This Is My Disclaimer, Bitchez: The following work constitutes intellectual property of Mariliza Derveni, who is the sole owner of all the rights to it. Unauthorized use of this material is strictly prohibited. © Mariliza Derveni, 2009.





“So listen here”, she says, “listen here”, but she has turned around so unexpectedly that my eyes are still full of purple sky and rooftops moving over her head. I was working on a new string of a thought, I picked it up like five minutes before she turned around to look at me, this thought was all about how come the rooftops, all the rooftops or most of the rooftops in Aberdeen have these oddball rust-coloured rounded little panels nailed vertically right down their spine, where the two slopes meet. The slopes and the spines of the roofs of the houses of a beautiful city, drenched in death and oil. I was correlating. Houses with roofs with rounded spiky panels against some of the most devastating skies this side of the sun. The rooftops look like ancient Greek ships, I was telling myself, one appendix on one end, another at the other end, and smaller ones across, where the oars will poke out from. At night, I was telling myself, the houses slide off their square seats and move quietly along the open roads, and the panels are fiery orange and graze the blue trees and the street signs, and hushed voices count the strokes of the oars, coming from the bowels of the roofs. The houses hit the water and they look tiny next to the Seaton skyscrapers, I’m telling myself they’ll look like Monopoly houses for a minute there, before they find the water and take to it like fish, with the aptitude that comes with kinship and an honest love for morbid stories.

“Listen here”, she says again, but all I can see is the houses, they’re disappearing underwater until there’s nothing but roofs and oars and blazing fires that burst out in their bows, leading the way to Troy or Athens or some other hurtful shore. The orange lights across the beach and the golf courts and farther up to the cemetery with the little windmills and the heart-shaped stones, where the orange light stops in reverence outside the gates and turns back to claim sand and water the colour of really really bad weather and backaches. There’s a very small kids’ coat, hanging from the fence around the golf courts by the hood under an immense black sky, sleeves waving in the wind which is blowing citywards, ignored by the roofs that sail away with the decisiveness that comes with kinship and an honest love for petrol-dipped eels. The kid coat is being slashed by the wind, I know there’s no kid in it, but it’s still depraved, this sound that switches from a ship’s sail to swishing nylon and back again, like a man and a woman fighting against the wires. “No, BUT LISTEN” she says and I lose sight of the last deckfire.

“I need to tell you something before you get off, we’re like three stops away”.

I don’t want to look at her face, there’s a pleading and an urgency in her voice that I find undignified. I look around us, there’s a couple of insanely preppy black kids sitting two rows behind me and a blonde girl with a wooden pineapple hair pin and another blonde girl that I recognise from the tills at Morrissons; the day I was in her queue she had a demonic cough, and as she turned to me to give me my receipt, she paused in the middle of an entire body-twist of coughing, spread her legs under the counter and spat out a massive white blob right between them. Then, still clutching my receipt, she rang her buzzer and a very tanned girl came over, who gagged when she saw the pool on the floor, but seemed mercifully on top of things. The driver is looking at me from a round mirror. Right, let’s have it, his eyes say. Right, let’s have it, the blonde girls say. Right, the black girl says as she pulls her cell phone out of her bag, let’s have it.

“I CAN’T, AND I MEAN THIS IN ALL SERIOUSNESS UNDER GOD, I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE.” Escalation, a rooftop shines and is lost. “I CAN’T, DO, THIS, LIFE, ANYMORE. THIS LIFE IS RIGHT, OKAY, I MEAN THIS LIFE IS BETTER THAN ALL THE WHERE’S-THE-LIFE-YOU-PROMISED-US LIFE, BUT MAN” her voice is breaking on my face and eardrums like hail “MAN, DOES IT KILL ME.” And my eyes squint involuntarily. “I GET UP, MY BODY SAYS NO DON’T GET UP, IT’S SIX THIRTY DON’T FUCKING GET UP AT SIX THIRTY, BUT I STILL DRAG IT ACROSS TOWN LIKE A SAND COLOURED CORPSE AND STILL FIX MY MAKEUP AGAINST THE WIND THAT MELTS MY EYELINER AND STILL PASS OUTSIDE THE MORGUE EVERYDAY. AND YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING WHEN A HEARSE IS PARKED OUTSIDE THE DOORS WITH ITS BACK OPEN? I SAY WHAT THE DOORS ARE SAYING, I SAY *FOOD*, THAT’S WHAT. AND I GET INSIDE THE LAB AND I STAY IN THE LAB FOR 15 HOURS A DAY, YOU FEELING ME? IF I START COUNTING SHEEP NOW, RIGHT NOW, HOW MANY SHEEP CAN I COUNT BEFORE 15 HOURS HAVE PASSED? HOW MANY SHEEP THAT WE CAN THEN BLEED AND MAKE LIBRARIES? HOW MANY PETRI DISHES, TYE, TYE, AND I WRITE TYE SO MANY TIMES A DAY THAT IN THE END ALL I CAN SMELL IS CULTURES, ON PEOPLES’ CLOTHES AND THIS BUS’ TYRES, LIKE THE WHOLE WORLD IS BEING INCUBATED TO O.D. 0.5. AND FOR WHAT? FOR WHAT?" howling "OH LET ME TELL YOU. FOR EVERY CUNT IN THE WORLD TO TAKE MY BROKEN BODY AND MY DEFEATED HEART AND TURN THEM INTO PILLOWS FOR THEIR UNWILLINGNESS AND THEIR INCOMPETENCE. FOR MY PETRI DISHES BEING TAKEN AWAY AND WITH THEM THE SMELL OF SOME KIND OF TWISTED HOME FOR THE MINDS OF THE DAMNED. WHY IS IT NO GOOD, HOW CAN I NEVER BE GOOD I MEAN, YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING, Q! E! D! IS WHAT I’M SAYING AND THERE’S THIS BLOCK OF LONELINESS LIKE A HOUDINI CUBE AND O HAI! YOU KNOW HOW GOD’S MERCY ON MAN IS FORGETFULNESS? WELL, I’LL BE FUCKED, I DON’T HAVE IT, I DON’T HAVE IT, IT’S DEFECTIVE, MUTATED, EVOLVED, NOTTHERED, SISTERS. I CAN’T FORGET WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME, I CAN’T FORGET WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME RIGHT NOW, AND WHAT IS HAPPENING AROUND ME, CYCLONS OF WHY I’LL NEVER FIND A HOME IN THIS WORLD WHERE I AM AN UNFAVOURABLE MUTATION OF AN IDEA. IT’S THERE, THEY’RE ALL THERE THEM DAMN CRAP SHIT HOURS OF KNOWING ALL THESE THINGS AND HAVING NO ONE ELSE KNOW THESE THINGS BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IS BUSY REACHING AN O.D. 0.5 AND ZOOMING PAST ME AND INTO HAPPINESS. I AM CROUCHING OVER ALL THESE DREAMS OF MINE" the curve of your back follows the curve of the panels "AND ALL THESE DREAMS OF MY FAMILY AND A BABY THAT FITS PERFECTLY INTO MY BUSY LUMINOUS LIFE, IT FITS PERFECTLY INSIDE A HOLE IN THE WORLD, A HOLE IN THE SHAPE OF A WHITE CAT THAT WRAPS MY NECK EVERY NIGHT LIKE A FOX COLLAR AND KEEPS ME FROM CHOKING WITH MY OWN TONGUE.” With a shaking the like of which I’ve never known “AND, RIGHT, RIGHT, IN THE MIDDLE OF BEING DUMB IS A POOL OF FUCKERS TELLING ME NOT TO TALK ABOUT THIS AND NOT TO GO THERE WITH THAT AND NOT TO TWIST MY LITTLE HEAD OVER HOW *SCIENCE* WORKS BECAUSE *SCIENCE* DUDE, IS DONE BY SERIOUS PEOPLE. AND YOU KNOW HOW THINGS ARE WITH ME? LET ME EXPLAIN HOW THINGS ARE WITH ME. THINGS WITH ME ARE IN THE LINES OF I’LL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP, INBRED PIG THINKING YOU CAN MEASURE OUR LOVE BY PUTTING IT NEXT TO THE SIZE OF YOUR SPITE. YOU KNOW HOW YOU WANT TO GO TO EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM SELF RIGHTEOUS ASSWIPES AND TELL THEM THAT THAT’S IT MAN, CHILLAX, IT’S OVER FOR YOU, YOU’RE OF AN AGE WHERE IMPOTENCE HAS PRECIPITATED, DEFEAT HAS FOUND A HOME, THAT’S IT MAN, MAKE WAY, MAKE WAY LIKE A WHOLE DYING COLONY WOULD MAKE WAY FOR THAT SINGLE AMPICILLIN-RESISTANT MOTHERF THAT COUGHS AND SPITS LONELINESS AND HOPE FOR A WORLD THAT YOU WON’T SEE ANYWAY YOU DON’T NEED IT, YOU’RE IRRELEVANCE INCARNATE, SEE YA LATER TTYN BROTHER BABY” The Morrissons girl giggles! “AND ABOVE ALL THINGS, ESCAPISM, THE PURE INABILITY FOR SOME GOOD OLD-FASHIONED ESCAPISM, NO DEATHS, NO MONEY, NO CANCER, NO DVT AND NO POLICE LINES. WE COULD LOCK THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW AND SINK INTO SOMETHING FRIENDLIER, WITHOUT THIS CHASTITY BELT HANGING OVER ME WAITING TO FIND A KEY TO IMMORTALITY, I MEAN IMMOFAKENTALITY, YOU WITH ME? KIDS WANT TO BE SPORTS AND CHARITY, I WANT TO BE NOT DEAD. I WANT TO BE NOT DEAD IN THE PHYSICAL SENSE, I WANT TO BE NOT DEAD WITH A BEAUTIFUL MAN ON MY TEAM AND A LAB WHERE I CAN SHUT MYSELF IN AND TRY TO GIVE ALL THESE DEADENDS A MEANING, I SEE IT IN MY HEAD SURFACING LIKE A TAIL FIN WITH HUGE RED AND BLUE STRIPES. BUT TELL ME THIS, WHO! WANTS! TO! SEE! THAT! FIN! I NEED TO SEE THAT FIN, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, IT’S NOT ENOUGH FOR ME TO CLOSE MY EYES AND FORGIVE SOME 7000 FEET OF COLD WATER. OH, THAT’S A GOOD ONE, I CAN’T FORGET SHIT BUT I HAVE TO WAVE MY ARMS LIKE RIBBONS AND SPREAD MY FORGIVENESS LIKE A FEVER, CLASSIC, THAT’S CLASSIC HOMESLICE.”

She stops and wipes her eyes, and I do the same without thinking about it. And we stay like this with our hands middair in the imaginary elongation of our lids for some moments, and I exhale and break the spell.

“Forgiveness” she says again, this time in a low voice like cuddling a kitten. “I won’t do that, you know, I won’t forgive shit, I WON’T FORGIVE CANCER AND FAILURE AND PATRONISING STARES AND CUTBACKS. WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLE MUST YOU BE TO FORGIVE EVERYTHING LIKE YOU’RE JESUS OR SOMETHING, LIKE YOU DON’T HAVE EIGHT PAIRS OF FANCILY PRINTED CONVERSES AND A GUILT FOR NEVER CONVINCING ANYONE OF ANYTHING IN. YOUR. LIFE. LIKE, EXCUSE ME, SORRY FOR A MINUTE THERE, LIKE I FORGIVE YOU FOR SHITTING ALL OVER MY WORK AND MY STORIES FROM WHEN I WAS LITTLE AND MY OPTIMISM FOR A CARE BEAR WORLD WHERE I’M NOT FEELING HELLFIRES ON MY HMMMFMFM EVERY TIME I PEE, YOU KNOW? RIGHTNESS, AWESOMENESS, LET’S DO THAT. LET’S BE GROWNUPS ABOUT THIS. LET’S NOT STICK TO DETAILS, LET’S NOT STRETCH THINGS. LET’S SMOKE, WHICH REMINDS ME I LOVE THAT ALSO, MARILIZA, ARE YOU EVEN PAYING ATTENTION MARILIZA FOR FUCK’S SAKE PLEASE SOMEONE, YOU KNOW?” I am wondering whether she’s about to kill herself right here, in the seat in front of me, and I can’t see a dead person, I think, without throwing up and beating myself against the glass doors until I actually go through them and into the night air.

“AT THE END OF THE DAY, YOU WANT DEATH? I’LL GIVE YOU DEATH UNTIL DEATH IS ALL YOU CAN SQUEEZE OUT YOUR NOSE AND EARS, YOU THINK ABOUT IT, BUT YOU’RE NEVER THERE WITH IT, YOUR FRIENDS DIE AND YOU CRY, CRY MORE AND THEN GOD’S MERCY ON MAN DESCENDS ON YOU LIKE A PAIR OF WINGS AND BAI-BAI, NICE, BUT I STAY THERE, I’M LIVING IN THAT ROOM WITH ALL THIS DEATH AND ALL I GET IS A STROLL TO THE LAB EVERY DAY TO FLEX MY LEGS. BUT I COME BACK FOR FOOD AND A SHOWER, AND DEATH REMEMBERS ME, WE SUFFER FROM THE SAME AILMENT, OBVZ, AND THE CLARITY OF WHAT’S THERE, THIS CRYSTAL VISION LIKE YOU’VE JUST HAD LASER SURGERY AND FOR A SECOND YOU’RE SUSPENDED SOME FEET OVER YOUR BED WHICH IS NO LONGER YOUR BED BUT A NICELY PLACED STACK OF CYPRESS BRANCHES AND THIS OVERWHELMING SMELL FREEZES AROUND YOUR WRETCHED BODY RIGHT THERE, STILL IN THE AIR AND IN THAT MOMENT, YOU’RE DEAD, YOU KNOW IT, ENDPOINT, GAME, YOU’RE DEAD AND THERE’S NO MOTHER TO SNAP YOU OUT OF IT AND NO NOTHING. OH SNAP, BROKEN CHILD, I WANT OUT OF THAT DEAL MAN, I SWEAR TO GOD MY SOUL WILL LEAVE ME ONE DAY, I WILL EX-HALE IT, IT'LL PACK ITS BAGS AND CHECK OUT. CHECK OUT BEFORE I REALLY DIE AND IT DISCOVERS IT DOESN’T EVEN HAVE THAT CRAPPY FLAT TO LIVE IN ANYMORE. AND I KEEP THINKING THAT A HAPPY LIFE, A FAMILY, MY OWN KIDS WILL END THIS, I WILL SEE MY SOUL FINDING A HOME IN THEM AND NO LONGER CRAP MYSELF EVERY, SINGLE, DAY, SINCE, FOREVER, BUT NO, I THINK NOT, BECAUSE KIDS TEND TO VISIT THE WOMBS OF WOMEN THAT ARE NOT LIKE ME, LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME YOU THINK I’LL MAKE HALF A SHIT OF A DECENT MOTHER AND ALL HELL WILL BE FORGIVEN” she concludes calmly “and I get the wings too”.

The driver and everyone in the bus is looking at us, he pulled over some fifteen minutes ago and now no one is even blinking. We’re all almost half asleep with how horrified this is making us, for me it’s like eating my own vomit, nothing equals this thing that’s happening to me so unfairly inside this bus, and damn it! I want out.

It’s like she knows, though. She stops talking and closes her eyes in exhaustion. Both her wrists are bandaged in these elastic supports. It is almost too easy, so I avoid thinking about it. I look away from her, I pick up my backpack and walk to the front of the bus, chanting “don’t stop me don’t stop me don’t stop me” inside my head and she doesn’t stop me. I get to the front of the bus and the sculpture of a driver, I push his hand aside and push the doors open. I start walking away from the bus and when I’m 200 feet away I turn to look. The street is empty and dark, the inside of the bus is like a floating orange frame in a dark gallery wall, and inside this frame, with a shitload of regret and disbelief, I see no resurrection, no light of dawn, no still life of armours and flowers. All that’s there is the body of this girl, suspended horizontally just like she described herself, with her eyes open and her hair hanging down to her seat, hanging down with the grace that comes with kinship and an honest love for the smell of cypress leaves and bleach.

Which is when I start running, you get it, of course.

I reach the beach and hide under some rocky steps. I stay there all night, which is no big deal in Aberdeen terms. Because this night of all nights, I have a purpose damn shit crap purpose. I will wait for the ships to come back, which they will by first light. I will run down to the water and as they rock there with their fires almost gone and their oars broken, I will vindicate them and show them the way to Helen, the real Helen, Helen the Heartless and Helen the Cruel, who never really went to Troy, that cow, she just fled home and family to come over here in search of her godamn wings, the wings she didn’t really need that bad to begin with.