Free A Year in Fife Park by Quinn Wilde Page B

3.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Ella said. ‘Me too. Change, I mean. I wrote about how most people want things to be different but hate it when things change.’
    ‘I reckon most people want things that don’t make sense,’ I said, meaningfully.
    ‘And then philosophers put them into words,’ Ella said, clapping her hands together.

    I walked Darcy home that night, arm around her shoulder. We went the long way, which is to say that we went the short way, with a lot of zigzagging. Darcy was unusually quiet as we came up on the Whey Pat. She rubbed her eyes.
    I was half scared she might pass out completely, leave me dragging her like so much dead weight down City Road. She used to do that, clock off like a light going out, be properly unconscious for hours. We used to think it was something that just happened to her, but I think it’s something that happens to anyone, eventually.
    ‘They won’t be my friends,’ she wailed, suddenly.
    ‘They still like you,’ I said. ‘Mind the steps.’
    ‘It’s not the same,’ she said, stumbling.
    ‘Mart was really genuine.’
    ‘It’s never going to be the same.’
    ‘You never know,’ I said.
    She looked at me, appreciatively. But also like I was an idiot.
    ‘You’re like my Dad, sometimes,’ she said. ‘He’s such a smart man. He does whatever he wants.’
    ‘I don’t do what I want,’ I said.
    ‘He just tells people how it’s going to be, and then they do as he says. He was always telling us stories about his work.’
    ‘He sounds nice,’ I said.
    A chill wind hit, as she stood at the top of the stairs to her flat. I stood at the bottom, looking up. She shivered for a second, and then smiled again.
    ‘Ella’s so lovely.’
    ‘So lovely,’ I said.
    She pushed the key into the door on the third try, and stepped inside.
    ‘See you,’ I said.
    ‘Night, hun.’

Media Sift
    I found some old chat logs in a lost folder of my Fife Park archive. You never really remember anything, right. I spent hours poring through my youthful conversations looking for gold, but it was all mundane and teenage.
    I found my old Final Fantasy 8 save games; that’s where February went, in the Fife Park year. I’d forgotten that. I found a box of photographs. I looked happy, of course. Sometimes I was thinner than I remember ever being.
    I used to skip meals, for days on end. I remember it as a montage, some Rocky-style weight loss video, all fast cuts and motivating music. But, now I think about it, I kind of tortured myself. For months, for nothing, because I didn’t realise that my weight had fuck all to do with how likely I was to get laid, to meet someone, to be popular.
    I found old emails from Darcy. And emails to Darcy. She would send me a page of nothing at all, and I’d try to be precocious when I replied. It’s nothing like I remember. Every time I think of myself, I look differently.
    I’ve still got the music, too. I keep that folder of pirate MP3s safe as houses, backed up across a multitude of sites, because it is the most direct line I have to these memories.
    These memories put me in the mood for more than just memories. I’m remembering things, but also feelings, and some old feelings can be bought for a price. I put out the word that I wanted some cannabis.
    It has been years since I bought dope. I’ve hardly even touched it since St. Andrews. Took about two fucking weeks to get some, so nothing new there. I don’t know any drug dealers, or have any friends with pretensions to know any. But somebody sorted me out.
    I didn’t specify the type. I went through a friend of a friend who didn’t even know there were types. So, when it came, it was a little mystery gift. I almost forgot I’d asked for it. I kind of hoped it would be hash, but of course it was skunk. What else is there?
    I made a single joint and smoked half of it before putting it out. Later I smoked the rest. McQueen would have called me a lightweight. I can hear his voice in my head, just imagining