Her heart was as heavy as her leaden legs, moving step by step down the road of suburban bungalows, their neat gardens accusing her of an untidy life, their gnomes standing proudly at home, in possession of a small piece of territory, something she no longer had.
Back on the road again, her rucksack thumping gently against her back, the bottle of water slurping to itself, in its own watery world. No comfort here, nor there, where she had come from. Only a desperate sense of finishing, and a broken heart, which might mend, with time, and for the moment, she would walk, walk as if she had a purpose, even though her only aim was to get away. Step by step, feet firmly on the ground.
He had been such fun, at first. His merry eyes twinkling at her, his kind thoughtful nature easing her into relaxing her hard tough shell, the one she always wore, for protection. He'd take her arm as they crossed roads, open doors for her, cook supper, crack jokes and make love like a king, and she'd been his, no doubt.
I'm bipolar, but I've been fine for ages now. Totally up front, honest, having steady treatment, and she didn't rush into it. She was treading carefully, checking his eyes, for mania, and he seemed so warm and OK, she finally took the plunge, and moved in.
And then he came off the pills. Because everythng was alright. No discussion allowed, this is what I am doing.
It was all the same at first, maybe he slept a bit less, shopped a bit more, and had more crazy ideas about making money. She didn't mind any of that.
But then she realised he was flying, in his head, all the time, and busy, like a bee, buzzing from one idea to the next. He never came down, and she was left on the ground.
She knew how it was. She recognised it. She'd flown herself, not with mania, but with drugs, great times, being in her own world, not communicating with family, too straight. A world of wonderful music, intense colours, breathing buildings, close encounters with minute petals, the whole world flexing and stretching, and flying into space with sound and darkness, a slight numbness of the mouth, but all the senses at extra-terrestrial level, out of sight.
And coming down was a drag, but had to be, and work had to be done, and after some years, she didn't bother with the drugs, because she could get into that flying space without them.
But he was flying, now, with no controls, and didn't want to come dow. So now he was up there, and she was down here, and she knew, she could sense, that he didn't want to be with her, because she dragged him down, to the normal level.
Where he was, was his heaven, an intricate world of fantasy and planning, a world of total self-absorption, and a world where he trod on her, often, with sarcasm, with criticism, because he knew everything, and she didn't.
So, she had packed her bag, with heavy heart, and was tramping away, in flight herself, fleeing from the hurt and the selfishness, and the mania.
She still felt sorry for him, because he couldn't see what he was doing. And she knew that he was addicted to this flying, this mind flying.
He hardly noticed she'd gone. He was busy, planning with his friends, the next money-making scheme. Wow, this one would be amazing, fantastic. He flattened the pizza packet, and held it carefully, wrist flexed, and with a quick twist aimed it across the room, like a flying saucer.
It dropped to the floor, but his mind was already in the stars, so it didn't matter.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.