The Long Road Home

The man stands in the middle of a room surrounded by off cuts of wood and palettes of paint. I open the door and walk in from outside. I make sure to pull the door shut quickly so the whistling breeze doesn't give me away. I hug my full length red coat around me and disappear behind the curtain. It has become a regular habit of mine.

The ease with which the man handles the marionette tells me he has done this before. I don't know how old he is but he has the calloused hands of someone who has used them his whole life. He wears a long simple muslin gown that reaches, but doesn't cover his sandals. He should be cold but the temperature does not seem to bother him at all. His skin is carved with deep crevices and his round glasses sit perched on the end of his pointed nose.

This is a man who has experienced the world and had the weight of it upon him. Laughter lines collect around his eyes along with deep furrows of worry that sit permanently near his brow. He is the only old person here. He handles her so gently as he holds her out in front of him. He walks backward to gain perspective and poses her this way and that, as he takes in every angle. He has been creating her for years, perfecting every aspect of her until he is sure nothing more can be done.

I watch behind the curtain. In all this time he has worked silently, not even a mutter to himself. I don't know where he goes when he is not with her, but she seems to be his life's work. He is fixated on her and though his lips curl in a content smile, his shoulders sag and his eyes look weary. I wonder why he is such a mixture of emotion. He holds her up by the little cross of wood. He tilts it one way and then the other and she glides like a dancer across the floor.

He touches up her face and uses the colour he has specially mixed to perfect her eyes. She's finally finished. Her bronzed skin glows like it's been kissed by the sun. There is a hint of olive to the colour which gives her a Mediterranean flavour. Her hair is a honey blond and her cheekbones high. He has painted her full lips a soft frosted pink and her eyes are green. Though she is not life sized, she is life like. There is an energy in her, something that cannot be touched, but that simply is. She is his creation and his pride is overflowing.

He moves then. I have to move too, so I can see what he is doing. I'm not allowed in here. If he knew, I'm not sure what would happen. I'm supposed to be with the others but I am so drawn to her and also to him. This old man with his beard and shuffling feet that scuff across the floor. Who are you? It is clear he is someone important. He is holding the marionette across his arms, like a husband who carries his bride over the threshold.

He talks for the first time as he walks toward what looks like a hospital bed. This room smells different. A hint of chemicals, maybe bleach or cleaner. He holds up another marionette, a male one Ive never seen before. When he talks, his voice trembles with regret.

"It will be your job to help her Nic" .

Then he turns to the female marionette. The one I'm convinced he loves. He holds her up, turns her around a full turn and pulls a pair of scissors from his pocket. He calls her Julie.

"It will be your job to survive."

His eyes fill with tears and he hovers for a moment. Then he cuts through each one of her strings. The sound of the metal blades coming together grates on me, like fingernails on a blackboard. She falls in a heap on the floor and in that moment the lights go out. I put my hand over my mouth to silence my gasp. Someone turns on a spotlight and it beats its white light. An unforgiving spray over her once lifelike body. The energy I saw only moments ago is gone. I cannot believe it, I thought he loved her. Instead, in one snip, he renders her absolutely useless.

***

In hospital ward G51 a normally healthy woman named Julie is caught by her partner Nic as she collapses to the floor. She is rushed to the intensive care unit where a tube is pushed down her windpipe into her lungs. The mechanical click and whoosh of the ventilator can be heard as it breathes for her. Nic sits by her bed and holds her hand. She does not know he is there. Lines of worry etch a new story on his face. It will be a long time before he can relax again. He rests his head gently on her arm, carful not to touch the leads and needles coming from her body. "Please don't go" he whispers, because although he is aware that this illness may take her, he is not ready to let her go.