“Wake up, ye manky piece of shite!” sang the pleasant melodious voice of a young woman as she roughly kicked the corner of my bed with her heel.
I awoke with a small jump, startled by the voice and the kick. An intense wave of pain and nausea washed over me, forcing me to curl into a fetal position on my bed. I could taste the fowl lingering presence of vomit in my mouth. I didn’t remember vomiting, but I also didn’t remember coming back to my room either.
“Uhhhhhgggggg…” is all I could manage as I slowly sat up in my bed. I looked down at myself and saw that I was dressed in the same clothes that I wore yesterday, sans shoes. I had a brief moment of panic as I clutched at my chest, fearing that I had lost my most valuable possession during the evening’s antics. My hand fell upon my mother’s medallion, and I felt the warm metal pressing against my chest. I rarely wore it when going out for a night of drinks at a pub, but last night’s festivities were spontaneous and not exactly consensual on my part. I breathed a sigh of relief and was rewarded with another wave of nausea and throbbing head pain.
I looked through bleary eyes at the wide-awake, red-headed woman staring at me. She was dressed in running clothes and had a light sheen of sweat on her. Had she been out running? That was ridiculous; I remember her drinking a lot more than I had last night. I smacked my dry lips and said, “Jesus Ró… how the hell are you awake… and standing… and alive?”
“Strong Irish constitution boyo, especially when compared to ye wimpy yanks. It’s almost like ye lot aren’t allowed to drink until your twenties. Now stop being a dosser and get up, I made some tea and toast that’ll freshen you right up.”
Her intentionally loud sing-song words were like spikes into my head. Under normal circumstances, I found her voice and Irish accent very pleasant, as almost all Americans did, but this morning her words were like the harsh feedback of a concert speaker in my ears.
I just sat in my bed, staring blankly at my legs as my brain tried earnestly to piece together the previous evening's events. I had sketchy memories that started after I left the campus library when it closed at 5 p.m. I was walking back to my room at Goldsmith hall when I caught sight of my flatmate and one of my two best friends in Ireland, Róisín Laoise Quinn, coming out of the hall entrance wearing a stylish ensemble of skin-tight black pants and an emerald green blouse that accentuated her styled flame red hair. She wore just enough cosmetics to accentuate her high cheekbones and beautiful facial features. She normally favored the standard jeans and t-shirt outfit most college kids preferred, and I only saw her wear makeup and dress like that when heading out to the pubs for a night of hunting. She looked at me and smirked.
Oh crap, I had thought to myself because I knew what that meant. Ró saw my brief look of panic, and a mischievous grin spread over her face. She hooked her arm around mine, spun me around, and started dragging me along with her, book bag and all. I was now included in her planned evening antics, whether I wanted to be or not.
I considered politely pulling away from the hold she had on me, but honestly, I had been feeling especially alone yesterday due to today’s anniversary. Getting dragged out by my best friend to get shit-faced sounded grand at that moment.
Also, she has a scary strong grip, and I wasn’t 100 percent sure I could break it. Did I mention she works out, like a lot?
I still cringe at the thought of our first meeting. I had just carried my bags through the front door of my new residence hall just after arriving in Dublin that day. It had taken one transatlantic flight, several connecting flights, and a total of 28 hours of traveling. I smelled terrible, and I was exhausted from jet lag and lack of sleep. I was in no proper state to be greeted by a gorgeous red-haired woman walking into the common room. She moved gracefully and stood well over a meter and a half tall with a muscular build, easily visible through her spandex pants and a form-fitting long-sleeve shirt. At 182 centimeters, 6 feet for us Americans, I was slightly taller than her but not by a lot, and I had nowhere near her physical fitness level. My dad had impressed upon the need for basic physical fitness growing up, taking me to the base fitness centers to teach me proper exercise form.
I like to go for a run and spend at least a few hours weight-training a couple of times a week, but this woman was on a whole other level.
I am ashamed to admit it, but my brain froze at the sight of her. It was like it was stuck in some sort of loop, words of friendly greeting forming in my brain, only for them to die on my lips. If my mother had been around, she would have smacked me in the back of the head. Personally, I blame exhaustion from long travel and definitely not raging hormones.
Her piercing green eyes locked onto me and narrowed with suspicion. “What ya gawking at eejit? You makin’ eyes at me?” Her tone carried irritation and an implied promise of confrontation.
My brain perceived her statement as hostility and snapped back to functioning. Shaking my head to clear it, I said in a bit of a panic, “I’m sorry! It’s been a long trip. I just got in.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper the temporary reception desk had given me at the front of the building. On it was a room number and four names, my own being one of them. I fumbled with it, eventually opening it up. I picked out the only female-sounding name and asked, “Are you Row-is-inn?”
She stared at me, looking baffled and then angry. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph ya moran! That has got to be the absolute worst fecking pronunciation of my name that has ever dared be spoken aloud!” She took an aggressive step toward me, nostrils flaring, eyes staring at me. “Bollocks, are ye messing with me?”
“Uhhhh… no?” I said a little meekly, shying back. She apparently was very sensitive about her name. And crazy.
She looked me up and down, sizing me up. And just as quickly as the anger came, it vanished.
“Wait, you’re a yank aren’t ya?” she sang at me.
Awww shit, I thought to myself. I had already managed to piss off my new flatmate within 30 seconds of meeting her. “Yeah, I’m from America. I am guessing I messed up pronouncing your name a bit?” I said, trying to relay the chagrin on my face.
“Ye got that right chancer. Sorry for the effin’ and blindin’ but I thought you were taking the piss.”
“Uhh… what?” I had no idea what she said, but at least I heard the word sorry, so maybe I wasn’t going to get my ass kicked by a girl that day.
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a bogger and only met a few people not fortunate enough to be from this grand island. I’ll try to use the Queen’s English around you. Now about the proper way to say my name, it’s Row Sheen, Lee Sha, Quinn. G’wan, give it a lash.” That last part was spoken to me as if she were speaking to a particularly unintelligent animal.
I raised my eyebrow in response to the implied insult, and she returned the gesture with an eye squint and head tilt. “Row Sheen… Lee Sha… Quinn…” she repeated. Okay, we were back to crazy eyes again.
Despite my annoyance at being intentionally spoken to like a child, I recognized that how I responded would probably dictate all future interactions with this woman. I understood that if I gave into my urge to respond with a middle finger or some form of rude sarcastic flippancy, the woman before me would permanently label me an asshole in her mind if she hadn’t already. Every interaction, both conscious and unconscious, would stem from that assessment. I had to live in the same space as her, and I knew from painful personal experiences that initial negative impressions were very hard to overcome.
From her explosive reaction, I got the feeling that her name was very important to her, and I had just unintentionally insulted it. She was giving me a second chance at the cost of some teasing. I decided to bite my tongue and pay the metaphorical bill.
“It’s nice to meet you, Róisín Laoise Quinn.” I kept my voice warm and free of any hint of sarcasm. I also didn’t do the accompanying exaggerated theatrical curtsey I was imagining.
“That’s a good fella,” she said with a smirk. “Now, who in the bloody hell might you be? I’ve already met Tige, and you don’t look like a Shinji.”
I mentally sighed, thinking the initial awkwardness was over. “Sorry, my name is Rian. Rian Flynn Ryan”
“Jesus, could yer parents not fit Guinness Shamrock Mc’Irish on a birth certificate?”
“Uh… Didn’t you just get mad at me for… never mind.” It looked like my teasing wasn’t quite over yet.
I decided to try to stay on good terms with Róisín. “My mother was of Irish immigrant ancestry and infatuated with Irish culture, despite being born in Kansas. Mom loved the name, and my dad loved my mom, so that’s how I got my name. It’s not even my first time in Dublin either. My mother loved to go on vacation here whenever my parents could afford it.” I abruptly stopped talking. In my rambling, I had already said too much. I didn’t want anyone here putting the pieces together by making the connection with my mother, and figuring out who I was. It had felt like a betrayal legally dropping my father’s surname but there was no way the Trinity College admission committee would have accepted me if I carried that infamous name. The last thing I wanted was to be outed and become a spectacle on campus.
“Well, Rian, it’s lovely to meet you despite your terrible command of simple and beautiful Irish names. You’re over there in 3A,” she sang at me as she pointed at a room across the space.
“Uh, thanks…” I said, and as I started to pick up my bags, another man walked into the common space from a room adjacent to the one Róisín had pointed to. He was shorter than Róisín and me but with a much heavier build, the kind of undefined muscular bulk that comes from lifting a shovel more than a weight bar.
“You must be Rian, nice to meet you! Glad to be room’in with another fellow son of Ireland at Trinners! My name is Tige.” He had a grin on his face and spoke with a warm greeting voice. He stuck out his hand for me to shake.
I grabbed his outstretched hand and shook it, noting its calloused feel. Tige gave me a strong handshake with a measured amount of force behind it, but not painfully so. I knew this was Tige showing me friendly strength without attempting to assert some form of passive-aggressive dominance. I returned the handshake, almost matching his strength. It’s a guy thing.
“Uhh… it’s nice to meet you too Tige, but I was born in the States. I’m here to study Computer Science.”
It was like a switch had been thrown, and I immediately knew I had said the wrong thing. Tige dropped his hand, his face flushing red and his expression darkening. “Oh sorry, I thought that, with yer name, that you…”
Without another word, Tige turned his back on me and walked into what appeared to be the kitchen area. I noticed he had started wiping his hand on his pants leg; like someone would do after picking up a slightly greasy hand tool. What the fuck? I thought to myself.
“Well, that was extremely awkward for everyone,” Róisín announced to no one in particular. “While I would dearly love to stay and unpack whatever the hell that bullshite was about, I’m going to go hit the shite outa some bags!” Róisín marched past me out the front door I had left open. I just stood there in the common room, wondering what the hell just happened.
The smell of greasy food came wafting in from the kitchen, bringing a surge of nausea. This snapped me out of my thoughts on the past. I hated how clear that memory was in my mind when I could barely remember the last birthday I celebrated with both of my parents.
My therapist once explained to me that human brains are designed to keep us alive, not happy. She counseled me that with humans being such socially oriented creatures, actions and events that might negatively affect our ability to stay in our “family and tribe” groups will persevere in our minds as the strongest memories. Just like a memory of the severe pain caused by burning yourself will probably keep you from playing with fire again, remembering counter-survival behaviors in painful detail will keep you from behaving that way again. She had cheerfully explained that it was a survival characteristic to help keep us from being tossed out to the wolves.
Memories like, let us say, the incredibly awkward and surprisingly hostile encounter with most of my new flatmates within 5 minutes of meeting them. Thankfully, my encounter with my last flatmate had gone much more positively for me and was less worthy of painful mental persistence.
I gingerly climbed off my bed and slowly shuffled into the kitchen dining room. Róisín had already set me out several slices of bare toast and a cup of hot black tea. Sitting on her right was Tige, and next to her left was Ikeda Shinji, an international student from Japan and the only person other than Róisín I considered a real friend in Ireland. I dropped into the chair and immediately began to groan. I wearily observed Róisín enthusiastically wolfing down scrambled eggs and ham slices, nausea again flaring in my stomach.
“Jesus Ró…” I groaned, staring at her plate in disgust. She smiled at me with an impish grin as she continued to chew her greasy food energetically.
I turned to my friend, “Hey, Ji-san ...”. He nodded his head at me, mouth full of cereal.
Then I turned to my absolute favorite person in all of the apartment,“Top of the morning to you Tige! Still not acknowledging my presence on this plane of existence? Grand story boyo!” I said mockingly to him in one long, uninterrupted sentence. My headache surged, paying the price for my childishness, but I didn’t let the pain show on my face. I just stared at Tige, waiting to see if I could finally get a rise out of him.
Róisín gave me a disapproving scowl, and Tige didn’t bother looking up from his breakfast. After our first and several subsequent awkward encounters, Tige adopted a strange personal policy of pretending like I didn’t exist. I had tried, I really had tried with this guy. I made several friendly overtures to Tige but quickly gave up after Róisín had sat me down and told me to stop. Apparently, Tige really, like really, did not like me for reasons that Róisín didn’t want to share, and this was the only way Tige felt that we could cohabitate. Tige was paying out of pocket for most of his educational costs and couldn’t afford to move. Róisín asked me, as her friend, to accept the situation as it was and hope that Tige eventually came around.
I had, reluctantly, agreed, but my peevishness over being consistently slighted for unknown reasons manifested in childish verbal pokes at Tige that certainly didn’t help the situation.
“Yo, Corn Flakes, how’s the headache?” Shinji said just a little too loudly, with a wide, shit-eating grin on his face.
Like almost all nicknames, Shinji’s nickname for me was an inside joke stuffed into a pub story. It was during an evening halfway through the fall semester. One night when Róisín had managed to wrangle both Shinji and I out to a pub, Shinji admitted to me that he didn’t like his first name. He had said it was given to him by his anime-obsessed father and that he found his namesake to be, in his words, a pathetic little crybaby bitch with daddy issues, and that he had preferred using nicknames all his life.
Being a sci-fi series with big fighting robots, I had seen that particular series, and I didn’t really enjoy it as much as my friends did. I had silently disagreed with Shinji concerning his assessment of the character, not wanting to alienate yet another of my flatmates. Personally, I doubt that any 14-year-old would have handled that whole messed-up situation any better.
During that conversation, a very drunk Shinji had told me that his surname, Ikeda, meant ‘rice paddy by the lake’ and thought it would be hilarious if I called him Rice Paddy. I was horrified at the notion and flatly refused. He then accused me of having a “political correctness stick up my butt.” This led us through a twisting conversation on what was and wasn’t “culturally offensive” and “politically correct.” We failed to connect on a cultural level that night, but also somehow resulted in a vow by Shinji to call me “Corn Flakes” until I called him Rice Paddy. I refuse to give in, and so does Shinji, so here we are at our current loggerheads. Frankly, I think it’s both incredibly stupid and hilarious at the same time. But then again, aren’t most pub stories?
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
My mind returning to the present, I winced at Shinji’s loud words. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if you had been there to help rescue me from that socializing banshee woman creature,” I gestured toward Róisín with an upward nod of his chin, who was blatantly not paying attention to my whining. “Where were you? I texted you like five times.”
“Sorry brosephus, I was hiding within my room studying. Some of us actually have to study to be able to remember differential equations,” said Shinji, referencing my unusually good memory.
Ikeda Shinji was attending Trinity College in Dublin as an international student from Japan, ostensibly to get an Environmental Science and Engineering degree and improve his English language proficiency in a country other than the United States. I felt the first part of that assessment was genuine enough as I suspected Shinji was looking to make personal connections for a future role in Japanese corporate management or as a liaison in Ireland's expanding renewable energy industry. The second reason was total bullshit though, Shinji’s English was excellent due to his love of American cinema from the ’80s, ’90s, and 2000s. I found that this did lead to occasional grammar errors and some strange and dated phrases on his part.
Róisín finished the last bite of her eggs on her plate and abruptly stood up. “You gits have fun bitching about what a horrible geebag I am fer dragging your sorry arses out to have fun now and again. Rian, stop being a little bitch and clean yerself up for class, ye tool. Ji-Kun, you have a lovely day.” Róisín gave Shinji a little half bow with her hands pressed together in front of her face and then headed for the front door for her morning run.
“That’s not how you do that! Like even a little bit…” I started to yell before my headache came crashing down like a hammer.
As Róisín left the flat, I watched her go out of the corner of my eyes, staring a little wistfully at her back with some regret over a relationship I could never have. Shinji slapped me on my shoulder, breaking me out of my covert reverie.
“Ha! Look’s like I’m mum’s favorite.” He then jumped up and placed his plate in the sink. “Have good morning Tige, and good luck on that economics test.” Shinji grabbed his book bag and headed for the front door.
“Thanks and good luck to you with your… whatever,” Tige grumbled his response, raising his coffee cup at Shinji.
“Well, Tige, I guess it’s just you and me here to continue our titillating conversation on the long-term effects of British colonial expansion on the mating habits of the west Caribbean sea slug in the 1880s”.
I stared as Tige wordlessly stood up from the table and placed his plate in the sink before leaving the kitchen.
“Does that mean I can just go fuck myself then? Probably with the sea slug for good measure?” I called after the retreating Tige, who also headed for the front door and presumably his economics exam. I am ashamed to admit that it really irritated me that Tige was friendly toward Shinji. It was one thing if Tige hated all foreigners, but that wasn’t the case.
“Childish, but what the hell is that guy’s problem?” I muttered to no one, staring blankly into my teacup. Looking at the tea Róisín had made me reminded me of how we became friends, as it was one of the more memorable nights out with her.
I had been awkward around Róisín the first week as we lived as flatmates. I found it difficult to converse with her because I was absolutely smitten with her. I had it bad for her. I felt like she was perfect in every way, even in the one way that meant we wouldn’t be, couldn’t be, together. I felt like she was a poorly developed character from a fantasy novel, a tall gorgeous athletic red-haired, green-eyed Irish woman with a fiery but fun personality and lyrical accent.
“That’s just lazy writing,” I had often mused to myself when thinking about her, which was a lot that first week.
My infatuation with Róisín mostly ended after the first week when she dragged all four of us out to a pub for some ‘comradery building’ as she called it. Tige mostly sat quietly, awkwardly drinking his beer and making eyes at the exit, but Róisín, Shinji, and I started to relax and get to know one another. I was very careful with the details of my childhood. My dad’s death wasn’t spectacular, but I wasn’t sure if news of it had made its way over here yet. So, I lied about my mother’s name and made up a story about how she and my father had died in a drunk driving hit-and-run accident when I was 17. It explained why I didn’t have parents and was tragic enough to make people too awkward to ask further questions about it.
Tige left after one beer, but Róisín, Shinji, and I made an evening of it getting introduced to a variety of Irish beers. I am not a big beer fan but it's hard to beat an ice-cold Guinness or well-made Shandy, and I drank a lot of both.
During that evening, I watched Róisín chat up every woman in the pub while ignoring or rudely rebuking any male overtures made toward her. Watching her laugh and flirt unashamedly with any woman within arms reach was a sight to see. I was genuinely impressed with her pick-up game. But that also led me to a very obvious, if slightly heartbreaking, realization.
After obtaining a few more glasses of liquid courage, I asked her what I thought were some gentle questions on the subject. Apparently, they were about as subtle as a slap to the face because they caused Róisín to loudly declare, “Of course I’m gay you daft wanker. Dicks are gross. And what of it? Ye got a problem with it?!”
So, I should clarify that I am a very happy, if stupid drunk, and I didn’t notice the aggression in her voice and body language. Having already figured that she had zero interest in men, I had my response ready, “That’s so cool!! You gonna be my wingwoman!” I slurred in her face.
I kind of remember her staring dumbfounded at me like I had one of the aforementioned dicks on my forehead. I grabbed her by the arm and proceeded to haul her around the pub, asking random girls who was cuter, Róisín or me. Róisín usually, but not always, won. I had surprised her with my drunken statement of support. I was raised by my parents to understand sexual orientation isn’t something someone chooses, and you should never disrespect someone for being open and honest about who they are. The evening’s antics and my unreserved acceptance of her had solidified our friendship.
Róisín had later told me that she was surprised by my reaction because she knew I had a crush on her and wasn’t expecting me to take the harsh rejection so cheerfully. She had learned from experience at a young age that it was best to dissuade men swiftly and brutally from having even the slightest idea that she would be open to a relationship with them. She said if you give them any hope, any reason, they will cling to it. So, it was best to be upfront and uncompromising, even if it got her labeled as a dike bitch on more than one occasion.
She told me she had tried to be nice about it as a teenager after discovering the truth about herself, but she learned a hard lesson one night during her Senior Cycle. A classmate, someone she had thought of as a friend, had almost sexually assaulted her because she was “going through a phase.” A well-placed knee in his groin ended the evening’s studying, and she had signed up for mixed martial arts lessons the next day. She adopted a strict policy of completely shutting down male affection toward her, which cost her most of her male friends in Secondary School.
My musings on Róisín ended when I started thinking about the significance of today. I let out a long sigh and threw back the now tepid tea in one gulp, retching slightly at the sudden quantity of fluid in my stomach.
I cleaned myself up with a hot shower but skipped my morning classes. I didn’t have any planned examinations that day, and I was doing well enough to absorb a failed graded quiz if I had to. I swallowed two 500mg paracetamol tablets, wincing at the bitter taste, and laid back down on my bed for the rest of the morning. I dozed a bit but never truly fell back asleep due to the efforts of the little man with a sledgehammer in my head. Sledgehammer dude eventually took a break, and I trooped out to afternoon classes. I skipped a solid food lunch, preferring my calories in the form of a large, overpriced, and over-caffeinated coffee.
I sat through my Computers and Society class, paying decent attention as I enjoyed the course material. It was in my Statistical Analysis class that my thoughts drifted. My above-average memory and strong skills with manipulating numbers made attending the class more or less a formality, but the professor enjoyed issuing unscheduled quizzes, especially on Friday afternoons. I stared out the window while slowly rubbing my mom’s medallion with my thumb, a habit I often did when lost in thought.
As the class was released, the girl sitting in front of me turned around.
“You look’in a little banjaxed, you ok?” the girl, Cara, asked. Throughout the semester, I had a few brief pleasant exchanges with Cara before and after class, sharing my class notes with her occasionally, but that was the extent of it as she hadn’t invited a more personal exchange until now. She was short at 162 centimeters, had long mousy brown hair, a pretty heart-shaped face, a curvaceous body, and of course, a melodious Irish accent that sang in my ears.
I had been living in Dublin long enough to understand a little of the slang people here used, but not much. I could understand most local slang from context alone, but sometimes, I missed out on what people were saying. I noticed native Irish people spoke differently to me when they identified me or anyone as foreign. When I watched Ró start chatting up a native Irish girl in a pub, it almost seemed like she was talking in a foreign language.
I didn’t know what to say at first, I wasn’t expecting this level of interest from Cara. My mother raised me not to slobber over women, so as a rule, I didn’t try to force unwanted interactions with them. While she wasn’t exactly cold, she hadn’t given me any indication of wanting to get to know me either.
Which I found to be a damn shame as I thought she was pretty cute. I am also not proud to say that on the day she wore leggings, I may have been a little slow packing up my things at the end of class just so that I could watch her walk out.
I decided on honesty, “Ugh, I got plastered with my flatmate Róisín last night. She practically kidnapped me off the street in front of Goldsmith and drank me under the table. Honestly, it's embarrassing when she does that,” I painfully smiled as I lifted up my hands, palms up in a what-can-you-do gesture.
“Róisín. You’ve mentioned her before. So… are you two… a thing?”
I snorted. “Ró? Oh god no. She’s my best friend in Ireland but… no.” Something about the question briefly bothered me. I don’t remember ever mentioning Ró to Cara in our previous conversations, but I guess I must have. I started thinking back to our brief conversations when her flirtatious voice snapped me back to our conversation.
“Oh?” Cara answered back, her tone brightening. “She’s dragged you off to a pub more than once, you sure she’s not into you?”
I laughed, “Oh definitely not, not really her type. Let's just say that if she were here, she’d rather lob the gob with you than me.”
Cara’s smile faltered, a slightly pained look passing through her face.
I smirked and raised one questioning eyebrow at her, “So was that nails on a chalkboard?” I asked, understanding her expression at my attempt to use Irish slang.
“Yeah, little bit…” Cara said, her smile returning. She glanced down and seemed to steel herself before looking back up. “So, I was wondering, if you aren’t busy later, do you want to go out to a pub with me tonight? Maybe I can teach you some proper Irish…”
I groaned inwardly, careful not to let it show on my face, of all the days for this girl to work up the courage to make her move. I knew I wouldn’t be in the mood to go out between my hangover and what I planned to do after class. I also wasn't stupid enough to say no when a beautiful classmate, whom I had more than a little crush on, asked me out on a date.
“I would love that, but not tonight.” I quickly explained, “I am still pretty… what was it that you said? Banjaxed? I don’t think we would be having the craic.”
Cara rolled her eyes but kept smiling. “Stop it. You think you’re a cute hoor, but you’re just acting the maggot.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” I laughed, enjoying the banter. I thought I understood what she meant, at least, I think I did.
“Maybe we can change that.” Cara smiled at me.
“How about tomorrow night, say around 7?” I asked hopefully.
“That would be grand.” She took out a pen and wrote her number onto a page in my class notebook. She smiled at me and walked out of the classroom, and I took the time to admire the view as she left.
I sat there for a moment, awash in conflicting emotions. I was excited about Cara asking me out, more than a little surprised by her sudden interest. That feeling mixed with the general melancholy I felt over the significance of today. This created a strange jumble of emotions that I had trouble processing.
I packed up my stuff and began wandering the streets of South Dublin. I walked from the campus into Temple Bar, enjoying watching people go about their day. I love this part of the city. It’s so alive with people, so full of city natives and tourists alike. I wandered the streets, attempting to walk off the last remnants of my hangover, hoping some of the city's energy would invigorate me.
I walked out of Temple Bar and eventually reached my destination, the National Museum of Ireland, Archeology building. I had decided to honor today’s anniversary in the place where I spent my last good day with my mother before we lost her.
I walked into the building about an hour before it closed. I stopped in the foyer and stared up at the beautiful domed ceiling. This was my first time walking back in here since returning to Dublin. The dome looked smaller than the dome the 8-year-old version of me remembered. I sighed deeply and walked into the 1st-floor exhibit hall. This room seemed smaller than what the younger me remembered, but the feel of the room was the same. There were new exhibits and exhibit cases, but the building itself was just as I remembered.
I walked slowly among the exhibits, thinking about when I came here with my family. I remembered my mother taking me by the hand and excitedly pointing out objects that were thousands of years old, little me looking on with wonder. My mother adored museums, and her enthusiasm was infectious. She had dragged me and Dad to every museum within 100 miles of whatever US Army base Dad was stationed at. I think Dad wasn’t into museums as much as me and mom, but he always went along and never complained. I think he loved watching us run around like a bunch of nerds, geeking out over the trinkets of history.
I remember when Dad had received orders to Fort Belvoir and Mom almost fainted in excitement. That base is in northern Virginia, with easy access to D.C. by train. That summer had been a magical time. So many amazing museums a short train ride away. That was also the last summer that I got to spend with her too.
After wandering the 1st floor exhibits for a while, I sat on a rest bench facing the stairs to the second floor. I started rubbing my mother’s medallion with my thumb. It had been a gift from her mother, and it was my mom’s most prized possession. She had let me wear it for fun the day after we visited the museum, the morning she left me forever.
“Well Mom, another year down. I am going to school in Ireland, at the place you took me to see that Book of Kells, isn’t that crazy? I’ve made some friends here… I think you would have liked Ró, even though she’s a terrible influence on me.” I gently laughed at memories of last night’s antics, imagining Ró throwing back another pint of beer and yelling for me to do the same.
“I’m here at the Archelogy Museum, and you should see the Bogman exhibit. I think it would have grossed you out a bit, but you would have loved it. I wish you were here to see it…” Tears formed at the corners of my eyes. “I miss you and Dad so much…”
The memories of her were too much. I bent over and silently sobbed, warm tears landing on my pants. I clutched my mom’s medallion so hard that a slightly sharp edge cut into my palm. I barely noticed the pain or the small amount of blood that slowly oozed onto the medallion’s face.
A distant memory of my Dad’s voice said, “Breathe in… hold for two seconds… breathe out… hold for two seconds…” I followed the voice’s instructions and tried to clear my mind and get myself under control. After a minute of deep breathing, I regained a degree of inner calm.
That’s when I heard it, or maybe just felt it.
A distant feeling of… unfathomable despair and isolation, an unheard voice calling out into the void, understanding just out of reach, echoing through my mind. I looked around for the source of the voice, looking up at the balcony on the second floor where the voice… the forlorn singing… slightly increased in its intensity. I looked around at my fellow museum patrons; none seemed to hear the song. It was utterly mesmerizing. How could none of them hear it?
Without thinking about it, I quickly walked up the stairs, right past an exhibit on the Battle of Clontarf, towards the section on Medieval Ireland, my pace quickening with the growing strength of the song. I could almost hear the words. I briskly pushed past a small tour group blocking the way, earning rude muttered comments that I barely heard. I turned right and rushed down the aisle until I reached the middle of the balcony. That’s when I saw it.
It was easily one of the strangest things that I have ever seen. It was a triangular block of stone with a figure carved upon it. The stone block sat on a low pedestal, held in place by some hastily installed metal brackets, no glass or protective barrier covering it. The figure’s features were heavily weathered from the elements, clearly having been outside for a long part of its existence. The figure appeared humanoid with a visible head, arms, and legs. Its face had largely weathered away except for its mouth, which was locked in a toothy grin. The figure appeared to have pendulous breasts and defined ribs, which I wasn’t able to guess if that meant the figure was emaciated or a skeleton.
The truly inexplicable part of the figure was its pose. The figure appeared to be in a squatting position while its, no her, hands pulled open her labia to expose what I was guessing was the vagina.
The figure was so truly bizarre that its appearance broke me out of the trance I was in. I just stared at the thing, dumbfounded. It defied almost everything I had seen about medieval art, and I began questioning how this object came to be in the medieval section of the museum.
“Sheela na Gig, Clonmel co. Tipperary, Late medieval,” I read aloud. The label was old with jagged edges, appearing inexpertly cut off the display case of the stone’s previous resting place.
“What are you doing here?” I asked the stone figure, slowly stepping closer to it.
“Dteagámháil lóis anó gácloch…”
The ethereal voice solidified as it called out to me again. I didn’t understand the words but the feeling of an inextricable pull toward the stone figure returned. I slowly approached closer, my hand raising, fingers outstretched.
“Dteagámháil lóis anó gácloch…” the voice repeated to me, more insistently.
In an action that would have horrified my mom, I reached out with my lightly blood-stained fingers and touched the face of the stone figure. As soon as my fingers made contact with the stone, an eruption of pain blossomed in my mind and everything went dark.
******************************
Ryder Smith, was a recent hire with the museum within the last year. They were remarkable only in their odd preference in being assigned the guard position in the Medieval Irish exhibit. Ryder had performed their duties with unremarkable diligence until today. They had dropped their assigned duties in the Kingship & Sacrifice exhibit when they received a text that the subject was entering the museum. Ryder took up a position to observe the subject and watch the attractive, if otherwise unremarkable young man walk around the exhibits on the first floor. Growing hope and excitement started to fill Ryder, could this finally be it? The culmination of their mission, over two years of work.
That excitement began to rapidly cool after watching the subject walk aimlessly for 30 minutes. Ryder did not allow themselves to feel the frustration growing in their mind, for they were, if nothing else, a professional. Ryder ignored a missed call from their supervisor, likely inquiring why they weren’t at their assigned monitoring position. They considered breaking off their observation to maintain their cover at the museum, but orders had been clear concerning this target: constant observation at all times while in the museum.
Ryder only felt emotion toward the subject when he started crying, feeling they understood what the man, boy really, was crying about. Ryder’s excitement rekindled in a flash when they watched the man’s head turn toward the second-floor balcony. The man stared with a perplexed expression for a moment and then abruptly began to move to the second floor fast enough that Ryder had difficulty discreetly following him. Ryder moved into a good observation position as the subject touched the stone.
The subject started a soundless scream. Muscles in the subject’s arms and back spasmed, contorting his body into a nearly impossible shape, bones were surely breaking in his body but the subject’s fingers remained glued to the stone figure. Ryder briefly debated what to do, concerned that he might be noticed by other museum patrons at any moment, but decided to do nothing but watch. Their orders were for observation only, do not engage the subject or interfere with events. So Ryder was staring directly at the subject, his face contorted in agony, as the stone exploded with a flash of blinding bright light and thunderclap sound.
As the echos of the explosion petered out, a deathly quiet came over the museum. After a pause that could have been measured in seconds, but felt like minutes to everyone in the museum. Emergency alarms began blaring in the museum, and people started panicking. Everyone looked for and ran towards the nearest emergency exit, the museum staff doing their best to direct the chaos.
Ryder had flinched in shock at the violence of the explosion despite having been briefed that there was a strong possibility it would happen. What had not been briefed was what they saw before them, which was nothing but the stone figurine shattered into pieces, surrounded by warped and half-melted glass and metal display cases. Even the wooden benches nearby were warped and appeared half-melted. The strangest thing was the complete lack of scorch or burn marks on any of the surfaces, which shouldn’t even be possible given the size of the explosion and ensuing damage. Ryder picked up their phone and dialed the only meaningful number programmed into it.
“There was a small explosion when the subject touched the stone. The subject has disappeared, and the stone has shattered into pieces. There is no evidence of a body or overt human remains. Please advise.” Ryder spoke in a neutral, calm voice.
“Disengage from the scene and go dark. Leave the country at your earliest opportunity,” came a disguised voice, the line abruptly going silent. Ryder fell back into the character without hesitation and pantomimed a panicked dash out the nearest emergency exit. Outside the museum was pure chaos, with museum staff rushing around checking for wounded museum patrons and contacting emergency services. The utter lack of injuries confused the museum staff, given the size of the explosion. Besides a few sprained ankles from people stumbling out of the emergency exits, nobody was injured.
Ryder used the chaos to casually slip to the rear of the growing crowd before walking away, never to be seen again.