ask her not nicely and she would still ignore him. She was just fine where she was.
“Get your arse out of there now. D’you realise how easy it would be for me to just…”
In her mind’s eye, Lily imagined herself twirling a small dial, and slowly, deliberately, she muffled Peter’s voice. Stillness. Peace. All she could see was a vast swathe of blue above her; it was like she was floating just under the surface of the sea, her nose tipped up towards the crested waves that must be crashing above her. Lily could almost hear them. She was below, safe, removed from the spitting sea-spray and high winds and instead, just floating, gently, like a bubble of green seaweed, only an inch away from danger.
She had to turn the dial slightly further because Peter was getting louder. She turned it three notches… good. Perfect. It was like he’d floated away, pulled across the ocean by that tide that still couldn’t touch her.
Lily stretched out her limbs, feeling her warm cotton cocoon pull and strain around her, accommodating her unfurling body. Yes, she liked it in here. In here, she was untouchable, and she hadn’t felt like that in a long time. She turned over, crushing her head into a pillow. The dial had stopped working again.
“Lily, I’m telling you…. it’s a fucking bed-sheet, sweetheart, it’s not a suit of armour, I can get you out whenever I like, but I am trying – holy Jesus – I am trying to be reasonable. I am not going to “manhandle” you, like you said, because I know you don’t like it. And I know that Doctor Partham has said it won’t help. But you know what also doesn’t help? At all? You not talking to me. Lily. Fucksake, Lily! Get out!”
Lily felt a hand thump down on her ankle. No. No. He was not to manhandle her. He was to leave her alone. She reached again for her dial but it had broken altogether and was hanging by a broken frazzled wire in her brain… he was pulling on her leg, he was pulling her off the bed. Stop. Stop. She had to say something.
Opening her mouth was like working an ancient and rusty wrench. When was the last time she had spoken? It was only this morning. That was when she had decided to stop. She worked the wrench harder.
“Let go.”
The hand stopped pulling and loosened its grip, but did not move away. Lily scrunched the beautiful, soft bedclothes tighter, tight enough to hear her nails scrape against the cotton, tight enough that she could barely breath through the muffling haze. The sheets were paisley, and the kind of blue that reminded you of Greece, or Turkey, or of yellow-gold sand and shiny brown pebbles. That kind of blue. The sheets had travelled with her to the new flat, one of only a handful of things that she’d wanted to keep. They’d lain on her childhood bed too. That was odd to think of, now that she slept in them with Peter, now that they made up her marriage bed…
“Lily, if I let go, you have to come out.”
“I’m not coming out, Pete.”
“Jesus – fine. If I let go, you have to poke your head out. Just your head. Not even your neck. So we can talk. You’ll be fine. Ok? Alright? I’m letting go. You don’t have to come out.”
Lily took a very deep breath and reminded herself that no, she did not have to come out. But she might.
“LIL, EVEN MAM IS SAYING THAT YOU HAVE TO COME OUT NOW I’VE BEEN WAITING HERE FOR FOREVER I’M BORED I’M BORED I’M BOOOORED!”
It is deathly dark, and all that Lily can see is one small crack of light reaching from the very top of her vision to the very bottom. Through it, she can see a shadow passing back and forth, almost with the precision of a grandfather clock. It is her sister. She imagines her sister stuck in the face of a grandfather clock and smiles. She only smiles because, with her spine against the wall and the doors closed, no one can see her grin.
“IT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY. COME. OUT.”
“No.”
“LILY.”
“NO.”
“Why are you even in the wardrobe? You’ve not even told me why you’re in the wardrobe.”
“Not gon’ to.”
“YOU HAVE TO.”
“Mam says don’ have to do nothin don’ want to.”
“Talk properly.”
“Don’ want to.”
“You’re so weird!”
“Shu’p.”
“DON’T YOU TELL ME TO SHUT UP.”
“SHU’P.”
“I’ll get Da!”
There is a pause. Lily does not want her sister to get their Da.
“Don’ get Da.”
Another few second of quiet. Lily’s sister knows exactly how much Lily doesn’t want her to go and get their Da. But she might anyway.
If Lily’s sister goes and gets their Da, he will wrench open the wardrobe doors like he did last time, breaking the lock again which will upset Mam, and he will grab Lily by the ankle, and he will drag her out and pick her up and she’ll kick her legs but he’ll just hold them down and then he’ll drop her real hard on her bed and it’ll hurt again and he’ll stand there and shout at her and every time she tries to get under her favourite covers he’ll pull them away from her and shake her and Lily’s scared he might rip them one time and then she’d cry and he would shout again…
“Don’ get Da.”
“Then come out, weirdo.”
Lily stands up in the wardrobe, and it creaks under her weight. She is not heavy, but the smooth old boards are meant to hold dresses and hats and shoes and scarves; pretty things. Not a slightly plump five-year-old. She slides her Mam’s stolen hairpin out of her plait and pushes it into the inside of the lock. When she comes out, they will ask her why she went in. They always ask her why she went in. She never knows what to say. It is just better in there. Nobody talks and she can concentrate on being very, very quiet. In there, she can start to unfuzz her brain without anyone saying anything at all.
The lock clicks.
She did not have to come out. But she might.
“Lily, I’m not going to ask again. I’m really not.”
“If I come out…”
“Are you coming out?”
“If I come out… smile at me.”
She felt Peter strain at the demand. So often he reminded her of whinnying, wild-eyed horse, bucking and kicking, trussed up by harsh ropes there to force calm upon this volatile charger, there to keep it from inadvertently stampeding the people around it. She held tight to her end of the rope.
“What?”
The phrase was repeated several times. Then silence. Much better.
“Lily, I’m asking you nicely. Come out, now!”
This one-sided conversation had been going on for nearly 20 minutes, and Lily still had absolutely no intention of coming out. He could ‘ask her nicely’ all he wanted. He could even ask her not nicely and she would still ignore him. She was just fine where she was.
“Get your arse out of there now. D’you realise how easy it would be for me to just…”
In her mind’s eye, Lily imagined herself twirling a small dial, and slowly, deliberately, she muffled Peter’s voice. Stillness. Peace. All she could see was a vast swathe of blue above her; it was like she was floating just under the surface of the sea, her nose tipped up towards the crested waves that must be crashing above her. Lily could almost hear them. She was below, safe, removed from the spitting sea-spray and high winds and instead, just floating, gently, like a bubble of green seaweed, only an inch away from danger.
She had to turn the dial slightly further because Peter was getting louder. She turned it three notches… good. Perfect. It was like he’d floated away, pulled across the ocean by that tide that still couldn’t touch her.
Lily stretched out her limbs, feeling her warm cotton cocoon pull and strain around her, accommodating her unfurling body. Yes, she liked it in here. In here, she was untouchable, and she hadn’t felt like that in a long time. She turned over, crushing her head into a pillow. The dial had stopped working again.
“Lily, I’m telling you…. it’s a fucking bed-sheet, sweetheart, it’s not a suit of armour, I can get you out whenever I like, but I am trying – holy Jesus – I am trying to be reasonable. I am not going to “manhandle” you, like you said, because I know you don’t like it. And I know that Doctor Partham has said it won’t help. But you know what also doesn’t help? At all? You not talking to me. Lily. Fucksake, Lily! Get out!”
Lily felt a hand thump down on her ankle. No. No. He was not to manhandle her. He was to leave her alone. She reached again for her dial but it had broken altogether and was hanging by a broken frazzled wire in her brain… he was pulling on her leg, he was pulling her off the bed. Stop. Stop. She had to say something.
Opening her mouth was like working an ancient and rusty wrench. When was the last time she had spoken? It was only this morning. That was when she had decided to stop. She worked the wrench harder.
“Let go.”
The hand stopped pulling and loosened its grip, but did not move away. Lily scrunched the beautiful, soft bedclothes tighter, tight enough to hear her nails scrape against the cotton, tight enough that she could barely breath through the muffling haze. The sheets were paisley, and the kind of blue that reminded you of Greece, or Turkey, or of yellow-gold sand and shiny brown pebbles. That kind of blue. The sheets had travelled with her to the new flat, one of only a handful of things that she’d wanted to keep. They’d lain on her childhood bed too. That was odd to think of, now that she slept in them with Peter, now that they made up her marriage bed…
“Lily, if I let go, you have to come out.”
“I’m not coming out, Pete.”
“Jesus – fine. If I let go, you have to poke your head out. Just your head. Not even your neck. So we can talk. You’ll be fine. Ok? Alright? I’m letting go. You don’t have to come out.”
Lily took a very deep breath and reminded herself that no, she did not have to come out. But she might.
“LIL, EVEN MAM IS SAYING THAT YOU HAVE TO COME OUT NOW I’VE BEEN WAITING HERE FOR FOREVER I’M BORED I’M BORED I’M BOOOORED!”
It is deathly dark, and all that Lily can see is one small crack of light reaching from the very top of her vision to the very bottom. Through it, she can see a shadow passing back and forth, almost with the precision of a grandfather clock. It is her sister. She imagines her sister stuck in the face of a grandfather clock and smiles. She only smiles because, with her spine against the wall and the doors closed, no one can see her grin.
“IT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY. COME. OUT.”
“No.”
“LILY.”
“NO.”
“Why are you even in the wardrobe? You’ve not even told me why you’re in the wardrobe.”
“Not gon’ to.”
“YOU HAVE TO.”
“Mam says don’ have to do nothin don’ want to.”
“Talk properly.”
“Don’ want to.”
“You’re so weird!”
“Shu’p.”
“DON’T YOU TELL ME TO SHUT UP.”
“SHU’P.”
“I’ll get Da!”
There is a pause. Lily does not want her sister to get their Da.
“Don’ get Da.”
Another few second of quiet. Lily’s sister knows exactly how much Lily doesn’t want her to go and get their Da. But she might anyway.
If Lily’s sister goes and gets their Da, he will wrench open the wardrobe doors like he did last time, breaking the lock again which will upset Mam, and he will grab Lily by the ankle, and he will drag her out and pick her up and she’ll kick her legs but he’ll just hold them down and then he’ll drop her real hard on her bed and it’ll hurt again and he’ll stand there and shout at her and every time she tries to get under her favourite covers he’ll pull them away from her and shake her and Lily’s scared he might rip them one time and then she’d cry and he would shout again…
“Don’ get Da.”
“Then come out, weirdo.”
Lily stands up in the wardrobe, and it creaks under her weight. She is not heavy, but the smooth old boards are meant to hold dresses and hats and shoes and scarves; pretty things. Not a slightly plump five-year-old. She slides her Mam’s stolen hairpin out of her plait and pushes it into the inside of the lock. When she comes out, they will ask her why she went in. They always ask her why she went in. She never knows what to say. It is just better in there. Nobody talks and she can concentrate on being very, very quiet. In there, she can start to unfuzz her brain without anyone saying anything at all.
The lock clicks.
She did not have to come out. But she might.
“Lily, I’m not going to ask again. I’m really not.”
“If I come out…”
“Are you coming out?”
“If I come out… smile at me.”
She felt Peter strain at the demand. So often he reminded her of whinnying, wild-eyed horse, bucking and kicking, trussed up by harsh ropes there to force calm upon this volatile charger, there to keep it from inadvertently stampeding the people around it. She held tight to her end of the rope.
“What?”
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