I believe in Myrica

First Published in 3D/07, Launderette Publications 2007

In a strange land called London, there once lived a young girl called Myrica who was a bit of a princess. Think of all the most beautiful girls you’ve ever set eyes on. Well Myrica was even hotter than the super hot hottest hottie in your head. She was a babe.

But Myrica had issues. She was from a broken home, you see. Inevitably, she used the break up of her parents to make excuses for the problems she had. At school. ‘I hit her and took her money because daddy doesn’t love mummy no more.’ As a teenager. ‘I know I was a two-faced bitch about Danny Glover (swoon) but it’s all because my parents broke up.’ And as a grown up lady. ‘I know I’m unfaithful/unfair/confrontational/egocentric in my relationship with you but it’s all because my dad cheated on my mum and I don’t trust men’.

So it came to be that Myrica went on many dates and met many men. They came to her charmed by her physical attributes but ran away scared by her messed up soul. Myrica got so used to blaming her mother and father for her bad behaviour that she began to believe she was truly damaged. It suited her that way. It meant she didn’t have to connect.

As Myrica headed towards her mid-twenties, she developed a thing for married men. She dated them because it was safer, she didn’t have to expect anything from them. The band of gold, third finger, left hand, was like a fucked up life ring. She needed to realise that metal doesn’t float.

Then one day in the summer of 1998, Myrica went clubbing. The people in the club were all smiling, and Myrica studied their faces to try to understand how it felt to smile. It had been a long time since she’d allowed herself to do this. Perhaps she was always a little serotonin depleted, but we’ll come to that.

It didn’t make sense, how the people were. They danced like the music was the only music in the world. They smiled at nothing. No one was telling jokes, or stories, or saying nice things to these people, and they grinned their heads off anyway. They kept hugging each other, and holding hands, and they looked like people who’d known each other for ever.

Myrica asked one girl, ‘why is everyone so happy?’ And the girl said ‘because of these,’ and handed her a tiny little pill that said ‘eat me’ on it. So she did.

Before she knew it, she was dancing too, and grinning like her life depended on getting the corners of her mouth as far apart from each other as possible. The music sounded different from before. Like it was more than music but a spirit in the air around her. And she thought: That tablet must have been a magic tablet.

Just then, a dashing looking Kiwi guy came over. He had his hair sprayed in blue spikes on top of his head and his clothes were from surfing and skate shops. He was super cool and he thought Myrica was well fit.

And he wasn’t married.

Myrica let the Kiwi guy whisk her away on his mini-scooter and take her back to his apartment in Islington. They made love all night, and she told him things she’d never said to anyone before, opening up her damaged insides and laying everything bare on the bedsheets in front of him.

And they lived happily ever after….

….except on Tuesdays, when they learnt to tread carefully and keep quiet, avoid confrontations.

THE END