On our walls.

Tyler sat in his wheelchair, watching rain fall on what can only be described as a fucking great big garden, wondering what the hell had happened to his brain all those years ago that he thought a fucking great big garden would do him any good. What good could it do anyone who was too crippled to actually do any gardening? He didn’t even particularly like the look of it; the majority of it was out of his vision and there was no chance of him going out for a wheel around that stretch of cat shit laden wasteland if the weather wasn’t going to meet him halfway.

But that was the kind of person he’d been at the time. One that would buy a house with a fucking great big garden that he could fill up with masses and masses of people that were no longer anywhere to be seen. So he could say ‘Look at all this space you’re filling!’ as if their absence left him with an even greater emptiness than he felt with them around. They weren’t filling any space. They were making more of it where his money used to be.

His wife was somewhere around the house. That was one of the few positives of being stuck in a place so big. She could be anywhere and he didn’t have to give a crap. She’d only want to take up some of his time, or some of his money. He was very protective about both. Not because they were any use- he’d wasted a huge amount of both on this fucking great big house. It was just nice to have the means to be indulgent at times. With less significant methods, in recent years though. No more extravagant purchases. A glass of wine. A crossword, right to the end. A piss that didn’t end up on the floor. These were the things he lived for.

A memory sprung in his mind and grew there until it was ready to be replayed. Time he’d spent with Ally, years ago now, nothing more than a crack on the wall. Ally who he loved dearly, who he’d have died for. Who he wanted to die for. That bitch. He wished she were in his garden right now. Not to be close, to get rained on. She’d have hated that. It would have been hilarious. He chuckled just thinking about it. But he thought about it a lot. How long had it been?

The girl in his head was looking up at him through glass, whining about how he’d got so boring. Told him she could cultivate a garden for a greenhouse with all the grace and aestheticism as the garden of her mind. It made him smile, at least. None of it was true of course, he’d have to pay for someone else to fix up enough plants for a multi-story greenhouse, but it was exactly the kind of indulgence that would make her happy and that was all he ever wanted. Soppy old thing. He laid down on the glass a floor above her and stared at her pretty face, pretending to be in control of the situation as the owner of the money, ignoring the fact that she was the owner of him.

He looked out into his fucking great big garden. No multi-story greenhouse remained. His wife hated it and had it torn down almost as soon as they returned from their honeymoon, along with every other sign of life that had been left by a past lover, save the phone numbers of his children left in an address book somewhere. He thought her a strange woman; wondered how he’d ever ended up with her. Suspected he had probably been rather drunk at the time.

Another memory. Ally across the room, a double bed between them, tossing pillows at him, laughing and crying all at once. He’d just told her he was leaving for America. Some nobody wanted to turn a book of his into a shitty indie film that lonely kids would take their soul-eating vampire girlfriends to see in the hopes they might get laid. It was going to be good for him. Cash in the bank; cash in his wallet. Cash in the greenhouse. She doesn’t want to lose him. Doesn’t want him near the models and the stars she’s seen on TV, parading around America in every American home on every American street. He doesn’t want to lose her to all the friends he’s seen looking at her when they think they’re being subtle, that’ll all be in the country when he isn’t.

She can’t come with him but he doesn’t remember why. Was this when her dad was dying? Maybe. Fuck him, he was horrible. Watched the news, read the Daily Mail, drank tea, made it Irish on special occasions- whatever the hell that means. Never worked a day in his life. Had a fucking great big garden.

They end up on the bed, facing each other, her hair falling in his eyes, in his mouth. They both know he’s leaving because it’ll give him time and money. Things he’ll chase for the rest of his life, on foot or on wheels. She’s got tears in her eyes but she’s stopped sobbing. Rests a hand on his chest and says her sweet words to him. ‘I’m a crack on your wall,’ she says. ‘If you leave me long enough you’ll end up with a gaping void in your solid foundation’. Still staring at a fucking great big garden, he began to realise how true it’d been.

His wife came out to meet him and he vaguely acknowledged her presence. Busying herself around the place it seemed bizarre to him that she found so much to do in a building so big and yet so bare. She probably didn’t. Probably liked the idea of appearing busy to him because…well otherwise she wasn’t really much use. At least if she looked active in a house he could hardly move around in he could let himself believe she was helping somehow. Maybe cleaning, she must do that occasionally. Or cooking some tasteless meal or another. She’d become a ghost in the last few years. Physically a ghost, one that wondered around in some plane that overlapped with his own, while the ghost of Ally still haunted his mind and his memories.

He saw her for the third time, still smiling as before- she smiled in all of his memories. Her eyes were shut, she was lying down, and he looked over her lovingly. Dark hair had been swept across her forehead, a contrast from the paleness of her face and the red of her lipstick that boldly shone through. He wondered if she might know he was there, and reach up to hold him. But last time he’d seen her awake she’d been awfully tired. Drained of all energy. Blackened in the eyes, her body hanging. He didn’t want to try and wake her. He knew this sleep would be a long one. And so did everyone behind him, standing, waiting to say the same goodbye he wished he had the words for but didn’t. Knowing she couldn’t hear them anyway. Waiting for the rain to stop.

But still watching it fall. And still hoping that from some corner of that fucking great big garden that he couldn’t see, she’d stumble towards him, drenched straight through, complaining of the curls it’d given her. He thought to himself that if that one, pointless daydream were all this fucking great big garden could afford him, it was still money well spent. Then he wheeled himself away.