This is an excerpt from the novel “Confessions of an Abortion Addict.” The novel is still in progress, and I’m continuing this process with Nanowrimo. I’m currently at 10,000 words, 40,000 to go! This passage might not be sequential and will be subject to additional editing. Thank you!
Two travelers in a civic ride past the countryside. The sun sets low in that perfect glow of nostalgia; a time no one remembers but becomes familiar as winter approaches. In plains of beautiful sight, the trees have accepted that their leaves must fall. Snow accumulates on the ground, frostbitten grass fingers unable to touch. I’m looking out at the window and greeted with overhanging wires, deer warning signs, orange pylons, and windmills. I think about what would happen if humans just disappeared from the face of the earth. Will these things still be there, and if they are, what would they matter?
“You’ve never had fast food before?”
“Never, my mother never allowed it, and I just found it reprehensible.”
“Those golden arches don’t do anything for you?”
“You really are something aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry I’m so different from what you’re used to,” I said, sounding a lot bitchier than it was intended. I was in a foul mood, and it was spilling everywhere.
“No, no—it’s just no matter whoever you are…you always try fast food, you know? Just because it’s always there and sometimes you’re so broke that’s the only thing you can afford, right?”
“You think I’m broke?”
“No, I meant that generally. But you know everyone is broke at some point, and you don’t come off as a spoiled brat.”
“You don’t have to be rich to be spoilt.”
“Hey, sorry did I say something that is making you say all this? Because you sounded really nice on the phone and you’re the one who said that you’d like to come to the cabin after I said I was going.”
“Listen, I’m sorry…it’s I needed to get out of the city for a little bit.”
“And I was your only option? Fantastic.”
“Thank you for understanding,” I said, unable to apologize or empathize with his situation. I turn to the side of my bag and fumbling for my Dunhills. There are debris of my past lives that are in this bag, and I seem to brush against them every time I slip into its content.
The darkness of that leather purse. The womb. An aspiration that will be squirted into a yellow suckling sounds. Blue-tinged aftermaths, tissue paper, crumpled, cold to antiseptic touch, and swabbed with cotton of human shades. A hollow tube that inserts itself into a pink void. It’s searching for meaning and also destroying it. Ftt! Ftt! fits of crying. Centre of embryonic waves crashing into me, and the waves receding taking parts of me with them. And my fingers like looped knives removing the remaining cigarettes.
Windows slightly opened and my fingers nervous to the frigidity of the atmosphere outside. Nightmares following me on journeys of escaping who I am.
© A.R. Minhas 2017