Laura and Rose by Clair Wright

I shed her like a skin. I left her on the floor, shrivelled and empty. I left her behind – her clothes, her hair, her name.

Rose. Poor Rose. I imagine her, all alone in that room, curled up on the bed, staring at the wall. I want to reach out and comfort her. And then I remember that she is me.

They let me choose my new name. I gave it a lot of thought. I rolled different names around my mouth, tasting them, testing how they felt on my tongue. I chose ‘Laura’.  I don’t know anyone called Laura. Laura felt like a blank, new page.

They got me a flat. Mandy, my probation officer, drove me there and showed me round – one bedroom, a tiny kitchen an even tinier bathroom.  She made tea and we sat drinking it in awkward silence.  I was glad when she left.

The flat came complete with furniture, like a dolls house.  To begin with, I moved the furniture around every day.  Sometimes I’d put the table and chair near the window, and sometimes I’d move the sofa there, instead. “Oh, you’ve had a change again!” said Mandy, on one of her visits. “You’ll soon have it nice and cosy, once you’ve put a few of your own things in it.”

I nodded, and smiled, except I don’t have any “things”. Neither does Laura, yet. I’m not sure what Laura likes.

On one of my trips to town I went to Wilkos. It was Mandy’s suggestion. “They have lots of nice bits and bobs, and not too expensive,” she said. I looked at picture frames, and candles, and cushions. I bought a yellow towel, and hung it over the radiator in the bathroom.

I like to wander around the shops in the town centre.  Sometimes I play a game of “dressing Laura”. I pick up a few things, tops, and trousers, and skirts, and I take them into the changing room. I think Laura likes bright colours, but I’m not very good at putting them together so they look right. Even so, I’ve had enough grey and beige to last a lifetime.

They asked me to choose a new hairstyle for Laura. I sat in the chair, leafing through magazines.  So now my hair is short, cut into a neat bob. That’s the haircut Laura would have, I think.

Rose had long straggly hair, escaping from its pigtails,  and a crimplene dress and buckled sandals.  I can’t tell the colour of the dress, from the grainy black and white newspaper clippings. The same couple of pictures were used again and again, accompanying big black headlines - a picture of me, and a smaller one of my little brother, next to it.  

Laura doesn’t have a brother.

Laura is going to have to get a job. Mandy says it’s part of making a life for myself, and it will be good for me to have a routine. Mandy brings me information about jobs I could apply for.  Laura has qualifications. Actually, they’re mine, but the certificates all have Laura’s name on them now.  But even so, there are a lot of jobs that Laura isn’t allowed to do. Rose has seen to that.

There were many column inches devoted to why Rose did it – why I did it. I’ve read most of them. There were official reports too, thick piles of paper in beige cardboard covers.  There are copies in my file.  My file fills a whole stack of boxes. Mandy showed them to me. 

I tried to be helpful when they asked me questions. I wanted them to be pleased with me. It was a bit like being at school except I was the only child in the class, and I never got an answer wrong. Whatever I said, they listened carefully and wrote notes.

They asked about school, and about my mum and dad, and about my little brother.

And so I told them - I never wanted a little brother.  I didn’t want to look after him. I was no good at it. He wouldn’t stop crying. He just cried and cried, whatever I did. I just wanted him to stop crying. I just wanted him to be quiet.  That’s all.

It was a moment – just a fragment. But it seeped and spread and infected everything. It took over Rose’s life like a cancer – and then it killed her.  

They folded Rose up neatly and filed her away in a stack of boxes.

Now I’m Laura, with a new name and new hair and new clothes.  I hardly think about Rose at all.