She said, it had been traumatic.
She said, not traumatic like explosions or being in a war. She hadn’t been buried alive or anything. It wasn’t that sort of traumatic.
She said, if she didn’t talk about it she’d go mad. Not literally mad, of course. She meant she would… crack. Like glass.
She said, look, she knew there were people worse off, but maybe what was traumatic for one person was… more… or less… for someone else. Some people might like being buried alive. Look at moles.
She said, cancel that. Moles had nothing to do with it. Moles were equipped with forepaws and preferred a subterranean lifestyle. Obviously she wasn’t a mole. Obviously she hadn’t been buried alive. Not physically.
She said, sorry, that sounded pathetic. She said, the truth is… the truth is… She said the truth is she didn’t know why she’d come in the first place.
She said, she was sorry about the crying. She must have sprung a leak. Why was crying supposed to be good? Wasn’t the whole purpose of life to come out of it happy? Maybe not happy in a ha-ha, cartwheeling sort of way… But just to come out of it not crying.
She said, it must be nice to be a therapist. Sit back and say, oh yes, that’s good, very cathartic, keep crying. That’ll be a hundred pounds, please.
Nobody really cares. Not really. Other people’s problems don’t interest other people. It’s depressing. Sweep it under the carpet. Forget about it. Man up. Have a drink; have a laugh; have a Kit Kat.
Does talking ever help? Really? Everyone says it does, but does it?
It’s funny, isn’t it? All this… stuff.
She said, thanks for listening.
- Rattle Tales 4. June, 2016. (ISBN: 978-0-9932080-2-7).
- No One Should Have To Care Alone. March, 2016. (ISBN: 978-1-873747-53-7).
- The Pygmy Giant. September, 2015.
- Artwork: the author.