Chapter 7 #2
I look outside my window at the rainy London skyline, lit up by people who don’t have to be home by 10 p.m. It’s been my view for so long that at some point I stopped thinking about the rest of the world.
It’s taken the prospect of my looming death to remember it’s actually out there.
How long has it been since I’ve left the country? Do I even know where my passport is?
I stumble across a website with all sorts of placements across the world, where you only have to cover the cost of your flight, and a host provides food and accommodation in exchange for work.
There’s a placement at a sea turtle conservation center in Bali.
I scroll through the activities. Help save the turtles while enjoying the turquoise seas and sandy beaches of this paradise island .
. . Rewarding volunteer work by day, beach sports and bonfires by night .
. . Basically, it’s for people who want to piss around in the sun, in a way that makes them feel sort of good about themselves because they fed a baby turtle.
Saving the Seas . . . There are endless pictures of pools, beaches, bonfires, sand, sea.
Is this legit? Like, this is an actual possibility of a place to be?
The whole time I’m here in London, breathing in polluted air, drinking cocktails that cost my hourly wage, eating greasy takeaways in bed, this remote, idyllic place is existing at the same time?
I could do that, right? I mean, I’ve always liked animals. I remember that one time Elijah Fallon ran at a group of pigeons in year six and I told him to leave them alone. I occasionally stop to move a snail to the side of the pavement. One time I fed a tired bee some sugar water.
There’s a placement creating social media content for an eco-lodge in Thailand, which basically means taking decent photos and filming short videos.
One family needs help on a small farm in Sweden.
A town in Iceland needs help fishing. A couple in Denmark needs assistance running their bakery.
There are a million placements, all over the world, that want English speakers to give language lessons to children.
I look through the details of all these placements, but there are no qualifications needed for most of them. I’m just as qualified as the next person. In fact, they seem to have very few requirements at all.
If I’m going to die . . . where would I most like to die?
Bali seems like as good a place as any. And there are loads of placements there.
Given that the Death card really isn’t fucking about, maybe I should just book my flights and write to all of them, and surely someone will get back to me by the time I land?
I look at flights to Denpasar Airport and put one for the day after tomorrow in my basket, so that I have a day to pack. Then I look in my savings. A one-way trip is nearly ￡1,000 and I have just over ￡2,000.
Two thousand pounds?! I cringe. That’s about a month’s take-home salary.
How, after a year at home, have I saved one single month’s salary?
But then I think of everything I did even this weekend.
I try to keep up with Angie’s and Dami’s lifestyles, even though I make less than them, because I’m embarrassed to ask them to do something cheaper.
I go on dates because I keep holding out hope I will meet someone and always pay half.
I get wasted with Max at Scintilla because I’m too attached to the memory of us there to go somewhere more affordable.
Well, it’s enough: ￡1K on flights and ￡1K to tide me over until one of these placements takes pity on me. I click “buy” before I can change my mind and complete the transaction.
Oh my God. I’m going to Bali. By myself. The day after tomorrow.
That is, if I even make it. What if it’s the plane crash that gets me?
I lie awake thinking about how I might go.
Lightning strike? Finally smote down by God?
Too narcissistic. I can be a bit of a twat but I’m sure there are people who are much worse than me that God needs to focus on smiting.
Will I get hit by a car? What if I’m very careful to cross the road from now on?
But then if I keep avoiding it, will something else get me that’s even more painful?
I’d much rather get hit by a car than avoid it and then end up being boiled or something.
My list of scenarios gets more and more ridiculous as the night goes on.
Impaled by a swordfish? Poisoned by the pungent fumes of Ted’s forgotten lunches at the back of the fridge?
What if I don’t even make it through the night?! What if I’m gone by morning? What if I never go anywhere and never do anything, and no one ever knows how I really feel?
I spring out of bed and move over to my desk, grabbing the letters. Everything I’ve written feels impossibly vulnerable. I cast my eyes over my mortifying admissions.
I cannot believe I wrote these. I cannot believe everything hidden inside me now exists in the physical realm. In that moment I feel it needs to get back where it came from, where no one can see it and therefore it’s basically not real.
And yet.
I can still see that little skull looking back at me, staring straight into the void of my empty life. It probably thought, What’s she got to lose, anyway?
How, even in the face of my imminent demise, am I still debating sending these? What hope is there for me if I can’t even make a deathbed confession?
Before I can change my mind, I grab the letters, address them, and stamp them. I throw a cardigan over my pajamas and tiptoe down the hallway, careful not to wake Mum. I run down the road to the nearest postbox, where I promptly shove them inside.