A Girl Made of Air by Nydia Hetherington

Author:Nydia Hetherington [Hetherington, Nydia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781529408898
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2020-09-02T23:00:00+00:00

17

The Passion of Bunny

The following are snippets, collected and collated from various documents. Some, where I feel weight should be added, are punctuated with a snatch of memory, or re-written with nuance. These entries are the glue to my tales so far. I am a curator now, sticking things together as I type, shaping them, building them up in order to make sense of the history so you can get a real idea of what is missing, and why it needs to be found. I hope, above all, you will find this a truthful collection of words.

*

Bunny smiles, her large head tips forwards, propelling her body to follow. Two fat arms reach out, pleading. I go over, pick her up, straining as I do. She’s not yet two years old and growing.

She’s put on weight again.

Serendipity Wilson does not answer. She sits, bedraggled between her bedclothes, knitting. She, unlike her ever-expanding child, looks thinner than ever, her face gaunt and tired. Her hair is dulled almost to the point of looking tarnished. Only the occasional faint throb of orange betrays its former glory. It makes me sad to look at her. I speak, avoiding her gaze.

What you making? I ask.

Hat.

She has hats.

Don’t fit. Nothing fits.

They’re fine.

Look at my fingers. Look at them! It’s never-ending. I don’t do this for fun, you know. Oh, you have no idea. No idea!

I thought you liked making Bunny’s outfits.

Serendipity Wilson stops knitting. She glares at me, leaving me no choice but to give her my complete attention. Her eyes are wide in their sockets, but empty. She looks like a blind woman; the surface of each orb covered in a milky sheen. She sees only her fat child: the big, hairless head, the grasping chubby fingers; hears only her crying, her screaming. Bunny pulls my hair. I let out a sharp no, and struggle to hold her wriggling bulk.

I need to keep her safe.

Serendipity Wilson’s voice dwindles to a whisper as she continues to stare with unblinking accuracy at nothing in particular.

There’s danger. Do you see? And misery. I’m an artery for it. Awful things pass through me.

What things?

They’re like snakes, hissing and moving under my skin, trying to find a way out. But I won’t let them out. Do you hear me? I won’t let them get to Bunny.

Stop saying things like that. It scares me.

You should be scared, Mouse. We all should.

It’s silly. Bad things wouldn’t live in you. Not ever. You’re too good.

You don’t know what’s happening, here, inside. Maybe misery is a virus. And I’ve caught it, like a bad cold.

No one can be happy all the time. Not you, not even Bunny.

What do you know? Your life has been nothing but misery. Your family stink of it.

I can’t help it if I was born a monster.

No, no. I’m sorry, Mouse. What am I saying? My poor Mouse. I’ve tried my best, goodness knows. It’s not your fault, it never was. You’re not a monster, please don’t say that. But it’s true, isn’t it? Misery is your shadow, it follows you, sticks to you, like an infection.

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