Suburbia

Suburbia. A paper boys playground. The screech of my tires as they bounce carelessly along our modest road. Bright paint hides the insecurities of the gears. Broken but still stable. Smiles greet the comforting face of the paperboy. And I greet theirs. Like a scene from a 1950s movie, families gather round barbecues. I notice Mrs Wilkinson watering her gardenias. I know what those odd shaped flowers are because we have had the same conversation for a week. I toss her paper over my shoulder and call out, hands cupped over my mouth " Looking good". The curves of her mouth form a kind smile as i sprint on past.

Here come the McAlpines (make the fact that it's a house more obvious). Glancing toward the intersection, I turn the other way.

"Kit! Got the morning round for us?" The shrill voice of Mrs Mcalpine carries across the street. sighing I wheeled my bike into her cobbled driveway. Dusty pebbles surround pots and fountains. She does talk for a while but I don't care. As long as it's sunny and I'm smiling,I haven't got a care in the world. Her hair looks a lot like Marilyn Monroe, it bobs up and down and up...

" ... crash didn't you hear Kit?" She brings my attention back and her hand is outstretched so I shove a paper into it. She's still looking at me.

"This has been great but there's papers to go and places to be" I salute her and sling my leg over the bike. She shouts something muffled but I only hear one word. "Stanson". The word brings my body to a comatose. Floating, fading, falling.

***

His blazer hugged the chair. Like the man himself, his jacket told a tale of greed and ambition.I could feel my skin slowly clenching into fists. There was no going back now. I can't stop this. I need to stop this but. I don't want to. I want it. What would my parents think? I'm going to cause them so much trouble. An unbearable pain is forming in the back of my head. I can't fight it. My movements are a blur. I can't control this. Help.

***

Vision finally reaches the blankness. There's an ache in my head. Squinting I place my hand against the humid gravel. I cast my eyes over towards the dishevelled heap of gears. I grasp the handlebars picking it up from the ground and hop once again on my one security. The one thing I know won't change with me. I force the splitting fear to the back. The back of all things that aren't me.

Suburbia. The familiarity of it all consumes me. Instead of stopping for a small chat with Mr Ferguson, I bound past his perfectly trimmed hedges. As I turn my head I can see his disappointment in my haste. He would only tell me how perfect his little house was and how perfect and leafy green his hedges are.

I push the pedal faster and I carelessly throw papers over fences, driveways and terraces. A beckoning agony rises from the back of my mind. Its just the crash, like that crash Mrs Mcalpine mentioned. Oh why did I stop to talk to her earlier, I thought. A complete interruption to my day.

The last house was coming up to the corner. Marbled walls surround the brilliance of the structure. As a kid, I remember riding into his driveway and playing for countless hours on that marbled stone walls. I placed my bike against the wall, slinging the tatted paper bag over my shoulder.My hand paused just as it rose to knock. Suddenly a deafening pain relieved my senses from my surroundings. It hurt so much. I couldn't fight it or push it back anymore. This isn't like stanson. It's not. I don't know what I'm doing. I can't ignore the agony any longer. Its falling inward. I shove the screen door open and before I can stop my feet trudge into the house. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.I try to think back to anything familiar. All I remember is the scared kid with the bike on top of the marbled wall. The wall that would always be bigger than the bike. The wall that would consume the bike once its shadow had passed. I could feel my breath increasing. It was like I was watching myself, unable to hear my protests. I could feel my steps leading me to the kitchen. I started getting dizzy. Blurred and spinning views became reality. The tiled floor swayed left and right. .I could feel my skin slowly clenching into fists.

Clenching into fists around a sturdy handle. I carried my prize into the bedroom. He looked so peaceful. The bald patches only added to his naivety. Writing a letter, most likely. Ink-stained his hand. He is still unaware of my presence. Pain shifts between my eyes and mind. It guides my movement like a puppet. A wicked thought occurs in that moment as I move. A puppet like suburbia. Strung by the rules. By the rules to flow with the pain. The pain rings around my head. I can't. Family.. No, i mustn't...

.

It is appeased. My lungs fill with an endless comfort of breath. Gosh, I'm rude, I think. Barging into this man's house without issuing him a paper. I rest my hand around the rolled thin folds and turn to address my receiver. Rivers run from his modest jumper. They create puddles against his slumped sides. Staining the bedspread burgundy and tracing grooves through the seams. It keeps pouring straight from the blades touch. His pen now residing on the floor and where letter sprawled across the floorboards. I notice his blank expression.

Stuffing the paper back into the canvas bag I pull my jacket cuff over my fingers. I press the jacket onto his eyes closing his last glance. My head looks toward the ensuite, sure enough, my brain inquires for tissues. Every old man has them. Fingers against soft tissue slide over the blades hand wiping away the accident. That's all it is. An accident.

Once away from the marbled wall, the bike gains control once more. The hinges squeak threatening the stability of the innocent gears.

"One. One two. Stanson, miller. One. One two. Stanson, Miller" Counting. Counting the clicks of the hinges home. Suburbia. A paper boys playground.