Liable To Scratch
It was on the way to pick up my son Stevie that I saw the polar bear for the first time. People were calling him Sven, wondering on social media about what would happen if he escaped and made it into the city. I’d tried to tell Stevie about Sven the last time he called. Said we could go take a look, that it might be fun. Stevie said I could go fuck myself.
When I spot him Sven is laying on his side in the middle of the paddock. When the train approaches he looks up slightly, then closes his eyes and rests. Online it says he’d spent time in a zoo before they carted him over here, and when the zoo closed down he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Outside, Sven has laid in a circle, leaving a space in the middle where the cub would have sat. I look up how long a bear cub sticks around for before heading out into the world. 3 years, which seems awfully short, but what would have been enough? Would they still be a species on the brink of extension if that number was ten, or eighteen?
They say Stevie is doing better. That it’s been a few weeks since he last tried to fight anyone so would we mind having him back home for a while. I wanted to ask if we would get reimbursed, since we’re paying the school to house and re-socialise him, as they put it. I’m carrying a self-help book that Deb made me bring for him. Light reading for the journey home, she’d joked.
The last time Deb tried to hug Stevie he pushed her against the wall, saying he never wanted to see her again. Now she sends me on weekly trips to bring him messages and gifts, her way of maintaining her role as mother, care-giving by proxy. I don’t tell her how he rips the envelopes up without reading, or how I end up eating the cupcakes she has baked on my journey home. The last time I hugged my son he was three and giggled when I picked him up.
I can tell something’s changed before getting to the school gates. The head mistress is waiting for me, all tight lips and minimal eye contact. Stevie’s had an incident. A bully that had it coming to him although she isn’t meant to say that. He should stay behind all the same.
On the journey home I stop off at the place they’re keeping Sven. Ask the rangers if I can feed him some cake, maybe put my hands through all that fur and give him a hug. He is liable to scratch, they say, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I sit in the paddock and read him passages from Deb’s book. I teach him about the destructive power of anger and feel the warmth of a paw on my back.
Bated Breath
It wasn’t my idea to go down to the estuary, but I didn’t say no either. Five of us finishing medical school, knowing better but choosing not to. Knowing, for instance, how long a body can survive without oxygen. Daring each other into the water regardless. Anything to forget the last decade of studying. Late nights and stress disorders. Holding our breath under the surface for longer than we should because it beat the waiting that would come. A month from then, when sitting by the letterbox would lead to meeting the postman at the gate, phoning up the university and asking when the results would be in.
Ryan had built a fire. We did not want to return home, and so did not care that the tide was coming in. The rising water was just another deadline to wait for. To ignore. Sarah tugged me into the trees, told me to hold on a second. Her lips appeared in the place stethoscopes usually took up, her voice in place of a patient’s heartbeat. She dropped away in the darkness and then the whole of her came back, too close, not close enough until the two of us were indistinguishable, one form existing only through touch.
A few seconds later, everything shattered. There was a cry for help that we later told ourselves was not anticipated. Unavoidable even though the signs were there. Signs like the rising tide and our own forced naivety. It was Ryan’s voice, flailing in the water until he wasn’t and empty silence returned. Sarah and I didn't react, didn’t rush over to help. Instead we held one another, held our breath, and waited for the water to reach us.
Rory Perkins is a British writer focusing on shorter works. He has been published in Vast Literary Press, SoFloPoJo, Passengers Journal, and Artam's The Face Project (forthcoming). He can be found at @roryperkinswriter on Bluesky.