Another thing to sort. Another thing to buy. I made a note in my phone.
CUYRTASIN
God, it was cold. Goosebumps stood to attention over my arms. It was colder inside than out. Old stone buildings. No cloud cover above. I touched the iron radiator. Cold. I hadn’t added more wood to the boiler today. With a sigh, I snatched my axe from the sheepskin rug and headed into the basement.
The stairs down swayed around me as I descended. I groped about for the railing, clinging on once I’d found it. I tripped and flung my arm out with the axe to steady myself. The blade sank into the stair next to my foot. I froze, then I laughed and yanked it back out of the wood.
It took me a moment to realise why it was so dark. I’d forgotten to turn on the light. I groaned and looked back up the stairs. Well, I was down here now. And I could see—sort of—from the light coming in from the stairs. Besides, I’d just walked home in the dark and nothing happened. It couldn’t possibly be worse inside my own home.
I swung open the door of the boiler, banging it against the metal body of the water tank. I scooped the old ash out onto the floor with my hands, then mashed in a handful of tinder. At some point the tinder was alight, though I couldn’t remember reaching for a match. I stared at it for a while. The flame dancing in its little cradle of paper and chipped wood. It was bright. I was still cold. I needed more wood. I reached inside the bag of firewood for a log. I jammed it a few times against the too small opening before remembering I had to cut it. That’s okay. I had the right tool for this job.
If I was sober, I would have known what a terrible idea this was. But I wasn’t sober. I was deliciously uninhibited. I was a ‘Woman Who Could Take Care Of Herself.’ I was a ‘Woman Who Could Chop Wood.’
Are you chopping or splitting? Rowan had said.
Splitting, please.
I balanced the log on the concrete floor and raised my axe. I split the log in two on the first try. I whooped. Why wasn’t I able to show this side of me to the people I met? I set another log on the floor. It was hard to be my best self when people like Fergus were smirking at me.
Or when people like my neighbour were hovering close by.
I split the log.
What did she have to hover for? What the fuck was with that creepy smile?
I set up another log.
Maybe she was just a bit odd. I’m a bit odd. I’d still want someone to be kind and include me.
I split the log.
But still, it was her that had made me act weird. I’d been fine until she showed up.
I set up another log.
What if she did that at every community event? I regretted introducing myself. A hot feeling rose into my cheeks.
I split the log.
The room turned slowly around my woozy head. I was starting to feel sick again from swinging the axe. But I kept splitting logs. More than I needed. That high tone rose in my ears. I split the logs more and more violently. I thought about how my neighbour had dressed. How she’d looked. How she’d behaved. I thought of all the times I’d hovered at people’s desks. I thought of all the parties I’d found out about after the fact. I thought of a yellow kite above a cliff. I thought of slender fingers, nails painted hot pink. The light in the boiler had burnt out. I thrust the axe over and over into the already chopped wood, smashing it to splinters.
“Fuck you fuck you fuck you!”
Then, amidst the noise and violence, I was filled with the sudden awareness of something behind me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. My brain flooded my body with adrenaline. My sobriety returned to me suddenly. Everything became very sharp and clear. Something was here. Something was behind me. Any other time I would have startled or frozen or screamed or ran.
This time, I turned on my heel and swung the axe.
My body moved, quick and lithe, my arms so suddenly taut, so suddenly animal. Muscle swept the axe head through the air, an elegant silver arrow, a shooting star.
A wet shunk-crack!
My axe found its home wedged into the left-hand curve of my neighbour’s forehead.
I stopped still. Her wide, watery eyes stared at me, white, so white, in the gloom of the basement. Her lank hair was plastered to her face. Her hand was still reaching out toward me, fingers scant millimetres from my back.
Behind her, the door in the wall was open.
