Karen Browne lives in Galway, Ireland. She was longlisted in the Stockholm Writers Festival First 5 Pages Prize 2022. Her work also features in 'Mining Memories' on www.writing.ie.  She is currently working on her debut novel.

The Glass Garden

I’m standing with the shingle beneath my bare feet, watching the mysterious deep blue sea churn under white crested waves as the edge of the tide creeps ever closer to my toes. The sky above me is almost purple, like a bruise that’s in the process of healing.

How did it come to this? How have I wound up standing all alone on this shore, watching the early sunset of a December Tuesday? The breeze is cold enough to make every hair on my neck bristle and turn my fingertips white. My gloves are next to the door. I looked at them, picked them up, felt the warmth and softness of the wool and then put them back down again. I left a lot of things in that house that sits so close to this shingle beach that if I looked over my shoulder, I would be able to see any unexpected shadows moving between the rooms. I haven’t seen any unexpected shadows since I changed the locks and installed a monitored alarm system. It doesn’t keep the thoughts and fears away, though. There’s no alarm to monitor the stealthy thought that only appears when you least expect it. What could be as formidable as a thought that creeps in through an unlocked door at the back of your mind?

The wind is picking up and the bruise that is the sky continues to darken. There’s ice in the breeze and I can’t bear the burn of it straight at my face. I have no option but to turn my back on the sea until the wind dies down. It will be more of a surprise to feel the icy ocean against my heels. It’s not easy to turn with feet numb from the cold. I felt it as soon as I opened the door. I debated with myself as to the shoes and for no good reason, I took them off before leaving the house. I kept the socks on when I first stepped out. Nosy neighbours, separated from me by a hedge that’s too low, were on their patio arranging outdoor lights. The child, not old enough to have learned the art of whispering, I can still hear loudly in my ears.

‘Mammy, that silly lady next door has forgotten her shoes again.’

‘We all do silly things sometimes, little one.’

And then her Mammy, all pearls, designer heels, fake smiles and Stepford perfection, turned to her husband and used her whispered words as if she were using a knife.

‘It’s hard to put shoes on when one of your hands is permanently attached to a bottle.’

At least she didn’t call the Gardaí. She’s done it before, but I did mistake her door for mine and got irate when the key wouldn’t open it. I banged on it with my fist, and possibly kicked it a few times. She told the Garda she was worried for her safety and that of her child, as her husband was out. That’s all I really remember, the rest is a blur, until waking up in a cell wondering why they didn’t just leave me at my own door a stone’s throw away from where they found me. That was a long and wavy walk home, but I got to the right door in the end.

All the neighbours cast judgement, they whisper when I walk past. If I stumble while one of them is looking, a phrase like ‘drinking again’ is overheard. I haven’t had a proper conversation with any of them for years. I haven’t had a proper conversation with another soul for years. The only person I talk to is myself. My only friend now is the bottle that leads me not only to forget, but also down the path to oblivion. When the thoughts come creeping, oblivion is the only way to silence them. When oblivion comes I have peace, but it never lasts for long enough.

Every house is bathed in the light of the full moon. Each one has its own little gateway that leads to the sea, but the only one open is mine and I can see all along the pathway that leads to the back door of my house, which I also left open. All the lights are on too. I always keep them on lately, because it makes the darkness less oppressive and the crackle from one of the lamps makes me feel less lonely. Chaos reigns inside that house and inside me. I can see my socks halfway down the path.

The garden, if you can even call it that, has become a strange dumping ground, filled with all the hours and days I can’t remember. What started it I can’t say, but what used to be grass is now a lawn of empty bottles standing upright by virtue of the necks being driven into the ground. I don’t know where I get the strength to do it. That child asked me about it once. I told her it was an art project and she would have asked me more if her horrified mother hadn’t scooped her up and away from the hedge. She treats me as if I am infected, as if the disease that afflicts me will rub off on them.

There’s every shape of bottle in my little garden, some are there so long that the rain has washed the labels away and some are so new that they still retain a whiff of what they once contained. I remember opening most of them, but I don’t remember finishing them. Back when I had someone other than myself to talk to, I hid the bottles in the wardrobe, in the boot of the car and made frequent trips to the bottle bank. At one point, the car used to rattle because of all the glass I hid and that made me laugh every time I went over a speed bump.

I haven’t laughed since he left, since he had enough and turned his back even though he promised that my demons could never drive him away. They hounded him out of our house and out of my life and have hounded me toward the sea. I cannot tame them, they whisper in my ear all day and all night. It is those demons that haunt and stalk the unlocked door at the back of my mind. They stand with me now, watching the glass glinting in the moonlight.

The wind has eased and I can turn away from what used to be a happy home. Ice-cold sea water tickles the tips of my toes. The bottle in my hand is almost empty and there are no more left to be opened. The amber liquid is the only thing keeping me warm and now it’s gone, now there is only me and my demons howling in the moonlight. I don’t want to leave the bottle on the shingle or surrender it to the sea. It belongs in the glass garden. I have plenty of time, the icy tickle of the sea will wait for me.

There’s space for it on the left-hand side. There’s been heavy rain this past week, so hopefully the ground will be soft enough. I kneel down and break up the soil a bit first. I probably should use some sort of gardening tool, but I don’t own any and I quite like putting my hands into the soil and clawing away a little hole. Tonight’s bottle has quite a short neck so I don’t need to do much digging. After one last check that the bottle is dry, I stick the neck into the earth and twist it into the ground a little more. Once it’s steady, I put the soil back around it and push it down so that it won’t be knocked by the wind. All of my bottles have stayed standing no matter what the weather. My hands are filthy with soil under all my nails. I feel calm for a moment and proud of my little glass garden.

As I’m wiping some of the mud off my hands onto the patio decking, my eye is drawn to a nook in the kitchen, a nook that used to be my favourite spot in the house because it holds a wedding photo. It became a place of mourning after he left. I faced it down a couple of years back because I felt he was watching me and that he was ashamed of what he saw. I couldn’t bear to keep looking at our happy, smiling faces, full of hope for a life we simply never had. I have no idea where he is now, he could be half a world away. I miss him and I grieve every day for what was lost.

Without any conscious decision, I find myself standing in front of the nook, holding the framed photo, muddy footprints all over the floor. It’s been so long since I looked at it that I’d forgotten about our honorary best man, Pete, sitting in front of us with a dickie bow instead of his usual collar. I wonder how many wedding photos feature a Jack Russell. I loved that little dog so much, he slept at the foot of our bed every night and woke us up by licking our faces. Looking around, I can still see him standing with his lead in his mouth, waiting for his walk. I miss everything about Pete, especially the fact that he used to bark incessantly at Mrs Stepford. Truth be told, I used to reward him with chicken for barking at her like crazy, it was our little secret as apart from that he didn’t get any scraps or treats. A new ball once in a while was all his little heart desired. I envied his joy and his ability to always be in the present moment, never forced to carry the weight of shame.

The day my husband left, he took Pete with him and I was left completely alone. I never got a phone call or text to say that Pete was okay and happy. I was left with nothing but a void and could think of only one way to fill it. Tears are falling onto the photo and staining a happy memory. I wipe my face and tell myself to stop, but the tears keep coming. I fall down to the floor, cradling the photo that represents all that I have lost.

The tears eventually stop, but the sense of emptiness will never leave me. Deep down, I still want both of them to come home and try one last time to save me from myself. I’m tempted to bring this photo back to the shingle beach with me so I can tell myself that they’re with me, but I won’t because it represents who I was, not who I am.

I pull myself up off the floor and put the photo back where it belongs. I’ve not put it face down because it’s the only positive thing left in this house. It will shine all the more against a background of bare cupboards, damaged furniture, an empty fridge and tattered, unwashed clothes. I don’t belong in this house anymore, I’m not sure I ever belonged here.

I’ve got no idea what time it is, it could be late evening or the dead of night. I didn’t replace my watch after my last fall broke it because time no longer has any bearing on my life. I step outside and look up to see an inky black sky with the moon shining like a beacon and all the stars around it glimmering in a way I’ve never noticed before. I walk through my glass garden towards the sea and soon feel the shingle scratching my feet.

I’m back where I was, feeling the icy tickle, but I want to feel more, I want to be closer to the sea. I take off the tracksuit bottoms that are full of holes and the jumper that’s covered in stains and smells of God knows what and throw them on the shingle. The grotty underwear can join the pile, that’s what I’ll leave behind. The moonlight is showing me the way, a pathway of glistening beauty laid out on the sea before me and I’m relieved to be following it.

The water is bracing and my teeth are chattering uncontrollably. Just a little farther and the current will carry me off. There’s shouting coming from the shore, I turn around and one of the neighbours is screaming at me to get out of the water because there’s a dangerous current. All the little gateways are starting to open. Before they pretended not to see me, but now they all want a front row seat. I can feel the pull of that current and the pull of oblivion beneath the waves. There’s a little group gathered now, some on their phones, one still shouting and one running towards the life buoy stand. I wonder if they can hear my teeth.

I look up and see a shooting star and can’t help but make a wish. There’s barking coming from the shore and my mind is suddenly filled with thoughts of Pete and my husband. One of the neighbours turns on a torch and in its glow I can see a dog, a white dog. Should I be following the light that leads me back to the shore? Could that light lead me back to Pete? I don’t know anymore. I was so certain that the sea would welcome me, but with every passing second the barking gets louder as if I’m being warned that the sea will give me no respite.

Tears are rolling down my face at the realisation that I don’t belong in the sea either. The sea doesn’t want the body that I’ve been slowly destroying. It will spit me out before it allows me to die in its embrace. A swell in the water lifts me upwards, but doesn’t take me away. I’ll have to look for a resting place elsewhere so I take a step back towards the shingle beach. There’s only one place this lost cause can ever hope to rest. It’s glinting in the moonlight. My glass garden is calling me home.