Leaving - Grace Collins
There is sound everywhere you turn, a constant buzz that never ceases to quieten, even in the middle of the night. It swells and flows throughout the day, meandering through the throngs of people all in a rush to be some place else. The streets are littered with the heavy footsteps of those carrying endless worries and concerns. They march on through the crowd, never stopping to listen. The buildings grow taller and taller with every passing year, desperately trying to squeeze more people into one tiny space. People living on top of each other with no room to breathe.
The sky seems closer here, covered in a thick blanket of smog that compresses over you, the heat rising from the streets creating a greenhouse effect. You are trapped inside that greenhouse, longing for a world filled with space and colour. A world you know exists because you have been there, lived there and were born there. Yet, you chose to leave it and escape to this endless rat race, this dog-eat-dog city - the city that will chew you up and spit you back out before you have made your mark. You rationalise that it will be worth it, repeating over and over that this has to be worth it.
Forget the rolling fields that come alive in the wind, forget the mountain tops that pierce the sky and forget the sound of song in the tumbling brooks. You left that world behind, packed up your bags and boarded the train heading straight to the heart of London. Suitcase and guitar in hand, you concluded that there was nothing left for you in Wales; that the mountains had turned their backs on you, had shut you out and had left you on the other side, in their shadows. That was over two years ago and every day your heart aches for your homeland, for the song of the hills and the safety of the valleys, for this city is not your home.
You may have changed your clothes, cut your hair and dampened your accent to fit in with the masses of faces, yet it is never quite enough. You are still singled out, still an outsider, you still do not belong. You feel a fraud, as night after night you sing your songs in darkened rooms, blending into background noise as the clink of glasses and laughter carries over your guitar. You struggle against the crowd, your words tangling in the heavy air, fingers straining as your music fails to carry the message that you are so desperate to send. Night after night, you sit at the bar after your set, feeling yet again rejected and dismissed, as you watch another singer own the stage. Oozing confidence, body language possessing the microphone, their guitar and body portrayed as one. You down shot after shot, bitterness welling, bile building in your throat as you eye someone else who has everything you have ever longed for. Tired eyes linger on the bottom of the glass as you heave yourself off the barstool and force yourself to go home.
Your home now is a tiny studio flat above a takeaway shop. The aroma of recooked food seeps through the old floorboards, lingering in the walls, and has nestled over time into the worn carpets. Your bedroom window looks directly onto another brick wall, creating the feeling of imprisonment as you watch the moss gather and the residue of rain water sludge stain the bricks. With dazed eyes you lay back on the bed, fully dressed, and dream of your real home.
Back to the land of song, the rumbling valleys and the roar of a distant dragon. A small town, a community bustling with busy bodies and gossip that spreads like wildfire. You always felt too big for this space, believing you were destined for greater things, things beyond the reaches of this provincial place. Delusions of grandeur, is what they said with a roll of their eyes, mouth set in a grim line and nose wrinkled with a bad smell, as you walked defiantly down the narrow streets with your guitar strapped to your back. You were always a little too much for the tired community halls, the worn school stage productions - even for the village choir. Everything you did, had to be larger than life; your voice louder, your singing more passionate, your musical skills more flamboyant than the next. Soon people began to silently move away from you in choir practice, stifling their giggles as you sang your heart out, pointed looks darting across the room as you proposed yet another set change, and soon you found yourself sitting alone in the breaks. It is terribly lonely, the feeling of isolation and worry that attacks your chest, leaving you wondering why you are the odd one out. The odd one out for wanting more than this small-town life can offer. The odd one out for having dreams where the sound of applause rings in your ears. The odd one out for wanting to leave.
The sirens wake you from your half slumber, the noise vibrating through your body; something you have yet to get used to. Your bleary eyes open. The alcohol still haunting your veins make you feel sluggish and slow. The truth is, you are uninspired. You thought your creativity would flow freely here in amongst other likeminded creatives. You had visions of early afternoon brunches surrounded by friends who quoted Proust, engaged in politics, debated the pros and cons of translated literature, who wrote their own music and took part in street theatre. In your visions you were at the centre of this artistic hub; your opinion mattered, people requested to hear your latest songs and they wanted you to edit their novels.
You and your work were significant. What actually transpired was something that countless young adult’s face when they walk away from their homes and enter a foreign city: it is especially hard to make new friends when you are a fully grown adult. Gone are the days of the playground where you thought nothing of introducing yourself and immediately being asked to join in with their game of stuck in the mud. No longer comfortable with sitting down next to someone new in the canteen simply because they were reading your favourite magazine. The simplicity and easiness with which you made friends as a child has disappeared over the years, and it started in that small community hall, when they left you standing alone. Now you drink your coffee on your own, too shy to join any artist groups, afraid of voicing your opinions in fear of being shut down again. The sting of what they did to you still remains on your skin, a constant reminder that you will not be enough.
You find the energy to get dressed and leave, searching for fresh air and blue skies, longing for a view that doesn’t end in high rise buildings. You hope to feel that spark of inspiration in your fingertips. But the air outside is stale, thick with old food, alcohol fumes and the tang of the river. It still feels alien to you. Air should be light, light enough that it fills your entire body with its purities, swirling around, expanding your lungs, cleansing your body. It should be carried from the tops of the mountain, not covered in layers of smoke and fumes that roll off the dirty river. Yet, however out of place you feel, there is still that drive pushing you forward. Your dreams may be dying embers but there is still heat; heat that has the ability to gain traction and rise with the flames till they lick the ceiling that is oppressing them. This heat will be capable of burning through doors, causing chaos and destruction in its wake and becoming deadly within seconds. However, you know deep down that you will never give yourself the chance you deserve to make it until you confront what you left behind. You may have left that small town, but your demons lie in wait, never asleep, always pawing at your insides, reminding you of what you need to do.
The rumours started the same way that all rumours do. With a whisper behind guarded hands, the hush behind closed doors and the deafening silence when you walk into a room. There was no telling its source, but it was live and spreading across the valley faster than a forest fire. The isolation you felt before was nothing in comparison to this. The deliberate cold shoulder, the crossing of the road to avoid you, the words that stung as you tried to carry your head high. It was in the way the phone calls stopped, friends leaving your messages unanswered, the social media posts that hounded you.
It wasn’t just the people you grew up with who rejected you, it felt like the valley itself was turning you away. The streets of your childhood tripped you up as you walked. The shadow of the mountain stalked your every move, leaving you permanently in its gloom. The cold, mountain air bit at your ankles and the cruel rain drove down straight at your head. Not only its people but Wales itself was snubbing you. You don’t need a town to make you feel ashamed. You don’t need taunts thrown at you and hard cold stares to remind you of your biggest mistake.
They say that there are two sides to every story, except in this town. In this town there is only one side and your side is the wrong side. One person will inevitably always shoulder more of the blame; in this case you didn’t shoulder it, it crushed you. The weight of the mistake was your burden and your burden alone, whilst the other person walked easily away. You ran and now you are punishing yourself by staying in this unforgiving city. Wallowing in your self-pity and loneliness. Two years you have stayed hidden; just another face among the crowds, living a half-life out of the fear that someone from your past will come and scold you.
You find that you have unintentionally made your way to Paddington station, the same place you arrived two years ago. Memories come flooding back to that day, as you stepped out onto the platform and instead of feeling relief, you cried your aching heart out. Strangers had to step around you as you sobbed uncontrollably. Great heaving sobs that wracked your body; your breath short and sharp, your knees weakened. The memory of that day still haunts you and has never strayed far from your mind. You know what you have to do, and with a deep breath, you head to the ticket station. Ticket in your trembling hand, you make your way to the platform, your heart thundering in your chest and your breath catching between your ribs. This is what you have to do. To enable yourself a chance to live again, you must face your fears, face your mistakes. This is what you must do to set yourself free and allow yourself to be the person you always knew you could be. This time, you are leaving to make things right.
Recipes
Written by Grace Collins
I work in HR and a part time MA student in English Literature. Avid reader and writes book reviews on Instagram @thecwtchbookclub when not walking the puppy.