Jemima has always held her perfect pink tongue and said nothing to anybody about the terrible movements she feels in her body. Huge movements; as though a monstrous thing is shifting it's weight- this way, that way- first wriggling slowly in the right leg, wrapping a bone- squeezing, squeezing- then sliding, growling, burning soft and loud, round through the places she wishes to be silent and still. Then, on, into the left leg where it will wriggle again, slowly, slowly, all the time pushing long, long pins of ice down into the foot. On some days the awful shuddering thing will fill her chest and every beat of her fine & swelling heart sends red slices of bright shock down her beautiful arms- razoring her fingers from the inside- thumping at her elbows with an invisible lump hammer.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
But.
Jemima's face shows not the pain. There is no quick breath, no flush of colour, no paling, fainting, or tears... no sign. People fall in love with Jemima. They fall into the deep blue of her eyes- eyes that seem to see & know something, beyond what shines before them- oh, and the perfect blush of her cheeks ... a full white cloud kissed rose by a sinking September sun. Men and women, dogs and cats, feel violent urges to do with the softness of her skin and the spun gold of her hair.
They love her. They loved her. They will love her.
And all the time- Jemima is in pain. Giant, arching pain. The pain of ages. The pain of pain.
As she ages; ever in pain; ever as pain- slipping through twenties, craning her neck to see beyond thirties and, then- setting herself down surely in forties- Jemima grows tired of the hopes, dreams, sex & death she sees in the eyes of those around her. She decides to move away from the city.
In the city she is successful and rich and devastating, in business and pleasure, because - you should know- pain makes of everything nothing, nothing, nothing. So that beyond the skin there is no more struggle, no difficulty... no- weight.
It is a forced hand of callousness. It is the vibrant anaesthetic.
. . .
Jemima has moved to the coast. Jemima moved to the sea. The ocean. The vast water. The expanse. The ever-changing constant.
...to be cont...
