The Woman Who Intended Leaving

A short fictional story about shrunken dreams

She’d intended to leave the country, once.

35 years ago, shortly after finishing her English degree at Durham University, Sophie had planned to go backpacking around South East Asia.

“Oh the Places You’ll Go!”

Said the title of the book she’d been given as a graduation present from her well travelled Aunt.

“Don’t leave!”

Her best friend Amy had pleaded.

“You won’t know anyone, you’ll be lonely ……..wait until I graduate next year and we can go together!”

She’d appealed.

Maybe she’s right, Sophie had thought at the time.

And she’d stayed put.

Not too long after, they’d had a massive fall out and Amy had indeed gone travelling after graduation - with a new friend, her replacement!

She’d intended to leave the town, once.

30 years ago, she’d been offered a lucrative teaching position with live in accommodation at a prestigious girls school near The Cotswolds.

“Don’t go!”

Her boyfriend Simon had protested.

“What about us? I thought we were supposed to be moving in together? I have a job here!”

He’d said.

Maybe he’s right, Sophie had thought at the time, talking herself out of it.

And she’d stayed put.

They’d split up not long after.

She’d intended to leave the street, once.

5 years ago, she’d mentioned to her dear husband Michael that she’d grown bored of the neighbourhood they’d inhabited for 20 years. Now the kids had flown the nest, they didn’t need all that space, just the two of them. Didn’t he fancy a change?

“But we know it here, we like it”

Michael had objected.

Maybe he’s right, she’d convinced herself. It was familiarity. What they knew.

And she’d stayed put.

He’d suffered a fatal heart attack just over a year later. Maybe it had been for the best. Had they moved, she’d only have blamed the heart attack on the stress of the move.

And now, aged 55, on an ordinary Tuesday in June…….

Sophie Wilson had intended to leave her bed.

It was a modest ambition as intentions went, but that was as far as she allowed her vision to venture these days. She’d learned to keep dreams on a very short leash.

She’d intended her spine would stretch, nimble as a cat, that her neck and jaw would follow, her limbs be gently coaxed, that her shoulders would fall back and slot into place. That she’d rise from her comfortable mattress and jolt into action.

But Sophie found she didn’t - couldn’t - move. Her body was physically able, it just no longer responded well to the suggestions of her mind. Rather like an old dog, it simply wasn’t interested in performing the most basic of functions.

She became acutely aware of her legs and feet resisting the command of her will, as though weighted down with anchors. It had been struggle enough to convince her eyelids to open. Crushing thoughts had held them down like copper pennies.

There she remained in her bed curled up in foetal position, her eyes now reluctantly open and staring at the redundant wooden ceiling fan above her. She snuggled harder into the soft squish of duvet. People had ‘duvet days’, didn’t they? Since losing her job last year, Sophie had duvet weeks.

People climb mountains, she considered.

People find momentum to do all sorts of incredible things. Yet here you are staring into space, a zombie.

Her brown eyes adjusted to the room and as always, gravitated to the calm of the milk white wall opposite. It was an easy watch. Unlike the other walls with their busyness of floral curtains, a mounted radiator and framed pictures, the blank one placed least demand upon her hazy focus. Even that had become marred by the odd spot of mildew and a stray cobweb. She inhaled the close summer air as lead, every breath loading her brain as an inverted gun, cocked to kill potential enjoyment of the coming day.

This had happened to her more and more over the past few months. Since Michael had died and she’d lost her job, things that had once been second nature had become ever more burdensome, a great effort. Thanks to internet shopping, which she fully embraced, leaving the house was no longer necessary. I’m fine here, doing my own thing. She told herself. It’s familiarity, what I know.

But home comforts had rapidly deteriorated to the confines of one bedroom. Going to bed at seven and getting up at eleven had become one prolonged marathon slumber, broken only for food and toilet breaks.

Why did she need other rooms? She was perfectly relaxed in bed with all her things around her. She had all she needed.

It was convenient.

No-one was telling her this.

She could not blame her friend, her old boyfriend nor her late husband. This time, it was she, Sophie that kept herself in this place, her own internal voice supplying reasons to do so.

Sophie noticed a small housefly in the corner by the bedroom door, docile and quiet. Once upon a time, she might have impatiently shooed it away to an open door. Today, however, she decided to observe it, pondering where it had come from.

How long did flies live?

Where would it go next?

Not having had human interaction in some time, she amused herself by imagining she could converse with it the way Wilbur and Charlotte had talked in ‘Charlotte’s Web’. She make believed that the fly perhaps spotted something in her that no-one else ever had, and wished to celebrate her.

But flies couldn’t weave wonderful webs that spelled out ‘terrific’, could they? Spiders caught flies in webs. Flies were prey! They were pointless! And she was pointless too. The more she thought about it, she and the fly were polar opposites of Wilbur and Charlotte. They were a couple of life’s losers.

The following days strung together like blobs of frogspawn in a stagnant pond. Sophie didn’t have to go anywhere, so she didn’t. She’d not felt able to summon the energy to bathe or shower, barely managing to drag a flannel across her face and clean her teeth.

Her friend, the fly remained on the wall in the bedroom. She’d left the window open for it, it still hadn’t gone. Silly thing.

There it stayed, stirring and re-stirring for its daily mosey around the light fitting, each time with a little less vigour than the revival that had preceded it.

It wasn’t trapped - not in the true sense of the word, anyway. It was just unable to find an exit and growing weak.

On Saturday, Sophie managed to take a shower. It was the first she’d had since Tuesday. Usually, she showered as observer, her mind coldly watching her detached body from a distance, a figure she felt no connection to, as it performed each tedious motion. Today, however, she found herself (possibly against her own will) marvelling in the most minute sensory pleasures. The droplets of hot water bounced from her skin like tiny rubber balls. The steam cleared her airways. There she stayed until the skin upon her fingers began to wrinkle like raisins, savouring the subtle tingling on her newly cleansed body.

And then, her eyes were drawn to something small and black in the bottom of the shower tray. It was the fly, dead, lying there by the plug hole.

Had it been alive when she’d gotten in the shower? Had she failed to notice?

Why, oh why, when you’ve been in the bedroom for bloody days did you today decide to venture into the bathroom?

She scolded, feeling both ridiculously guilty and stupid for daring to care about the fate of an insignificant insect. Sophie looked over at the open window and noted the dead fly’s proximity to it.

She took hold of the thin grey towel that hung limply from the dusty rail, hugging herself tightly like a small child. Suddenly gripped with emotion - hysteria even - she ran back into the bedroom and threw herself on the unmade bed, panting and shaking before finally sobbing her heart out. How close had it come! So very close to finding its way out! She pictured it on the shower screen, not understanding how near it had been to the great outdoors. The big wide world. Oblivious to her clumsy jets of water.

At some point as she cried, it dawned on her that she wasn’t really grieving a fly but rather what she perceived as her own missed opportunities. She had a realisation that events she had attributed to others - her friend, old boyfriend and late husband, were actually all of her own doing. Decisions she had actively made. Unlike the fly, she had known where ‘the window’ was. On each occasion, it had been wide open. On each occasion, for whatever reason, she had willingly stayed put.

Sophie thought about this for a long time before finally, dressing for the first time in days, walking downstairs and opening the stiff front door with cautious purpose.

She moved briskly down the garden path, taking small pleasure in the bird song and the warm air that lightly kissed her cheeks. She opened the rusty gate and it gave a squeak that she decided to read as acknowledgment of her effort. The sun seemed brighter than she’d ever remembered, an orange sphere roaming in a vat of cobalt blue. She felt a strange mixture of uneasiness and empowerment as she made her way down the street and into town.

Finally, she reached her favourite book store.

“Can I help you?”

Said the older lady on the counter who looked a little like her long dead Aunt.

“Yes”

said Sophie.

“I’m looking for an old Dr Seuss title. It’s called Oh the Places You’ll Go!”

“Makes a lovely graduation gift, doesn’t it?”

the saleswoman said presumptuously as she took her over to where the book was located.

“It does indeed.”

said Sophie in agreement.

“But, this is for me. Because life is also a gift and there are so many places I intended to go and didn’t”

She continued

“And it’s time I reminded myself of them.”

The lady on the counter beamed as she took payment.

With that, Sophie promptly left the book shop, happily clutching her new purchase in a brown paper bag.

She’d intended to call in at a travel agent and book a flight to Asia on the way home.

And without hesitation.

Without anyone saying anything.

She did.