Helix

In times of grave stress, one often falls captive to what they know.

Emma, the young pale resident of the last house down Grattan Street, sits in her room drinking green leaf tea. Some say to further vitality, and what else does one need to breeze through the motions but time...

Made Orphan at age fifteen by the appalling death of her parents, she would since plop down on her inherited reading nook. Wrapped up in the corners of this handmade piece, she skimmed gently over every carved swirl with feathery fingertips.

Crafted by her late mum, it was the blossoming fruit after months of ceaseless sweat and splinters, an obsessive search for the crossbreed between a whim of fantasy and architectural perfection, flourished from the hands of an uneducated woman midst hysteria. Unused, unpolished: the unattainable achievable masterpiece slipped through her fingers as they walked across town square to buy finishing varnish. Her mum to choose, her father to pay. Only to never reach the store.

With both hands hugging the scalding teacup, Emma often reminisced back to the marking passages of her town's favourite summer show.

Neighbours, colleagues, long-term family friends... they all came running to watch the unravelling events of the date. With no listed guardians to take care of her, trackable blood relatives or a culprit to take financial responsibility, the judge stood up in front of the crowded room and pleaded for anyone present to take interest in such feeble girl... Emma looked down as silence overruled.

It was then settled that, as a smart miss, she was to continue life on her own.

By 17, not being a minor meant no school. Work with no official education requirements, a hand-to-hand payment small enough for bread and water. A youthless youth that attracted nothing but distant stares muffled by her own lingering self-loathing thoughts.

Sat close enough to see the sites by her window, hidden enough to not be spotted by nosy passers. This young girl who salted her tea was left wondering why...

It was broad daylight, in the middle of a little town's public square market. A car, followed by a trail of fumes came running down, out of control, the eye turning noise, the creature scorched out as it hit two people walking, running, trampled. The line of events was unmistaken the driver stumbling drunk out of the car as half the town goggled over in shock. Why. She wondered.

The well-known 1954 Hudson Hornet was driven by a cars' collector who lived uphill. A true eccentric. No witness dared to confirm the diplomacy of the car. Why. She pondered.

In his times of need, rare was the occasion he didn't have one, he would walk floors of steep stairs, reach his cellar and sit at the head of the reclaimed oak table. He would look at their walls stocked from floor to ceiling with the best liquor money can buy. Every bottle meticulously labelled, shelved and illuminated by the overwhelming chandelier designed specifically for that room. At the very end, blended in with stone walls, he would defy the bar with his eyes and stay put.

'I imagined laughter' he smirked 'Envisioned my family running up and down, my wife yelling at them to be safe. I would pour her and our friends' glasses of the best wines and enjoy all this successful ....' They had tried to have children, and although the misses was medically able to carry to term, he did not possess the swimmers to even begin the race.

The news hit hard on our poor eccentric cars collector. They adopted, towards the end, but he couldn't look at them and feel like a father. He stopped defying the bar from across the room and started to pour a drink once a week. Two drinks a week. Two drinks every other day until drinking became a friend.