Page 4 of Fallen Thorns
She shrugged. “Well, to be honest, I’m not really sure. It’s a difficult one. Sometimes I don’t even think I care about having a specific label. I’ll know when I know, but I’m certain I’m queer and that can mean a lot of things. Which is why I like to say it.”
“Nice.”
She laughed. “Wow. That’s probably the best reaction I’ve ever received. That’s how it should always be. Thanks for that, man.”
I sat up and folded my arms. “I’ve never understood why people make it such a big deal. It makes no difference what you identify as, as long as you’re happy.” I inwardly shook my head at my preaching, but I meant every word. I never wrapped my head around why we believed we needed to have a label or a default identity. Why should it matter? People spend way too much time getting involved in other people’s business when it doesn’t concern them in the slightest.
“What about you?”
“Hmm? Oh, right.” I’d never been asked that before and therefore had never had a solid answer. Love was a topic I chose to steer away from. Something so far away in my plans, it wasn’t even visible. “Maybe?” An honest answer.
“Well, whatever the future has in store for you, I can safely say any person will be lucky to have you.” She playfully leaned over and grabbed Wellington, throwing him in my face with a grin.
ChapterTwo
Iawoke the next morning to news about a tragic accident down by the riverside. In the early morning hours, the body of a middle-aged man washed up amongst driftwood along the outskirts of the city. The police were unsure about the time the death occurred, but by the fact that there had been no reported missing cases matching his description, it was safe to assume he had not been there long. Two days at most. It was horrifying, regardless of the circumstances, but what really made my skin crawl was the fact that in the mere seven weeks since my arrival in what was deemed a relatively safe city, this was not the first incident.
The first death was a history student who had yet to even begin her course. They discovered her body on the first Sunday before the term started and ruled her death a suicide. The newspapers penned it as a ‘rowdy night’, an insensitive term, yet one that sparked a brief national debate over students’ mental health and the pressures placed upon us by those in power — and in some cases — our own peers. As always, nothing ever came of it. We were expected to move on just like the media often did. A handful of people came forward after the light service held at the cathedral, claiming their friend would have never done something like that. Reporters put words in their mouths, they argued, and wrote false statements like ‘maybe they just didn’t notice the signs’. These friends, one of which attended the same lectures as me, were adamant something else was the cause. This sparked another brief — and this time localised — discussion about the possibility of it being an accident, or worse. The case very quickly grew cold, however, as there was little evidence to indicate another cause.
One thing that was glaringly obvious was that this incident didn’t so much as scratch the reputation of academic institutions. Scholars shrugged and shed fake tears; papers were written and ignored. I didn’t dive too deeply into the conspiracy of it all, though, as I often found getting too involved in cases like that spilled into my own health. On many occasions, I have struggled to learn when enough is enough, craving answers instead. On the night of the service, I took a moment to silently respect the poor girl and her family. I am not religious, and therefore did not understand the power of a prayer, but I held this stranger in my thoughts that evening, and hoped her soul found peace.
My mum rang me to make sure I was okay, checking that I was eating properly and being responsible. I assured her I was fine.
A few students decided to go back home, but for the rest of us, life returned to normal. Whatever that meant.
But now this: A fifty-three-year-old business man found floating, face down. Rumours quickly spread that morning with speculations of suicide. Yet only a few hours later, the news confirmed this man’s throat had been cut — in one clean slice — from ear to ear. And that’s what terrified everyone. A suicide meant internal suffering for others, but a murder? An external reminder that no one was ever truly safe.
People rarely fear what they cannot see, and that has always baffled me. Why was this man’s death treated with more severity? Is death not simply death? Sure, knife crime had been low over the last few decades, and no one ever expected something like this to happen. It’s one of those things you hear about on national news, or in places too far away to ever concern you. Never do you expect it to happen so close to where you live.
But I saw the bigger picture. We had lost two people in this city, weeks apart.
Police were already out interviewing people, trying to piece together parts of the puzzle and create a list of potential suspects. I had spoken to Rani over the phone that morning. The two of us discussed how lucky we had been to have not been out late that night. A part of me was tempted to bring up the girl to see if Rani had any thoughts on her apparent ‘suicide’. I held back, worried it would look like I had been mulling over the case too intensely — which I definitely had been — but she didn’t need to know that.
I had no plans that day, so, partly out of curiosity and to make up for my wasted evening the night before, I wrapped up and went out for a walk. I stayed well away from the discovery site; hordes of news reporters had already begun the rounds of picking scenic enough backdrops for their segments, expressing the event with melancholic hand gestures. Instead, I popped into a coffee shop, grabbed a hot chocolate, and headed over to Elvet Bridge. I stood and watched the calming flow of the river below, gazing out as the trees swayed to a slow rhythm and birds soared above. I wondered, as I have frequently in the past, what it would be like to fly. Not like a superhero or even an actual bird; not like we do in dreams, where we flap our arms frantically to simply levitate above the ground for several moments. No. I thought of actual flying, or floating to be more accurate. Letting your arms drop, bidding gravity farewell as the air lifts you upwards — as the clouds kiss your cheeks, and the sun blesses your forehead. To smile in the face of peace until you are weightless.
“I do hope you’re just looking for inspiration,” came a voice from behind. It took me a few seconds to realise the statement was directed at me, my brain wasn’t attaching focus to the conversations of passing strangers. I turned to my left, greeted by a petite woman in a bright red, woollen coat. Her familiar green hair was plaited on each side and half-buried beneath an exceptionally soft-looking train-conductor hat with two brass buttons sewn into either side. My eyes widened.
“Oh.” An instinctive reaction.
The woman raised an eyebrow, but her smile was not unpleasant. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”
Of course, she can’t remember me.My cheeks flushed.How embarrassing.
“I believe I bumped into you yesterday, your hair it’s… I’m sorry about that.”
She laughed. “Oh wow, that was you? I remember now.” Her grin widened. She spoke with delicacy, her words exceptionally articulated and edged with an accent I couldn’t place, like that of someone well-travelled.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going either, I’m very sorry about that, sorry.” It eased my mind knowing I was able to share my full apology with her again rather than let it simmer in my head for days.
“There’s honestly no need to apologise, I completely forgot about it to be honest. I bump into people all the time. I’m always so distracted.”
Relief washed over me, knowing I’d very much blown the situation out of proportion. She didn’t evenremember.
“Like this moment, for example.” She took a step closer. “I was out, admiring my surroundings as I often do, and there, in front of me, pressed against the wall with eyes wandering out of this very world, stands a handsome young man, coffee in hand, dressed in an outfit fit for a novel. I got distracted by him and thought I would take a chance in getting to know him a little.” She reached my side, the light breeze blowing her short, choppy fringe from her face as she faced out onto the river.
Oh, I thought, unable to compute the information correctly.
I returned my gaze, so that we mirrored each other.
