Chains of the Unspoken

Date: 12/6/2025

Mat and I walk hand in hand, streetlamps jittering on the puddles like sky constellations dipping their toes in the dark. He’s picked yet another Fine-Dining Experience — capital F, capital D, capital Foie Gras with a side of pretentious. I’m ready to be impressed, or at least fed, until I hear a voice behind me. Oh God. No. Not today. “Shit,” I whisper, because of course it’s Kylie. That unmistakable foghorn-with-lip-gloss. My heart does that floppy, dying-salmon thing in my chest. Three years of not talking. Three years of pretending she’s just a random civilian, despite the fact we’ve shared tears, secrets, and enough prosecco to sink a small ship. I flash back to the GP surgery — me walking in, her head snapping downwards like she’d spotted a £50 note under her chair. The doctor yelling “Amanda Lyle!” like he’s announcing a prize cow at a county fair. Me wanting the laminate flooring to gulp me down. Mat, ever intuitive, ever annoyingly calm, gently pushes me into the restaurant. “We’re here now,” he murmurs. The place is heaving — a living, steaming lung of strangers. Heat, breath, chatter. A breathing organism of bodies. My body twitches like a trapped moth. And the universe, being the petty goblin it is, guides Kylie directly in behind us. “Brilliant,” I mutter. “Just brilliant.” At the bar, my knees tremble like they’re trying to evacuate my body. My heartbeat is so loud it could be mistaken for experimental jazz. Kylie slides up beside me, too close, too familiar, too goddamn loud in my peripheral vision. I turn my back, contorting my body into shapes that suggest I wish to be a coat stand or possibly a structural beam. Suddenly, regretting not wearing that oversized hooded disguise of a hoody. The bartender hands us drinks — something strong on rocks — and we venture into a sea of people to find a table. The room is packed, stuffed, bursting. Like a lung on the verge of rupture. We find one half-occupied by an elderly gentleman. He shrugs, gestures for us to take the empty chairs. He may be dead already. Hard to tell; his expression suggests he died of boredom sometime in 1998. Mat thanks him, regardless. I sit rigidly, eyes drifting like curious clouds towards the biggest neon sign in the room. Her. She’s laughing. Head back, carefree — the kind of laugh that once made me laugh too. A laugh I have missed more than I care to admit. Please don’t sit near us. Please, universe, for once— Nope. She sits at the table beside ours. Entire family in tow. Of course they’re here. Of course they’re having some grand reunion feast where everyone’s digestive vulnerabilities are public domain. I hear her mum declaring war on the menu. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly have that. One bite of cheese and my IBS starts reenacting Pompeii.” Some things never change. And then Kylie looks at me. Not just at me. Through me. Like she’s x-raying my soul. My heart stops. The universe finally relents, and the scene drops away like a trapdoor beneath my feet. I’m standing in a queue that stretches past the horizon and probably into other time zones. My legs are numb. My soul is numb. My British politeness is cracking. I hate queuing. I’d rather be buried alive under Tupperware. So I do the unthinkable. I jump the queue. With swagger. A gasp ripples through the crowd — the collective horror of a nation raised on orderly suffering. Someone even calls me a witch, which honestly feels like a personality upgrade. The gates creak open to reveal… hell. Or worse — a new-build housing estate. Identical, soulless, pressed from the same mould. A dystopian stamp collection. “This place is god awful.” I mutter to a man standing next to me. “I’m the architect,” he says, as flat as the scenery. Perfect. Making friends everywhere today. He steps onto a podium. “Welcome to the first of many suburban havens—“ Havens? HAVENS? A hot fury slashes through me. New builds already infest every patch of green in our town like optimistic fungi. People cheer and clap around me, excited for their future beige tombs. I bolt for the gate. Mat and his mother, Lesley, wait outside as if they always knew I’d run. “Did you enjoy the speech?” she asks, chipper as ever. I’d quite fancy one of those houses.” I consider flinging myself into traffic. We wander through what looks like a car-boot sale curated by an overzealous hoarder. Brass bedpans, rusted jerrycans, a relic from my childhood — a Furby staring at me with the same demonic hunger it always had. “The boys would love—” Mat drags me away before I can summon old nightmares and the scene collapses like a cheap trestle table. I’m in McDonald’s with Mum. Happy colours. Happy meals. Unhappy digestion. “Oh dear,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have eaten that burger.” Her stomach growls like the gates of hell. She sprints towards the bathroom, practically fart-jetting her way there. A moment later, a sound erupts. A sound that could strip wallpaper. Someone sniffs the air and recoils. “What’s that smell?” “It’s not me!” I cry, betrayed by both genetics and proximity. The scene flushes itself out of existence. Now I’m outside a building with spiral metal steps corkscrewing up into low, foggy sky. Shane waves from above. “Got a surprise for you!” I follow him up, each step clanging like a warning bell. At the top: his new apartment. Cracked paint. A roof one gust away from severe concussion. Inside sits Phoebe. My daughter. She’s at a small table, absorbed in something unseen, smoothing the cover of a book Shane gifted her. She smiles for him — bright, grateful. She does not look at me. “Phoebe lives here now,” Shane says, almost proudly. “Oh,” I reply, eloquent as ever. Something inside me twists. “She’s my special girl,” he adds, patting her head, too possessive, too familiar. A chill needles down my spine. Something is wrong. The air thickens. The shadows lengthen. Phoebe remains silent, her gaze fixed downwards. And then I see it. Her ankle. Chained to the desk. “What the hell is going on here?” I choke. Shane smiles gently — too gently. “Oh, you already know,” he says. You put her here.” My blood turns to ice. Phoebe finally lifts her head. Her eyes — my eyes — are hollowed out, dark moons. “You left me behind,” she whispers. “Someone had to take care of the part of you you didn’t want.” The chain rattles. The walls warp. My breath abandons me. Behind me, faint and echoing, Kylie’s laugh rises — but from somewhere far, far away — and it hits me with brutal clarity: It’s not Kylie who I’ve been avoiding. It’s myself. My memories. The pieces I abandoned. They’ve been following me all along. And the chain still hangs around my ankle.