Natalie Morris: Falling
Meet Natalie Morris - a shortlisted writer of the Bad Form x Bad Love short story competition. Natalie wrote the short story Falling, inspired by the following line from Bad Love:
“He was the colour of dark mahogany these days, strong and weathered but more beautiful for it, from weekend trips to sunnier climes throughout Europe."
Natalie Morris
Q&A with Natalie…
Why do you write?
I write to create that nod of recognition - where people can see an abstract feeling or emotion articulated in a way that makes them feel less alone.
What's your secret talent that not a lot of people know about you?
I can play the saxophone. Not well though... so I wouldn't necessarily call it a 'talent'.
If you could be one character who is considered a 'bad lover'/ relationship villain from books, TV or film, who would you be and why?
I would be Eve Polastri. She's a terrible wife, completely obsessed with a psychotic murderer (and can't admit it) - but she is incredible at her job and trying to do the right thing.
Read Natalie’s shortlisted story below.
Falling
He’s lying with his back to me, as always. It isn’t an act of hostility, he just finds it comfy to sleep on that side, facing the window. I prop myself up on my elbow to get a better look at him. Yellow light bleeds in from the streetlight outside our bedroom and turns his chestnut skin gold. His closely cropped coils are tightest at the base of his skull. Warmth radiates from him, and a smell so deliciously familiar it is almost nauseating.
I trace the line of his shoulder blade without touching him, index finger hovering. I don’t want him conscious yet. Not until I’ve had more time with these thoughts in the rare stillness of pre-dawn. I lower myself onto my pillow and open the door to the things I have been trying not to look at directly.
***
The Saturday that fell a week before this bluish early morning plays in my mind like a movie. Your face was open towards mine, the bright smile I hadn’t seen in weeks. Teeth and eyes sparkling in my direction, dazzling me like you always used to. A glow that seemed to wash me clean.
I started giving parts of myself away very early, as we all do, as our mothers teach us to do, on the promise that we will gain something in return. Happiness maybe, security, validation. That glow. When was the moment I gave too much, the moment I emptied myself without leaving enough left over for my own sustenance? But it wasn’t a singular moment, it was a steady drip-drip-drip of giving. My sense of self trickling through my fingers like a thin stream of sand.
I had forgotten how to be happy, you said. And pulled me towards you, trapping a couple of stray braids too tightly under your armpit so that they pinched at my scalp.
What’s changed? I spoke into your chest. You heard the words through your body, the soundwaves vibrating into your blood and streaming up to your ears.
You reminded me. You always remind me.
Two things happened at once when you said this. I felt myself throb with pride at doing my job. I had fixed it. I had fixed you. I had reminded you once again. At the same time, something deep inside me dislodged, knocked ever-so-slightly sideways by the knowledge that I would have to keep fixing you. That the job was impossible, insurmountable, infinite.
The dislodged thing had a sharp edge that began to press against my ribs and somewhere down near my liver.
***
If he would just turn around and face me, look at me, it could change everything.
His breathing is still heavy and slow and I allow it to lull me into a half sleep. In my waking dream I pull myself from the bed and float to the street, weightless and naked, and gilded by streetlight.
