Venus in a House of Tears
CHAPTER ONE
The night before I fell in love, I tried my best to die. Rejecting life then running towards it – the defining dance of my twenties.
Being miserable in my own skin always felt more desperate in summer. I’d drive to the beach only to find myself on the brink of a panic attack and unable to leave my car. Sitting in a crowded cafe, I’d stare blankly at the exquisite first page of a novel, the words swimming into incoherence. I’d move through long, languid days on my own, watching lovers sharing sunrise swims and groups of friends splitting sunset beers. At least in winter, I could stay home alone and disappear into dreams of being born with a different brain.
But that night, in the swell of high summer, there was nowhere to hide.
It was the kind of Sydney evening that shimmered with heat. Sweat on skin, damp hair, all of us across the whole bay aching for the sun to set. The beach house was busy and bright, crowded with glittering fairy lights, golden beers and bodies pressed close – a party, for New Year’s Eve. My neighbour Evie had invited me, but hadn’t arrived yet, so I drifted amongst groups while downing gulps of icy gin. Everyone was swapping stories of submitting dissertations, applying to postgraduate programs, and starting summer romances. I had no plans past that night, and I’d never felt worse.
It was the heat, really, that led me to the windowsill. I’d once seen a doctor who told me I was like an overheated car, faulty and temperamental. Even on cool evenings, a panicked warmth often felt trapped under my skin. Usually, I’d find my way to a sink and run cold water on my wrists, let it cool my blood and circulate some calm throughout my body. But the bathrooms in the sprawling house had been in use, epicentres of people waiting to fumble at each other’s clothes, snort powders to sharpen summer pleasures, or simply have a moment alone. So, I kept going up stairs and into bedrooms, hoping to find an ensuite.
When I reached the top floor, I didn’t see a bathroom door, but an open window. A wide square of sky yawned before me, fresh ocean air beckoning. I could hear it all, suddenly clear, could see it all from high above. The crash and sting of The Bay, my home. I barely remember climbing outside onto the narrow wooden sill, paint chipped by greedy seabirds, or the way my curls whipped salt into my eyes, or the sound of the people down below on the grass yelling, “Is she going to jump?”