I walked off the train at Flinders Street, in the heart of the city of Melbourne. As I went up the escalator I stared through the concrete into the soil, where my thoughts wiggled like worms. I felt a vibration in my pocket that filled me with hope. I looked, it was Camilla.
“Camilla,” I answer.
“William.”
“Hello?” I said.
Distorted vibrations flicker into my ear as my one true love attempts to save me. I rushed through the crowd. The station was long and wide. There was no reception.
“Just wait one second.”
I started to run. I got to the gates but didn’t have a ticket to open them. A fat inspector stood to the right, dressed for his role.
“Sorry, I don’t have a ticket, can you please let me out?” I pleaded.
“Need a ticket.”
“Please, I am in a bad situation.”
I removed my shirt and showed him the cut on my eye. A piece of cloth peeled dry blood from the wound.
“Need a ticket to get out,” he said.
“Just wait a second Camilla,” I said into the phone.
“What?” she replied.
“Just wait one second please.”
“Hello?”
I looked at the man and surrendered all dignity, “Can I please just go, just this one time?”
“You need to head over there to that machine. Buy yourself a ticket. Come back. Scan it. Then you can go.”
He said it with arrogance. To him, I was just a skeleton covered in skin. Dust. No nuance to me. When humans put on a uniform they lose their soul, they lose reason, they lose humanity.
“Camilla,” I said, “Can you hear me?”
“I'm sorry William, I can't hear you. I have to go.”
As I jumped he grabbed my arm. He had a grip a mother's love couldn’t rival. With his free hand, he blew a whistle. I was halfway over the gate, over the barricade. We fought as if both our lives were on the line. I had my phone in one hand and a shirt covered in blood in the other. I threw the shirt into his face and kicked him in the thigh. He didn’t let go. Continued to blow his whistle as it muffled through blood and echoed into the station. I bit his hand like a rat. He let go. I got the other half of my body out of that station and ran into the crowd, into the mass psychosis. His whistle chased me. I crossed the road and entered a pub. I sat in a booth where I could see out the window. Four men were around him as he rubbed his hand.
“Camilla?”
“William.”
“That’s better,” I said.
“What's going on?”
“Not much, how are you?”
“I'm good, how is work?”
“I am not at work.”
“Oh, why not?” she replied in a calm and unconcerned manner that only an attractive woman could display.
“Because I went home to see you and you weren’t there. You took everything? Even the photos off the fridge?”
“Sorry, I was with Jane,” she laughed.
“What is funny?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why you're mad?”
“Who said I was mad?”
“Well, you're just being weird.”
“How?” I asked with genuine curiosity.
“I came over with Jane to grab some things and she just thought I should grab everything.”
I wanted to shout. I wanted to spit all the venom that spreads like cancer in my brain. But I didn’t, because my own personal truth just results in personal pain, personal guilt and in the end, personal regret. I wanted her to listen to me, not Jane. The irony of my anger arrived like a bus on time. I wanted to her take responsibility for herself but in the way I wanted her to. I wanted her to stick up for herself and now she is, but it's against me. They always did say to be careful what you wish for.
“So,” I said, “Is it over then?”
“Yeah.”
A beer landed on my table. I look at the barmaid who put it down.
“That’s from Fridge,” she said.
I looked over and on the end of the bar sat an old man. He casually lifted his glass as cheers. I gave him a thumbs up.
“Camilla, we can work this out. Please. I will do anything. I will do anything you want me to do. I will give up football. I will stop drinking,” I said, taking a sip of my beer.
“Just stop please.”
“Stop what?”
“Blaming me because you hate yourself.”
“Camilla, you are the only person who makes me like myself. And now you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, William, it's just…”
“What?”
“I just feel sorry for you.”
“Okay,” I said, defeated, “Goodbye.”
“William, wait.”
“What?”
She didn’t have anything to say, or too much. Either way, she didn’t say anything. If I was to guess, she wanted to make sure I still wanted her. Not because she wanted me, but because one day she might. The world awaits for her. I will soon be a memory, a lesson, a punchline, a punching bag, a joke.
“Goodbye Camilla.”
“Goodbye William.”
And just like that, she went from the one, to that one.
I sat and finished my beer. Whatever the opposite of a celebration was, this was it. Looking into the streets where the faces blurred with urgency. I stood and walked to the toilet. I looked at myself in the mirror and I started to cry. Then my ugly crying face made me laugh. I laughed and looked at my eye. It wasn’t too bad.
I shook my head and under my breath said, “Fucking hell.”
I walked to the bar.
“I will get you one back mate,” I said to Fridge.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“Scotch and water.”
I got the girl's attention, the same girl as before.
“Scotch and water and a schooner of draught please.”
“You remind me of my son,” said Fridge.
“He must be a good-looking bloke,” I said.
“$18.60 darl.”
I paid.
“Why do they call you Fridge?” I asked Fridge.
“Have to ask her, she made it up,” he replied, pointing to the barmaid.
“Why do you call him fridge?”
“Because we have to move him to clean the floor properly.”
Fridge smiled with his entire face. Shook his head. His eyes disappeared when he smiled. Left little slits of ruined skin. He looked seventy, could’ve been fifty.
“My name is actually Charlie,” he said.
“Nice to meet you Charlie, I’m William.”
We sat in silence. Charlie went to the toilet.
“Never seen him buy anyone a drink,” said the barmaid.
I left without saying goodbye. Walked into the streets. Melbourne smelt like trees breath and junkies spit. The devil didn’t have to do much work here, we were all looking for him. A cloud moved out of the way of the sun. Light shined on everything but me. I looked up. A giant cross covered me with its shadow. A literal sign. I crossed the street and went to church.
Crossing the road I noticed a man sitting on the grass next to the church. He had his legs crossed and a smile on his face. His eyes were closed and the sun gave him a sense of bliss. As if his awareness felt my stare his eyes opened and looked at me. He gestured for me to sit beside him. I smiled and pretended I didn’t understand. I walked into the church. Through the large medieval doors.
“Are you here for the ceremony?” asked a man at the front wearing all black.
“Sure.”
“It has already commenced, but you may enter.”
“Thanks.”
I walked in. The high ceilings were covered in shadows. Bruce’s shoes squeaked on the marble floor, echoing in all the space above me. A female dressed in all white was talking. My overall presence was a nuisance. An array of the world represented the sparse crowd. Long rows of wooden chairs catered for thousands sat no more than thirty-five. I sat to shut my shoes up, looking around with paranoia until my breath quietened. I listened to the lady, she was the priest, she was the priestess. I didn’t know they let girls run the show. I thought of my Mum, if she knew I was here she would be sick.
“No child of mine is getting into that bullshit,” she would say whilst writing a letter to the school to say I was exempt from religious education.
Well, they call it religious education but they only ever spoke about one. I think so anyway, I don’t know. I was in the next room playing with trains. Whilst my classmates heard old stories I was making new ones. My mother's father wore a cross and went to church. He drank and fucked himself to death before I was born. My mother raised her siblings. She has been raising kids since she was one.
The priestess kept talking. I tried to yield my body. Bend it to the will of a higher power. Give it all up. I listened to her.
“And may Jesus forgive you once you repent. May you surrender to our saviour. May Jesus walk you to your path and continue alongside you. And when the world is not there, when no one is there, at your hardest times and your greatest triumphs, Jesus is with you. May Jesus show you the way, may Jesus always be the way.”
Well, I don’t know what I am doing so maybe Jesus does. A small light of hope pierced through the weight in my throat. Energy started to flow. Something felt right. I was ready to give up, give it all up to the holy spirit.
“Now let's pray,” she said, “let's pray for the homeless. Let us pray for family. Let's pray for love, let's pray for the animals of the world, let's pray for our government and in these troubling times, let us pray for Ukraine.”
Doubt covered that light that made its way through and energy stopped flowing. Questions. I could understand praying for love, family, animals, homeless, I could even bite my tongue and pray for the government; Jesus forgave the Romans. But pray for Ukraine?
Ukraine is currently in a war with Russia. I am not smart enough or selfless enough to know anything about it, other than what I know about every war. That people die. Children, women, soldiers, grandmas, grandpas, dogs, birds, horses, cats. People die following the orders of someone they never see for something they never find out. And these people use whatever reason works, often religion, sometimes its more, or less. But the real reason is always something that isn’t romantic, not anymore. Something like money or power, often both. Wrinkled old family names refusing to die through symbolism and status. Whilst nobodies die all the time. A nobody is somebody to another nobody. What is the holy spirit but a no body? And I could pray for Ukraine, but only if we pray for Russia too. Only if we pray for the light that symbolises the holy spirit that is within everyone, not just those on our made-up side. Not just those who look like us and think like us, but everyone. Only if we pray for every soul that took the time to come here. Only if we can also pray for me. Because if no Russians deserved a prayer, then why do I?
I was morally superior to a girl dressed in an overflowing white robe, holding a giant stick littered with diamonds with a cross on the end of it. Whilst I sat with dried blood on my face and someone else’s shoes on my feet.
I looked up at Jesus, surrounded by colours in the window. The sun had left him and taken some of his magic. His gaze in the glaze.
“Does faith take sides?” I whispered to his sorrow-filled eyes.
She continued to talk but her vibrations weren’t translated by my ears. Just words without gospel. A tree falling in the forest. I put my head down and closed my eyes. I bent my knees at the suggestion of others. I was now following my own curriculum, the curriculum of intuition. Hoping that big sexy Jesus was within me and not on the lips of the priestess I started to fantasise about fucking.
I decided to confess. Wipe the grease off the torch that darkens the light I possess. If I possessed it. I don’t know. Just keep going. Just give in. Just shut up!
I had to get out of my head. Camilla was in there. I decided to whisper my thoughts.
“I love torture. Forgive me, please. I love scratching the scab to make myself bleed. I love screaming at nature to hurry up. To finish things. To show itself. To expose the truth I create. Whoever falls into the swamp of my life, I yell at them to leave. I fake control by forcing the inevitable. I create my biggest fears to end the misery of fear. I don’t trust people who love me, because I do not love myself.”
Someone hissed at me. I opened my eyes and looked to my left. A lady with bleached blonde hair was frowning in my direction.
“Would you shut up? I am trying to pray!”
“Sorry,” I replied.
I tried to talk in my head but there were too many voices, so I whispered more gently and continued my confessions.
“I make people my life and hate them for stepping on my freedom. With my freedom I destroy myself. I am not to be trusted with my freedom but that’s what I want.”
A harsh and almost hurtful tap on my shoulder. Angry-faced lady once again.
“Shut up you moron! Just shut up, you are ruining the whole thing!”
“You can't even hear me?”
“I can see your lips moving!”
I turned my body so she couldn’t see my face. I was making progress.
“Jesus,” I said softly. “If you are there, please let me know. I am struggling here. I know I have been arrogant in the past. I know I thought I had things figured out. I know I have been larger than life. But… but now life is breaking me and I don’t know what to do. The only reason I am not dead is because I am stupid. Please, someone, someone help me because I am drowning in this world. I can't do this anymore. I can't carry around this dread. The weight in my stomach. I don’t know h—”
“This is him,” she said.
She had taken it upon herself to get the guy from the front.
“Sir,” he said, “you need to be quiet.”
“Kick him out!” said the snake who gave the apple to Eve.
“I'm sorry,” I said to them before I got a chance to say it to God.
My breath had left a mark on the wooden chair. Condensation of thought.
“Now,” spoke the priestess, “you may come forward and receive the flesh and blood of Christ.”
My body that has been in charge for a while, that wants us dead, now had a different desire. It wanted that biscuit, it wanted that wine.
“May only those who have been baptised come forward,” said she.
All gone. Ashamed and embarrassed again. The sun made its way through Jesus onto my sinful pathetic face. I stood up to leave quietly. Bruce’s shoes announced my filth.
“See,” said the angry-faced lady who I now wanted to fight, “not even baptised. Disgusting pig coming in here trying to ruin everything.”
It was a club and I wasn’t in it. I felt even Jesus would get kicked out of this church. I wanted to take one of my shoes off and throw it at the lady, but I didn’t. They stayed on my feet and squeaked with shame all the way out of that holy building. I was a church mouse, stuck in the trap of life.
“Thank you,” I said to the man at the front.
He didn’t reply. Cocksucker.
