Andrea.

Photo by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash

‘I think’, and he paused, cause this was difficult, and hard, ‘I think, he continued, that I may be a paedophile. ‘I have these very deep, dark and depraved thoughts, and feelings and I am afraid, afraid I may take action on them quiet soon’. With that he dropped his head, he couldn’t bear to look at her now. His physical body reflecting his inner shame and self hate. But their it was, he had said it now. It was out in the open, no way of taking it back.

She got up from her black leather chair, and moved closer to the window. Looking out from the first floor, she looked across to the green, where a few people were sitting and enjoying the warm sunshine, (she knew what he meant), It seems all so normal out there. ‘How do I deal with this’, she asked hersellf silently.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, while still looking down toward the ground. Reflected that the red carpet, like the rest of the decor in the room, seemed only to add to the darkness and despair, that were his constant companion these last few months. He so wished she would say something, anything to break the silence. Condemn him, praise him, comfort him, understand him. But there was nothing, just silence.

The words she had just heard, began to awaken memories, in Andrea, of a time and place, many years ago now, that she had long since put under lock and key in the deep in the recesses of her mind, never to see daylight again. Yet her (Andera’s) mind could not but help (went) drifted back to when she too was a child. To those warm and sunny holidays. A welcome break from school. How she really loved animals, horses in particular. But yet she did not wish to sully, nor allow her love of animals to be degraded and ruined by recalling memories and events she had no control over, now or then.

But she did not want to revisit that time,that place in her mind, as there was little to be gained from it. She had to an extent made peace with her past, tried forgiveness, and understanding. But being human, like us all,it was not at times easy to drop all desires for (she too wanted) revenge. To inflict hurt and distress on those who had stolen her childhood. Mental health professionals had been of some help, as had in earlier years a heavy reliance on alcohol and illicit drugs.

    A desire to help others deal with there own eventful past had drawn her into the Mental Health arena she derived some satisfaction from her work.

‘Could you give me some more detail Stephen’, she asked softly and gently. Trying to get him, this man to open up, some more.
‘Don’t play games with me Doctor’, he looked at her, his eyes narrow and mean. His voice sharp, loud and unfriendly. He always called people like her Doctor, even though she wasn’t a medical Doctor. It kept a bit of a barrier, a boundary between them, and that’s the way he wanted it.
‘Read between the lines’ Doctor, you’ve being doing this job long enough’, you know what I’m talking about’.

She was quite new to counselling, and was getting used to dealing with troubled people, with their depressions, relationship troubles, with their loneliness and isolation. But this……….did she have the life experience to know what to say. To say the right words. What can you say to someone like this, a human being like this whom she despised, for what he may have in his past. But she knew a day such as this day would come. She just about managed to maintain her professionalism.

‘What makes you think you may act out your depraved thoughts,and feelings. Be a paedophile ?’ She finally asked. Even the word, caused her stomach to churn, as she said it, unsure if she was about to throw up. She stared at him intently. Trying to hide how she despised him, and his like. Attempting to be compassionate and understanding. But his lack of remorse. His semi cavalier attitude in her office, did little to endear him to her. 

Stephen didn’t like her at all, but she was the only psychotherapist available when he was referred. He so wished he had being referred to a male psychotherapist, at least then ,one man would be more likely to understand another man, to a much greater extent. Rather than a stupid bitch of a woman.

   But she would have to do, as he knew he had to open up to someone, as his mind was in constant turmoil. Sleepless nights, followed by restless days. His reasoning was, it just had to be helpful to bring his deep, dark thoughts into the light, and out of the darkness. Perhaps maybe there was a way, these powerful thoughts, feelings would go away, and bring him some peace. But did he truly want his lustful desires to go away.

‘Because,’ Stephen spoke, slowly at first. Wanting to share his hidden innermost thoughts, with somebody, with any body. Intense Lust and desire. The overwhelming feeling to be physically close to the child. To enjoy their innocence and open acceptance of another human being. To share a child’s laughter and joy. And what’s the most intimate way to form such a connection, a spiritual, physical, mental and emotional connection with another human being, that is so precious. No man could ever pull apart. A union enshrined in love, tenderness, gentleness and compassion. A union of two humans, encapsulated / enshrined by the most intimate of acts. How could anybody who never experienced these thoughts, and feelings ever understand them.

    ‘I have such strong feelings in that direction’. Unwilling to even say the words. ‘You know what I’m talking about’. He paused,trying to put his jumbled, confused thoughts into coherent sentences. ‘I enjoy the company of young children so much, I love their innocence, their joy, their happiness, their unconditional love’.

‘But that doesn’t make you a paedophile, maybe your just an adult who is perhaps intimidated by other adults. I myself enjoy the company of children, and you find children’s company easier’,

Stephen listened intently to what was being said,

‘Do you ever want to be intimate with any children ?’ she asked.

‘God no’, he lied. The very idea sickened him, and horrified him, he maintained.

‘I would never, ever harm them’.

‘Have you ever being intimate with a child ? ever,’ she asked.

‘No’, Stephen replied.

Andrea was proud of herself, how she handling such a difficult counselling session, in a semi professional and detached manner. Asking the difficult uncomfortable questions that needed to be answered.

         ‘You see Stephen, these thoughts and feelings you have’, these feelings you have, may lead you into trouble, and may cause you to bring hurt and harm to children. Is that what you want ?’

  ‘No, I know these ideas in my mind are not right’. But he did not truly believe that. If only other people could understand his perspective, and his life experiences.

’But I don’t know how to get rid of them, how to make them go away. That’s why I’m afraid.’

‘Do you have many adult friends/acquaintances’?

‘Not a single one. I don’t like people as they grow older, and become adults. Because then they become cruel, and not nice to others. That’s why I prefer children. I wish there were only sweet inconnect happy children in the world, and no adults.’

‘Would you be willing to come to counselling on a long term basis ?’, Andrea asked

He went quiet, as he thought about that, as he didn’t particularly wish to see her again, perhaps another man.

‘Maybe, Don’t know’, he responded, without looking at her.

The sun began to shine its rays and (heat) through the window, bringing with it warmth and light. Somehow, the sunshine, as Andrea reflected to herself, seemed to make the future look a somewhat more bright and hopeful, as it always does.

————-

Andrea (Part 2). ?

Slowly he got dressed. Trying to delay the inevitable, like a child trying very much trying not to go to school.To leave the comfort and security of their home, and mainly of their mother. As he slowly made his way towards the train station, ignoring the warm sunshine. He thought about turning back and not going at all, for a brief moment, and just running away. But realising there was no real escape, as the consequences of not turning up, were none too pleasant to contemplate. He knew how he, an accused paedophile would be treated in prison, Wasn’t even sure if he would actually make it through a prison term safely.

Here he was accused, but not condemned man. But with such an accusation like that hanging over his head, he was as good as condemned in many people’s minds already. His life was as good as ruined anyway. Very few had stood by him. So called friends swifty drifted away. Work stopped calling. Even his family, his own flesh and blood, had not been in contact since the accusation was first made. So much for family loyalty.

       Andrea sat in her office awaiting the arrival of Stephen. She wasn’t even sure if he was going to turn up at all. She had not rehearsed how she was going to deal with this session, having  decided she was just going to let it play out as it would, whatever way that was.

 In any case her mind was more focused on her own life. Her own issues, her two young daughters, and her  mother’s deteriorating condition. Her Mother’s dementia getting worse by the day. Was now the time to take that step she so didn’t want to take, and put her beloved mother into a care home. This woman who only a few short years previously, was the life and soul of any gathering. Whose brain was shaped by years of fast quick thinking as her many years of working as a lawyer, dealing with others with equally sharp, quick minds.

        But now she too was like a child, unable to look after herself. Her memories and thoughts skipping all over the place, in an incoherent mess. As Andrea thought of this, her tears began to flow, and her chest began to heave and shake. With great power slammed her palm onto the desk in utter frustration and anger. The white mug of tea on the desk shook and emptied some of its contents. Andrea’s frustration and anger at life. At God. At the scientists who could find no cure. At the unfairness of it all. But Andrea was also angry and disappointed with herself. How in recent months she had become, quite short tempered and unpleasant at times to her mother. So frustrated she was by her mother’s condition, as her Mother was unable at times to remember her own name, where she was, or even Andreas name. Asking Andrea at times, who she was, and what did she want.

   Her mother, this woman, who all those years ago, in that very hot summer, sensed,as only a mother could, that something was bothering and deeply troubling her daughter. How she very gently, sensitively, and with great patience her mother probed Andrea, until her daughter related how ‘that man’. Not wanting to utter his name, nor hear it, as she referred to him, at the horse racing stables. She shared what had transpired that hot mid-july afternoon. It was a very painful experience to share with anyone, as Andrea felt so foolish. So unclean. So embarrassed and mainly so very ashamed. She recalled how on that day, and many days since her mother had embraced and held her, and assured her, sincerely that it was not her fault. That the man. The man with dark soul, tried to take away her innocence.

  This deepened the bonds of love between them. Andrea fondly recalled how as she journeyed into womanhood, and of that very cold Christmas spent with her mother. Where the thick snow, a rare occurrence, had made that holiday time seem so memorable, so special. As she recalled how after they shared one too many bottles of wine, and talked of life, the past,and the future, her mother had shared how she too had as a child, had being the object of her own father’s un-welcome attentions, Andrea grandfather. Long since passed away, a secret that she had never shared with anyone, over all these years.

Because of their similar shared sordid experiences, at the hands of men, they became very close, not only as mother and daughter, but as women. As human beings, and many times they had shared tears, and held each other softly, and grew as close as its possible to be. One human being to another, a love so very deep. As deep as the ocean, and deeper still. As deep as the earth itself, and bonds so strong, that would never, ever be broken.

Walking up the stairs, of this grey dilapidated building, he was trying to figure out a way, to regain some power. Some personal power in this situation where he had opened himself up shared his deep vulnerability. Opened his heart and soul. Feeling raw like an open sore he approached the door. he questioned his decision to wear a trench coat today, of all days. Doubtful now that it would rain. He just walked right in. Did not bother to knock. His way of saying,’I don’t respect nor like you, or think much of you’, He slammed the door behind him, as he knew from experience loud noises frightened people. That was his intention here, as he pulled the empty brown leather chair away from the desk, in an aggressive manner. Away from her, this woman, this person, without saying anything, and faced the chair toward the window.

Andrea had being forewarned during her training, that this kind of behaviour may be possible for her clients, as they tried to re-assert some authority. Especially after they had shared deeply, and were feeling vulnerable and raw, with her.

She said nothing as he sat down, on the chair across from the desk. She could see as she glanced at him, that his once white trench coat, was now a rather shabby looking cream colour. The undone tie, unshaven face, and somewhat crumpled suit, were signs of a man trying to hold onto some form of respectability, but not winning. She guessed looking at him, he had not sleep well, if at all since their last meeting. Surmised that most probably he was unable to sleep, as his jumbled thoughts, no doubt interfering with his peace of mind. She briefly imagined how smart and successful he must have looked, all those months ago, before all these accusations began. How well thought of he was in his company, as he moved swiftly up the career ladder. How well he would have looked, dressed in his smart suit. How he must have looked younger than his 48 years on this planet. But now his face was drawn, and worn out looking. Grey and drained. 

                She could sense from his energy, his volcanic smouldering violence. Was it about to explode, here in this room at any moment. She wrapped her fingers of her left hand around the hot mug of tea, that still sat on her desk. Ready and quiet willing to throw the hot liquid into his eyes and face, were he to dare to make a move toward her, with bad intent. Her own anger was to the fore, with her thoughts of her beloved mother, and her increasing dementia. Her other hand, slipped under the desk. Hovering under the panic switch, would were she to press it, bring the two rather large security personnel, up from reception, in a hurry.

Stephen for his part, began to examine his brown leather shoes, as he sat across from the desk. Planning to polish them, when he got out of home. He looked out the window, into the bright sunshine, watching the birds fly so freely. Wondered what it was like to be truly free.  He questioned would he himself ever be truly free from these wretched, wicked thoughts.   He longed to be close to another human. Ached for that intimacy. A coming together of mind, body, spirit and soul. To feel truly connected to another. To feel love for them, and feel loved in return. Something he had never experienced, but believed did exist in this world. He wanted to experience it, and was determined to experience it, at least one time, before his life in this world was over. It was either going to be given to him freely, or he was going take it by force. .

As the Andrea began to feel the tension slowly subside in the office, she released her grip on the mug of hot liquid, her possible weapon. Took her hand away from the panic switch, as she too began to look out the window, into the bright sunshine. She wondered about this man across from her. What kind of life he had. What had happened in his life, to make him have thoughts and feelings of being intimate with children Was that so very wrong, she asked herself. Is love, not love, however it surfaces. She now began to question her own thoughts. She considered had he too being interfered with, when he to was an innocent child. Her thoughts and feelings, drifted away from fear, anger and dislike, to the beginnings of compassion, empathy and understanding.

Andrea got up from the black leather chair, and walked toward the window. She found it much easier to think, when she was moving. He watched her as she moved. Her slim body, with that stylish auburn hairstyle. Her white blouse and close fitting black trousers, illuminating her body. Her movements displayed her education, her experiences, her character. She reminded him of the women who had met in his office, but for whatever reason, had never shown any romantic interest in him at all. Quite the opposite, as they went out of their way to avoid him altogether. He overheard some refer to him as creepy, and weird. Would he even be in his current predicament, if he had meet a loving partner all those years ago. 

As he sat in the office across from her, musing in his mind how he’d rather be anywhere else but here, with this person. He really didn’t like her at all. Another stupid stuck up bitch. A little bit of education and a certificate that gives her the right to interfere in a persons life and say what’s right and wrong. It was either come here,or go to prison, that was the choice he was offered in court. Not much of a choice really.

But at the same time, could she possibly be able to help him rid his mind of these thoughts of children. His warped thoughts. The contents of his own mind that frightened him. She was a psychotherapist after all, but he didn’t want to do all the giving. Feeling so empty and drained after the first session he had with her, he wasn’t even sure if speaking so honestly in that first session did any good at all. It left him feeling that his soul and heart were wide weeping sores. Added to which he was feeling extremely vulnerable,and insecure.

In his own mind mind he dreamed up a plan. If he could get something on her, that would even up the odds a bit. She seen the inside of his soul, and now he wanted to see the inside of hers.

Andrea was not looking at Stephen, as she sat back in the leather chair, behind the desk. She liked to sit behind the desk, as it keep a certain distance, both physical and psychological between her and the clients. Even though her University professors had encouraged all there psychotherapy students to adopt a much more informal approach, while interacting with their clients, and to do away with the desk altogether. She didn’t agree, and never implemented that policy.

 

To Be continued……

 

The Elevator.

Photo by DESIGNECOLOGIST on Unsplash

‘ Come in here, and we’ll take the lift ‘ . His voice gruff and commanding. It was what I expected from someone like him. The red checks, large beer belly, the result of much good living and little exercise. He was tall, and had the complexion of one who spent much time in the outdoors, and lived on a bad diet.
Like many of his age, he always wore a suit. It was just the way of it, for men of that time. The people round us hurried about their business. It was never the happiest of places. Too much human tragedy likely to happen here at any moment a distinct possibility. As was happiness and joy. Well more relief at the outcome, and then the freedom.
At last the lift arrived at the ground floor, the other’s exited it. Watching them it was hard to tell, how it went. Many people are hard to read. He went first then I followed. No one else decided to join us. The dull grey interior of the lift, badly in need of a clean, and spruce up. The ever present scent of disinfectant, that even now takes my mind back to that place. The double doors shut, with a resounding swish like sound. He reached over and pulled the inner gates across and the lift began it’s journey upwards. He never let go of the loosely wrapped plastic package he held under his arm. It looked soft, so I assumed it was clothing .  The lift silently make its way upward. After a few moments, he reached across and pulled the inner gates apart. The lift came to a juddering halt, and we both fell forward towards the grey steel doors. I looked at him, but his expression was plain, non committal.
He reached above my head to the copper colored control panel, that housed the different floor numbers and the open and close switches, an emergency phone, and the interior light, which he flipped to turn the interior to total darkness. I tried but could not see, not even my hand. I called out to him, but he did not answer. Alone in the darkness, I was afraid. Again I called out, but he did not answer.
It was unpleasantly warm to the touch. That rough hand on my bare thigh, as it slowly moved upwards. I silently cursed myself for wearing short trousers, as I cursed God for making the weather for being so warm. Then just as quickly I asked God if he would forgive me, for cursing him.
In the silence and the darkness, his breathing loud, fast and guttural. The scent of the earth, alcohol and cigarette smoke from him, sickening to my young senses. His movements were rough, brutal, and urgent. The soft package slipped from his grip, where he held it tightly, as he fumbled urgently at his clothing, and at mine. I struggled to escape, but in the small space I was trapped. He was stronger than I. The only sounds his moans of excitement, wrapped around quietly spoken swear words. It continued for a few moments. I closed my eyes and thought of the ocean, and the freedom it offered.
When he was satisfied, I tidied myself up in the darkness and the silence, as did he. Reaching across to the control panel, he flipped the switch, and the darkness turned to light. I knew the drill, not to look at him, nor speak. So I just stood facing away from him, and stared into a corner of the lift. He pulled the black wrought iron gates back together and the lift continued its journey upwards. When we reached our floor, we marched down the dull grey corridor towards the general ward.
She was sat upright in bed, reading the newspaper. Looking reasonably healthy, as the sun shone throw the windows. Everybody it seemed was in good form. That’s what the good weather can do. The nurses was smiling. The other visitors gathered round the beds of their relatives were laughing. It seemed like no one was really ill in the sunshine.
I followed behind him, as we approached the bed. She smiled and put down the newspaper, seeing us approach.

‘Welcome’ she said.

Written in response to a photo prompt seen here : https://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

The Faces of the Invisible.

MyWorldView721.Wordpess.Com

Skip to content

The Faces of The Invisible.

Photo by Joe Keating on Unsplash

He was invisible to them. Nobody noticed him, or at least pretended not to notice him. He sat like the rest of us, in the railway station waiting room, seeking refuge from the bitter cold outside. At least it was warm. We sat with our luggage, and warming tea and recently purchased, quiet expensive sandwiches.
He sat huddled with dirty track bottoms, and dirty shoes. A black anorak, with a hood covering his head, and slim frame. He had no hot tea, or sandwich. His arms folded over covering himself. Never once did he raise his head, to see what was going on around him. Never once did he ask of any of us in that waiting room for a few quid to help him out. He just sat with his eyes closed, head pointed down towards the ground, the whole time I watched him. He was no more than nineteen years old I guess.
I studied him, and the people around him, and wondered did the other travellers not even see him. Did he not exist in their minds. Was he a non entity ? Could they not see another human being obviously suffering and down on his luck. People nearby read there newspapers. Played with their expensive mobile phones. One or two of the more obnoxious travellers conducted business deals, excited, smug and self satisfied with another deal successful concluded. Oblivious to this young guy, within ten feet of them. The middle aged ladies discussing their travel plans, and the relatives they would be visiting. Some played games, caught up with emails on their tablets. Other studied the screen as it displayed and reloaded the upcoming train times. reorganising their plans. I wondered where would he go, when he would inevitably be asked to leave the shelter of the warm waiting room, and what would he do tomorrow and the next day, and the next. How had life brought him to this.
As I watched the other temporary inhabitants of that waiting room, I silently questioned their humanity. I also questioned my own, as I left the warmth of the waiting room, to catch my train without stopping to offer him help, of some description. Was it embarrassment, fear of his reaction, or did want to draw any attention to myself. What ever it was, I never figured it. Would I act differently in a similar situation again. That I could not say. I would like to think I would be more humane, but who knows.

Post navigation

PREVIOUSJustice.

NEXTMemories.

Toggle Sidebar

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Another Night.

 

Photo by Asdrubal luna on Unsplash

She stood by the doorway, watching in silence. So many memories trying to force their way into her mind. He busied himself exploring the other rooms of the large house.

‘My God, what a house, and what a garden. Your so lucky to have brought up here’, as he stood beside her. His arms enveloping her fragile body. If only he knew.

She didn’t answer, but put her head in his large shoulders. Were he to see her face, he would see the tears, and the sadness it held. Again the memories pushed at the gates of her mind, where she kept them hidden. How could she share them with anyone, even him. How would he be able to trust her. She did not want to lose him. Some secrets are better left untold.

‘So when can we move in ?’, he asked, with childish excitement. The wide smile, and happy eyes, features that attracted her attention when she saw him across the shopping mall, that Saturday, not so many years ago.

‘Well, anytime now’, she responded. Hiding the memories and images behind her pristine smile
‘Well that’s, brilliant. I’ll get things moving’, and he held her close once more. Again she felt somewhat safe, and secure in his arms. She loved his enthusiasm. His drive and determination to achieve a goal, once set. They left her family home, just outside the small prosperous town, that was surrounded by wide fields of corn, and the high mountains and forests that were visible from every area of the town, adding to the beauty. They drove past the lake, where she had spent many summer days. He yelped with delight, and smiled at her, as the stunning scenery unfolded before them, and headed back to the tiny Manhattan apartment, in the overly busy, slow moving, mainly gridlocked traffic. Surrounded by the other near claustrophobic high rise blocks, that loomed large, so close by. There living space were tiny, cramped, with their goods and belongings  packed high and tight. The space and freedom would be more than a welcome relief to both.
It was a struggle at times, living in such a small cramped space. But they were in love, and they struggled with the living conditions together. He set about the task of packing up their belongings with boundless energy. Their dog joined in with unabridged enthusiasm, sensing the excitement.
She left him to pack their belongings, using a brief shopping trip as an excuse for time alone. Time to consider her past, and her future. She sat alone in the corner of the darkened coffee shop, in the quiet street. Grateful for the peace and solitude. The staff sensible and intelligent enough to know when one of their patrons needed time to be alone, to reflect upon their life, or write their memoirs or just be allowed the luxury of thinking. The cafe being a haunt of many whom liked to write, to reflect, and needed the peace and solitude.

She watched the few people passing on the street, and wondered about their lives. Did anyone, she considered get out of this life without, the drama and heartache. Did anyone, anywhere among the billions, actually get an easy ride through life. She doubted it. she considered there future together. Like many before her, and like many would in the future, she considered was he the one. Was he the man she was willing to spend the rest of her life with. Was now the time to settle down. To possibly have children with him.  An option she had yet to consider. What of her career. Did he have enough to offer. She began to mull over his positive characteristics, which were many. His kindness, empathy, and gentleness. His ambition, and determination, while impressive, had yet to lead to any substantial success. But he certainly had potential, and that was good enough. His honesty, reliability, and discretion, were certainly attributes to be welcomed. His loyalty was unquestioned. As for his love making skills, although not stellar, were certainly not at the beginner stage, and like many, there was always room for improvement, as she smiled at her private intimate thoughts. But mainly she felt loved, desired and secure with him.

He was not a saint, a perfect human being, which she allowed. There was at times that his cutting sarcastic humour, regarding the misfortunes of others that she so disliked, and had scolded him many times for. The little too much reliance on alcohol, and that little bit too much time, spending some of her funds in the casinos. His at times, flippant and childlike refusal to take life seriously. At attribute she found engaging and repellent all at once. These were the only negatives she could see at present. While serious enough to some, to her, they were not a deal breaker.

It was the ringing of her cell phone, that she had carefully layed on the darkened coffee table, that shock her from her imaginings. Its flashing screen , and shrill ringing tone, taking her back to real life. She knew it was him, checking up to see what she was up to, and was she okay with that. So lost in her thoughts, time had passed very rapidly, and he was becoming very slightly concerned for her, which she mostly welcomed.

‘Hi, yeah I know. I’m sorry. I should have called’. There was silence at the other end, holding the phone on the palm of her hand.

‘Do you think your actually going to get it. To get the damn house. To live the happy ever after life. Do you really think that’s how it’s going work out for you’.

The voice was still recognizable, even after all these years. She could sense the mental sickness, the illness through the handset, which she had left fall from her hand in shock. Nothing seemed to have changed. She was at once back in the family home, with her deranged older sister. She was at once the cowering, scared young girl, that she was many years since, as her sister worked out through one of her many psychotic episodes in the family home. The wicked screams. The seething empty accusations. The physical violence and struggles. The intense paranoia, that terrified her. The visionary uncontrolled hallucinations, and the voices. The never ending voices that told her to trust no one. Those voices that give her the detailed instructions of whom to harm. Her refusal to take her prescribed medication. The rapid slide into illegal narcotics, decadence and the most extremes darkened corners of the fetish sex scene.
Encouraged by the new friends and acquaintances from that sordid side of life, that were attracted like vampires to her vulnerability and and obvious psychosis. They swooped in quickly, using well honed abilities to suss out another victim to be used, abused and discarded, when the time was right. Their toxic, manipulative ways, hidden under the guise of instant friendship and camaraderie. There blackmail, emotional and otherwise, trivialized. Words such as loyalty, honesty and trust, and their meanings ment nothing to them. Idea’s such as that, they only laughed at. She was way too far gone. Too mentally unwell. Just too lost, in some form of Orwellian, dystopian world to see them for what they were. she was just being used by them, for their own gain. A world of extreme fetish sex. Myriad uncontrolled drug use. Criminally, blackmail, dishonesty. Mental illness, and insanity all rolled into one.

‘That’s right bitch. I’ve never gone away, and I’m coming to claim what’s rightfully mine. Do you think you can take my inheritance. My family home. It’s my home, not yours. Never was, never will be. Your not entitled to it’.

She was at a loss for words. The coffee shops lights seemed so dim. Her head was swirling and light. She gripped the wooden table for strength. She physically reeled at the onslaught. The shock. The sister she thought, had thankfully being removed from her life, was now back like an unwanted and destructive force of nature.

‘I’ve being following you. I’ve being watching your life these past few months. Do you think I don’t know whats going on’.
She did have that nagging feeling she was being watched those past few months, but had put tit down to an over active imagination, and dismissed it.

She pictured her sisters face as she spoke, and correctly imagined the twisted and ravaged features, spewing such anger and venom. The eyes, narrowed with hate. The bad skin, and unhealthy scarred, pale complexion. Her energy toxic in the extreme. Her body releasing itself from it’s physically tight hold as the mental and emotional chains were undone. She began to unleash her palatable madness. Her tangible mental sickness.

‘Do you think he will want to stay with you when he knows what you did, and are capable of, do you ?’
‘No man would ever want you, no man would ever trust you, ever’.
‘Your damaged goods, sweetheart’.
‘Do you hear me’, the voice so loud, so poisonous.

She put the phone back on the coffee shop table, and switched it off completely. Her hand shaking. Her breathing shallow and rapid. The perspiration formed above her lip and on her forehead. She was litterly shaking, and tearful. She sat at that table for many  hours. Her body weak. Her engery drained. she sat their until the the coffee shop closed and they asked her to leave. She walked the darkened, quiet, rain soaked streets, for what seemd like hours. Trying to clear her mind. Could she tell him. Should she tell him.  Would he ever trust her, for withholding such a hidden part of her life. Had they not promised each other toal honesty and disclousure in their relationship, from the start. Would he be able to understand that some aspects of one’s life, are just to hard, difficult and painfull to share. Would she mean nothing to him, were he to know.
Would her own deception, and non self disclousure, be her downfall, and the end of the relationship she had come to cherish, and wanted to last forever. After many hours, she arrived back at the apartment. She knew he would be waiting, most probably angry, and expectaing an explaination for her long abstnce. She was ready for the confrontation.
Tentatively she entered the lounge where he was sprawled out dozing in front of the tv. The flickering light from the tv illuminating the otherwise darkened room. She tripped over the resting dog, and the sound woke him.

‘Oh sweetheart, your back at last’. He got up from the couch and smiled and embracced her.
‘I tried calling you a few times, but your phone was off.’
‘Yeah, I know. I needed time to think’.

She was grateful for his calmness and peacefulness, enjoyed the comfort and security his phyisical touch offered her.

She reached down and took his hand, and looked into his gentle eye’s.

‘We need to talk’.

 

Memories.

Photo by Masaaki Komori on Unsplash

She stood at the doorway, and looked into the bedroom. It had being many years since she had seen the room. Not something she really wanted to do, yet she just had to. Like watching an accident unfurl before one’s eyes. You know you should look away, but you just can’t.
Images and memories cruelly flashed through her mind. She stood by her side, with her hand gently on her back, offering her strength and support. She bit her quivering lip. She tried the deep breathing, like she had practised. But it was not working now, when she needed it most. Her chest and shoulders began to shake, with her breathing becoming rapid and shallow. Tears and distress not too far away now.
She gently encouraged her, with her persuasive words.

‘You’ve got to face it sometime, love. You cannot keep running away’.
‘You are safe here. You will not come to any harm, while I’m with you. Do you trust me ?’

She looked at the older woman’s, kindly, sincere face. Could she really trust her. She studied the dark uniform, and the official accessories. The walkie talkie. The mobile phone, attached to her stab proof waistcoat. The silver handcuffs secure within the snug compartment of the wide black leather belt. She did not note the missing body cam. Perhaps if she had…..

They needed her to break, to show vulnerability. They could then show her the false kindness and concern, that could be used to confuse and entrap her once again.

‘Why don’t you go and sit on the bed’, the police officer cajoled. ‘It’s only by facing your fears, that you’ll break free of them, once and for all’. Her words, soft, sincere and believable.

She slowly moved towards the bed. Those horrible images, and sounds, hidden for so long from her everyday consciousness, came to life in her mind. That putrid scent, of tobacco, cheap aftershave and alcohol. The loud, crazy fast, thumping music. Their insane maniacal laughter, as they were about to satisfy there perverted lustful desires, on another unwilling innocent, echoed in the recesses of her mind, torturing her, yet again. She began to feel light headed. Her legs weakened and she quickly sat on the bed, before she fell. Her school satchel drooped to the floor. The police officer helped her to lay down, and soothed the childs lightly damp hair, and flushed face.

‘There, there, it will be alright’. She gently carresed the childs pale skin. So soft, and inviting to the touch. The full luscious lips, and wide innocnet brown eyes. Her heart beat faster, and the chemicals in her stomach began to break free. Yet again she was on the verge of intruading on, and stealing yet another innocents childhood. She moved her face towards the young girls lips, who turned her head away, and struggled to move from the bed. The police officer grabbed both her wrists harshley and lay her body on top of her young captive, trapping her.

It crackled into life, the voice was serious and urgent. He spoke fast.

‘Get out now, her Mother is entering the gate, and you know what a mad bitch she is, get out now’.
‘Ok’, she hurridely whispered into the walkie talkie.

‘Ok, so you heard all that’, her face so close to her young captive. ‘Say nothing to anyone, especially your Mother, or I will bring a whole lot of heartache to this family. Do you understand’. The voice, even and full of ugly menace.

She nodded, while the older woman, moved away from her, and stood up by the bed,  readjusted her uniform, and calmed her ardour. They both listened as the key was roughly inserted into the front door, and she entered the house.

Written in response to a photo prompt seen here : https://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

Alice.

That was the word that filtered down. That’s what he, she or whatever ‘it’ was preferred to be called. I did not no where to look, or even what I felt. My mind a myriad of emotions, and none of them good. Fear, bewilderment, anger, disgust, mixed with compassion, love and loss. Many deeply felt emotions, too confusing to try and name and describe.

I didn’t want to think, let alone feel. Did not want to see ‘it’. This monstrosity. This God almighty freak, that was now part of this family. Part of the family , that I by some unfair fluke of nature was related to. What in Gods name, had gotten into this person. What madness had somehow seeped into their warped, sick mind. My feelings towards them vacillated between, embarrassment, shame to acceptance and sorrow.
To say peaceful nights and mellow days were hard to come by, would be quiet an understatement. I had not seen him, her, whatever the bloody hell this  monstrosity was, since that crazy statement filtered through all those months ago. Like some sort of sick joke, from the depths of a warped, depraved, and perverted mind.That they had decided they were transitioning or whatever the politically correct term is.
In my own language, they had gone all bloody peculiar and odd. Sick in the head. That’s how I described them. Never mind their transitioning, change or whatever…
How was this going to effect us, as a family. My brothers and sisters. Would we not be the laughing stock of the small town, of the area, if not the whole country. The closed, narrow minds of small town Ireland, would never, could never understand, nor comprehend  something so foreign and alien to them, to their world. Perhaps were we in a large anonymous cosmopolitan city. Perhaps their people would be more accepting and understanding, and could care less. Too busy with their own lives to care.
Through other family members I forwarded my pleading, sensible suggestion. That they move to a large cosmopolitian city, to save us the shame and embarrassment, were this family secret to come to light. I left the small town the very next day. Took my own suggestion and lost myself in that large annoymous city. From that day to this I have never looked back. What became of that family member, I neither know nor care.

Reunion….

He Hadn’t Seen Her Since The Day She Left High School.

Lounging Back Against The Bar Counter, He Surveyed The Scene. As The Music Of His Youth Played Out From The Speakers, The Laughter And Chatter From Some Of The Groups Gathered Round, Reacquainting Themselves. He Had The Words And Thoughts To Describe Them, His Former Classmates, And Not Nice Words. Quick To Criticise And Find Fault With Others. It Helped Him Deal With His Own Sense Of Inadequacy. So Much Easier To Look Outside. Rather Than Within To Find The Source Of His Own Spiritual Discomfort. His Own Inability To Find Some Peace Of Mind And Self Acceptance.
                   Like An Angry Animal Looking To Pounce And Attack Some Unsuspecting Prey. His Eyes Scanned The Dancehall For Any Who Were Brave Enough To Meet His. Few Dared, As They Had Known From Past Experience How Unpleasant It Was To Be On The Receiving End Of His Caustic, Acerbic Attack. Not A Physical Attack, He Was Too Cowardly For That, Although To Those Who Had Experienced It, That’s What It Felt Like. A Brutal Assault, That Left Them Reeling, And Questioning Their Own Value And Worth As Human Beings, Scurrying For Cover. Many At This Evening’s Reunion Dance Had Noted His Angry Snarl. Piercing Hateful Eyes, And Suspected Little Had Changed About His Demeanour From There Times Spent Going Through The Education System Together. People Were More Than Happy To Keep There Distance
             He Scanned The Dancefloor With His Hateful Eyes, And Did A Second Take, As He Vaguely Recognised That Face. Her Face, Those Frightened Eyes. From Long Ago. Now Emanating A Sense Of Strength In Them. That Hunched Over, ’please Don’t Notice Me’, Body Language Now Replaced By A More Resilient And Self Reliant Pose. He Could Not Believe It. Was The Same Person, He Had Know And Bullied And Teased All Those Years Ago, And Was Sure He Had Left Her Floundering Like A Lost Gentle Deer In The Wilderness. She Now Possessed A Confidence. An Easy Going Charismatic Manner, That Drew Others To Her. He Watched As The Laughter Flowed So Easily And Freely In The Group Gathered Round Her. Standing On The Sidelines Of The Dance Area, Just As It Had Being When He Was Younger. Criticising And Sneering At Those They Disliked And Disapproved Of.  With The Few Friends He Had Managed To Keep Since His School Days. But Truth Be Told Not Many Wanted To Be Around Such A Critical, Unhappy Person. Life Had Moved On For Most. But For Him. Life Was Not Moving In The Direction He Had Hoped For,And Imagined It Would. He Was Still The Angry, Frustrated Person Of His Youth. Just Older, Plain For All To See.

He Held The Glass Of Alcohol Tightly, In Front Of His Chest. Almost Crushing The Glass As His Hands Tightened Around It. His Jaw Held Tightly. His Breathing Hard, Guttural, And Snarling. He So Wanted To Punch Something. Somebody, To Release The Tension Held In His Body. The Beat Of The Seventies Music. The Flashing Disco Lights. In The Darkened School Hall. Bringing Back Memories Of How It Was When They Were All Young Teenagers. Coming To Terms With Life. He Stared At Her Again From Across The Dance Floor. His Mouth Turning Down In An Angry Sneer. That She Was Now Successful Was Obvious. With The Well Cut, Expensive Clothing. The Confident Upright Body Language. The Easy Smile. All Proclaiming To The World, Even If Unconsciously, Her Sense Of Self Worth, Inner Contentment And Happiness.’

                           He Loosened The Tie Around His Neck, And Adjusted His Cheap Electric Blue Suit. If Nothing Else It Certainly Got Him Noticed, And Perhaps Laughed At, Quietly. He Could Take No More, And Hurried Outside Away From The Rhythm Of The Music. The Flashing Disco Lights. But Mainly To Get Away From Her. Her Self Importance. Her Confidence And Popularity. He Took A Cigarette From The Packet In His Jacket,And Lit It. Angrily Inhaling The Smoke. So Enjoying The Kick It Gave Him In His Chest. As He Greedily And Hurriedly Inhaled Again And Again. To Feel Yet Another Kick In His Chest, As The Nicotine Began Its Damage To His Body. He Didn’t Care, As It Seemed The More He Inhaled The Smoke The Calmer He Became. As His Anger And Bitterness Calmed Down Somewhat.

            What Gave Her The  Right To Be So Successful, He Demanded. She Did Not Deserve It. That Was For Sure. Most Probably She Had Married Well, To Some Wealthy Business Man. Slept Her Way To The Top. These Were The Thoughts He Consoled Himself With. To Believe Or Learn She Had Become Successful Using Her Own Resources. That Would Have Being Too Much For Him To Take. Like A Knife In Plunged Into His Soul…One Of His Friends From The Dancefloor Had Come To Join Him Outside For A Cigarette, And Relayed The News He So Didn’t Want To Hear. That She Had Indeed Become A Successful Independently Wealthy Woman. An Entrepreneur Under Her Own Volition. Much To The Admiration Of Her Former Fellow Classmates. With No Well To Do Husband Or Partner To Ease The Way For Her.

Staring Out Over The Darkened Car Park, And Upward Towards The Evening  Sky, Asking God Silently Where Was The Justice In The World. His Thoughts Were Interrupted By A Soft Silky Voice That He Instantly Recognised.

                     ‘Hello, I Thought It Was You’.
                     ‘ah Yes, Nice To See You’, He Lied.

He Had Never Liked Her, Even When He First Meet Her All Those Years Ago As They Began Their Teenage Education Together. There Was Just Something About Her, He Did Not Like. Perhaps Sensing, But Not Acknowledging To Himself. That Underneath Her Shyness And Awkwardness, She Had A Certain Charisma, And Warmth. Which Were It Allowed To Shine.Well… He Just Could Not Allow That To Be.
              He Knew What His Mission Was. From The Moment He Met Her, All Those Years Ago, And Throughout Their School Time Together. It Was To Make Her So Miserable And Unhappy, That Hopefully She Would Out Of Despair Gave Up On The Particular School She Was At, And Move Away Elsewhere.

             His  Plan Was To Make Her Very Unpopular Among The Other Pupils. So That Her Time At School Would Become Intolerable. At Least He Had A Few Advantages Over Her. He Was Well Known In The Area. While She Was A Newcomer To The Town. An Outsider. He Already Had A Set Of Friends, Whom He Could Work With To Turn Others Against Her.

The Fact That She Was Pretty, but Quiet Worked To His Advantage. As He Could See Within The First Few Weeks Of Starting Back At School, How The Less Then Pretty Girls Were Quite Envious Of Her. So Began Many Years Of Torment. Which At Times Had Her Running Home To In Tears. Begging To Be Moved To Another School. Another Town. But Her Parents Were Not That Interested In Her Sorry Tales, And Just Told Her She Would Have To Learn To Deal With It. As They Would All Be Living In This Town For Many Years To Come, And There Were No Free Places At Nearby Schools. Distressed Beyond Belief. She Had Considered Running Away. Such Was The Torment.

It Was While Alone In Her Room One Evening Unable To Take Any More Torment, And The Future Looking Bleak And Hopeless That She Took Those Handful Of Pills Taken From Her Mother’s Purse.
         As She Lay On Her Bed And The Room Became Dark. She Felt At Peace. It Was The Rough Handling Of Her Body That Briefly Woke Her. The Shaking, She So Wanted To Sleep.
‘My God Child What Have You Done’, Her Mother’s Screaming Voice So Close To Her. The Distraught Face. The Pleading, Fearful Moist Eyes.
Screaming To Her Husband, Downstairs, ’call An Ambulance, Call A Bloody Ambulance’.

She Pulled The Lifeless, Rag Like Body Of Her Beloved Only Daughter Close To Her, And Held Her Tight. Stroked Her Untidy Hair. Willing Her To Wake Up. Her Husband Took The Stairs Three At A Time, And Clambered Into The Bedroom At Speed, Nearly Falling Over His Wife As She Held The Failing Body Of Their Only Child.

‘Did You Call The Ambulance, Well Did You’.

Unable To Answer He Just Took In The Scene Before His Eyes. The Unmade Bed, The Half Empty Bottle Of Pills Strewn On The Carpet.

‘Did You’, The Scream Jolted Him, As He Nodded Yes.

‘Jesus What Have We Done’….

          The Paramedics Arrived And Set About Their Work Swiftly. They Ushered The Terrified Parents Away From The Bed, And The Child. Turning Her On Her Side, Into The Recovery Position, If There Was To Be A Recovery. They Set About Resuscitating Her. Firstly By Putting Two Fingers In Her Mouth And Towards The Back Of Her Throat. The Unconscious Child, Retched And Coughed. But No Material Was Expunged. The Seasoned Paramedics,  Repeated The Procedure Again. This Time Putting The His Fingers Further Back Into The Young Girls Mouth, So That She Would Empty The Contents Of Her Stomach.
 It Was Some Weeks Later Before She Was Released From The Hospital. There Was Talk Of Psychiatrists.

       He Had Not Reckoned On A Wiley Old Nun Who After Many Many Years Of Teaching Was Well Aware Of How Petty Jealousies And Psychological Dysfunction Manifested Itself In Teenage Children. She Watched From Afar Everyday How This Girl Was Being Ostracized And Sidelined By Many At The School. Having Come From A Dysfunctional Family Herself, She Knew How Wretched People Can Be To One Another At Times, Whether They Be Young Or Old, And Was Determined One Way Or Another To Help This Young Girl.

As She Yet Again Walked Alone In The School Yard, On A Bracing Autumn Day. The Nun Approached Her

‘How Do You Like Your New School’,

                   She Was Startled By The Voice, By The Approach, Somebody Actually Speaking To Her At The School. Looking Up From The Hunched Over Posture She Had Come To Adopt In School. To Become Invisible To Others. So To Hopefully Have Some Peace.

‘It’s Okay’, she lied.

   Sister Gertrude Was Wise Enough Not To Be Crass And Insensitive. She Knew She Would Have To Tread Gently. To Lift This Poor Child Up. To Restore And Rebuild What Little Was Left Of Her Self Esteem.

‘We Speak About You In The Staff Room. By All Accounts You’re One Of The Stars Of The English Class’, She Lied.

She Smiled At Hearing That. Not Having Heard Praise From Another For Quite Some Time.

‘I Would Like To Hear Some Of Your Writing, Would You Be Willing To Share It ?’
‘Maybe’,

‘Well Come Here Tomorrow, Same Time, And We’ll Sit On The Benches Over There, And You Can Read, And I’ll Listen. I Have To Go Now. It’s Emily,Isn’t It.’

‘Yes’, Smiling Slightly, For The First Time, In A Long While.

Emily Made Her Way Back To The Classroom, For The Afternoon Lessons. Was Her Back, Just A Small Bit Straighter. Was Her Head Held Up, Just A Little Bit Higher. Was That Just The Beginnings Of A Small Smile On Her Face ?

                               The Afternoon Classes Seemed To Fly By So Very Quickly. In The Silent World She Had Become So Used To. Except When It Was Broken By The Cruelty, The Snide Remarks. The Looks That Could Kill, Of Her So Called Classmates. But None Of That Seemed To Matter Today, As She Looked Forward To Meeting And Reading For Sister Gertrude The Following Day.

                  The Evening Passed Quickly. Then The Night Time. But Sleep Was Hard To Come By. Was It Excitement. Dread Or Fear. Or Perhaps A Combination Of All Three, That Was Preventing A Restful Night. In The Morning She Arose Early, And Searched In Her Bedside Cabinet For Her Journal Where She Secretly Keep Her Writing Journal. In Which She Detailed Her Private Thoughts And Desires. Her Deep Sense Of Loneliness, Isolation And Emptiness. Her Yearning And Longing For Friendly Human Contact Among Her Classmates. Somebody, Anybody, to speak to her, in a friendly manner. Her Thoughts Of Anguished Despair. Her Violent, Angry Wishes For The Perpetrators Of Her Unhappiness, to be punished severely for their cruelty.

       No One Had Ever Seen The Inside Of The Journal. Not A Soul.

‘Are You Looking For Something’, His Smirke Telling Her He Had Yet Again Intruded Into The Privacy Of Her Bedroom. How Many More Times Must She Plead With Her Parents To Put A Lock On Her Door. She Was After All, Fourteen Years Old Now. Not A Woman, But A Growing Young Girl.

‘Give It Back, What Have You Done With It, Give It Back Right Now’.

She Chased. He Ran. Down The Stairway And Out Into The Garden. He Ran To The Bottom Of The Garden, And From The Bushes Picked Up Her Hard Cover Red Journal, And Waved It In Front Of Her. Teasing Her. The Sunshine Shone Down Onto The Garden, And Made The Pool Look So Inviting. He Stood One Side Of The Pool, And She The Other. Sneering At Each Other. He Held It Out Over The Inviting Blue Water.

‘You Pay Me $20 Or It’s Going In The Pool’, He Laughed.
‘Give It Back Now’.
‘$20 Or It’s Good Bye Journal’

Weighing Up Her Options $20 Didn’t Seem Too High A Price To Get Back Her Writing.

‘Ok, $20 It Is Then, I’ll Just Go Back To My Room And Get It’.

She Left The Garden, And Her Kid Brother By The Pool, And Ran Back Upstairs To Her Bedroom, And Retrieved The Cash She Had Been Saving In The Jar. Her Running Away Fund, She Liked To Call It.

She Ran Down The Stairs Again, Before Her Mischievous Kid Brother Changed His Mind.

‘Ok, Here’s Your $20 Dollars’, And Like An Exchange Of World War Two Prisoners,They Met Halfway Round The Pool, He Handed Her The Red Writing Journal. With A Mischievous Grin And She Held The $20 In Her Left Hand, Possessed By Some Demon, She Used Her Other Hand To Slap Him Very Hard Across The Face. Such Was The Force He Fell To His Knees, By The Edge Of The Pool, Feel Forward And His Head Made Hard Contact With Marble Flooring. She Watched Transfixed As Blood Began To Seep Slowly From The Wound And Into The Clear Blue Water Of The Pool.

‘Get Up’, She Ordered Him. Familiar With Mischievous Ways. But There Was No Movement

‘Right You Two, Whats Going On Here ? , Her Mother Demanded.
‘He Has Being Into My Room Again, And Taken My Journal, And Its Private, And Personal’.

‘Do you think that matters now. Look at him,’ she screamed angrily and bent down and examed her son. She noted the perspiration on his forehead, and labored breathing. Gently she shock his shoulders, but he was unresponsive. For the second time in a few short months, an ambulance was called to the house. Emily ran from the scene , and her Mothers understandable anger and weeping, and back to her room, and locked her door. Her private diary mattered little, now. How she castigated herself for her actions. Alone in the darkness of her room, she listened as the ambulance arrived and took her young, unresponsive brother and now hysterical Mother to the hospital.

        A long sleepiness night followed. Thats what much regret and recrimination does that to a person. It was two days later before her parents returned home. She listened intently from her bedroom, as they argued and threw accusations back and forward between each other. To be finished by the slamming of doors, and then silence. Emily dreaded the following morning, where she knew she would have to make an appearance at the breakfast table. But she also had to find out what had happened to her brother, as the result of her actions.
Finally the morning arrived, and the dreaded breakfast time. Emily was first to take her place in the kitchen, followed shortly after by her Father. The slamming of the door upstairs and the heavy footsteps, and the angry calling of her name, announced the arrival of her Mother.

‘He’ll may never walk again, possibly never talk again, maybe be in a persistent vegetative state for life.  Are you satisfied now, you foolish, selfish girl’. Her voice, loud, angry and cold. The words cut deep.

She looked to her Father for comfort as she had done in similar situations in the past, but he just turned his gaze away from her, and onto the garden.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Please when can I see him’.

No one answered, again Emily retreated swiftly, from the cold, unfriendly atmosphere of the kitchen to the privacy  of her room, and locked the door. Many similar days followed. The cold , angry atmosphere changed little. She never got to see her brother at the hospital. The relationship between her parents seemed to get worse. Her Mother taking to drinking copiousness amounts of alcohol, nightly, to deal with the ongoing situation with her son, and his never ending hospital incarceration.
The relationship between Mother and daughter never improved much from thoses days. The relationship with her Father, who silently blamed her for his sons incurable condition, was not much better. Near enough being shunned by her parants, only added to her overwhealming sense of wothlessness and guilt, self hate and recrimation. Add to that the issues she faced at school, her life was miserable beyond belief.
It was through her writing where she found solace. Where she could divulge her innermost thoughts and desires, in privacy. Where she could write of her loneliness and despair, regret and guilt.

 

Freedom.

Photo credit : https://unsplash.com/@victorduenas

‘You are free’, she whispered, and gently blew the ashes into the wind, that quickly swept them away, towards the ocean. Her favourite place, when she was alive. The place where she sought solace. Where she often walked alone by the ocean and  gained some peace, and strength, when life and the people in it, became unbearable.

Now she could have permanent peace. Away from them. Away from the others. Away from everybody, who strove to be cruel, to betray, to lie and deceive. People she felt and believed she could trust to the ends of the earth. Proved they were not the infallible humans she perceived them to be. Relationships she believed to be rock solid, were not, as it turned out, all that they seemed. Vulnerabilities shared, and now misused, as cruel, thoughtless weapons. Wounded taken aback by how quickly some people she thought she knew inside out, and trusted to the absolute up most degree, could turn for no apparent reason. To leave others reeling from the ferocity of their venom filled words. Trust shattered and now broken, forever. Would they care now ? Perhaps for a few brief moments, and then life as ever would move on quickly.
Was it a misunderstanding. A mis-communication. Not that it mattered now. She was gone, and would not be coming back. It was one way, the only way out  it seemed to her. A cowards way out to some. But who are they to judge. They didn’t have her life. A person trapped in impossible, never-ending situations she did not want, with people she’d rather not be with.

Perhaps life is better there, wherever there is, who knows. Is there even anything out there, again who knows. Her sister blew the ashes  of her troubled older sibling she knew only fleetingly, into the wind, and wished her love and contentment on her final journey to the hereafter.

Written in a response to a photo prompt seen here : http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

Symphony.

Symphony

Dressed in the long black dress he had bought her. Her make up, perfect. A sight to behold. She sat in the wooden built orchestra pit, in the semi darkness. Built of light coloured plywood, to produce the best acoustic sounds. Tuning up her instrument like the other musicians around her. She plucked at the strings in a brutal, rough manner. One did not have to be a psychiatrist, a therapist to see her anger. Her frustration.
The audience began to take their seats in the large concert hall, under the bright lights, chatting among themselves. Among the favoured, special guests. The executives, and producers from the record companies, took their seats high up in the ‘Gods’, as befitting their position. She looked around the orchestra pit at her fellow musicians. The men dressed in their black tuxedos. Women dressed in all the finery. Some relaxed and laughed as they chatted. Others staring silently, and intently into space. Their eyes focused and unblinking. Their features, serious. Concentrating deeply on the forthcoming concert, and their part in the proceedings.
Well aware of the importance of the performance. Of the introduction of the new composition. So many wished him well, and all the success in the world. He was well liked by the members of the orchestra. With his easy going manner, and a quick smile. With a tendency to look on the brighter side of life. The audience and orchestra members awaited his entrance.
She did not even try to hide her anger and distress. Her glaring, reddened eyes. Her glowering, contorted features. Enough to discourage the other musicians from catching her gaze. He entered the auditorium and near enough sprinted to the podium. Such was his nervous energy, and adrenaline. His small wiry frame, topped by a mop of brown curly hair. Light perspiration forming on his forehead. His heart beating fast, and his legs shaking slightly. As ever his face brightened by that glittering smile. The audience applauded. The orchestra members smiled and tapped their instruments, in an acknowledgement of, and admiration for his prowess as an orchestra leader, a conductor. He stepped to the conductor’s podium, turned to face the audience, smiled and bowed. The audience applauded and cheered. Everyone knew the importance of this evening’s performance. Then he turned to face the orchestra members, and in a sweeping hand gesture acknowledged their enormous talent as musicians.

She watched him intently from behind her cello. Hoping to see some sign of guilt. Some admission of wrong doing. But nothing. He resolutely refused to catch her eye. No  sign of remorse, nor sorrow. Just that wide, bright smile. After all those times they had spent together in each other’s arms. The promises he made. The plans they had made together for the future. If only the others knew what he was truly like. Did he really think he could use her, and then just drop her like that ?

She had to replay the conversation one more time, while it was still so fresh in her mind.
‘To be blunt Emily, I’ve had enough, and just fancy a change. I wish to move on ‘, said in such a calm, matter of fact manner.
‘What am I, a damn product, that you can pick up when you fancy, and drop when it suits you ? ‘ she screamed at him.
‘No, it’s not like that’, he lied. ‘It’s just time for a change’. Hoping she’d remain reasonably calm, and not create a scene. ‘We’ve had our fun, our good times, and now it’s over. Why can’t you take this like the mature woman I know you are, and just accept it ? ‘

Did she mean so little to him ? Did their relationship, mean so little to him ?  She who had opened her heart to him. She who had shared her vulnerabilities with. She who had allowed him into her life, her soul. She who had fallen so in love with him.

‘I have this performance this evening,’ he continued, ‘ and you know how it important it is. How much depends on it. Can’t we just part as friends, and leave it at that ‘. With that he walked away from her dressing room, and out of her life.

She sat slumped in her dressing room chair, facing the large mirror. Physically unable to move. Her heart, physically feeling heavy. Her body weak. Feeling like she had being kicked hard in the chest, by the hind legs of a strong, wild, bucking horse. She sat like this alone for quiet some time. Wanting to shed some tears, but unable to do so. Wanting to scream, but embarrassed to do so. Wanting to smash the mirror that reflected back to her, the misery and unhappiness that now plagued her soul. But she could not summon the strength, to do so. Slowly , but surely, after quiet some time, she could feel her anger,and indignation rising within her. She was worth more than this. Deserved better than this. Her breathing becoming rapid. Her jaw beginning to jut, just that little bit. Her arms becoming tense. Her hands forming into tightly held fists. The butterflies stirring in her stomach. She imagined his body burning, engulfed by the red, yellow and blue raging flames. She could clearly see the fear, and terror in his eyes, and so enjoyed listening to his screams of agony, and his pleading for help. Which she joyfully ignored, before his body succumbed to the intense heat.

Feeling slightly better, and mentally stronger after her brief, violent daydream. She searched within her overcrowded handbag, until she found the small plastic package. Revenge was going to taste so sweet, she assured herself. She knew he always had that large class of cold milk, just before any performance, to calm his nerves, and encourage his confidence. A strange, bizarre ritual. But he was after all, a strange,……. She did not need to even finish the sentence. She left her dressing room, after drying her tears, and reapplying her make up. Upon entering the green room, where the artists relaxed, before appearing on stage. She saw him in the corner of the room , holding court. Entertaining members of the orchestra, and some young girls from the public relations company, that he had recently engaged, to work on his behalf. Laughing and joking as if he had never uttered those, cruel devastating, uncaring words he had said to her.
She had used the inviting white powder herself, from time to time. when tiredness had overcome her. When her concentration was lacking. When she demanded  energy of herself. She maneuvered herself closer to the assembled crowd, who surrounded and were enthralled by him. When he attention was drawn by some other pretty young girl, among the group. She took her chance and scattered a small amount into his milk, and thinking back to his earlier words, she put in a touch more, and to finish, just a little more. She quickly stirred it with her finger, while everyone’s attention was else where. Then she moved away to the corner of the room, where she still had a view of the now ‘special’ drink.
She watched and waited, spurning the attention of the tall Italian man with his dark, handsome features, and silver tongue. She had other matters in mind. On the other side of the room, he still held court, with his adoring fans. Those who hung on his every word and utterance. She checked the watch on her tanned bare arm, willing him to drink the doctored liquid. She needed to see him ingest it, before she could feel some satisfaction. Minutes ticked by, towards the performance. Yet that special drink remained untouched on the table. His arrogant, overbearing laughter and voice filling the room, and turning her stomach at the same time.

‘Go on, you bastard, drink it, damn you’, she muttered under her breath.
‘Go on’, she whispered,’ drink it.
‘Drink it’, she said aloud. The nearby waiter, turned towards her, glaring for a moment.

But his attitude soon softened, and he smiled, when he saw her flawless skin. Her clean brown mousey hair, that tumbled over her shoulders. Her clear grey eyes, still showing a little of that sparkle that usually filled them.

‘Certainly Madam, I’ll see to you in just one moment’.

At the other side of the room, at last he picked up the glass. Again, urgently she silently ordered him to finish the damn drink. He looked at his watch, took a deep intake of breath, and swallowed the liquid in one fell swoop. He briefly winced at the unusually bitter taste, and stared at the glass he held in in his. The assistant called him, to make his way towards the stage. He replaced the glass on the table , and looked back at it, one more time. Dabbed his face with his handkerchief, and headed towards the auditorium. She followed shortly after, and took her place in the orchestra pit.
She watched as he joined the rest of the orchestra on stage. Glorifying in the adulation he received. Ignoring her, of course. She waited and watched. Willing the white power to take effect. Why was it taking so long ? Was it not pure enough ? Was it cut too much ? Finally a reaction, just a slight one. A brief uncharactistic shake of the leg. Barely visible, except to those attuned to it.
The applause died down, and silence descended on the hall. The house lights were lowered. The audience waited, the orchestra waited. Everyone waited . He waited, staring into space. The orchestra had practised well and knew the composition inside out. He waved his hand out to the left, and the strings began. He waved the baton to the right, and the trumpets, oboes and tubas began playing slowly and gently. The orchestra leader, smiled and nodded to him. He in return, faced away from the orchestra, and faced the audience. The orchestra leader, cleared his throat loudly to catch his attention. No luck, so he repeated it. Again no reaction. In her seat, playing the cello softly, Emily began to giggle to herself, quietly. The conductor swivelled round at speed, nearly falling over, and had to grab the rostrum to prevent himself from falling head first into the orchestera pit. Some in the audience stifled their own laughter. He briefly laughed aloud, at his own clumsiness. The orchestra leader glared at him, his eyes aflame with anger and bewilderment. The composition was being played at a slow, gentle pace, as befitted the required tempo.
The conductor began to move his arms more erratically, and at an increased speed and the orchestra followed his movements. The cacophony of sound and discordant notes emerging from the orchestra pit, were anything but the peaceful and melodious composition everyone was expecting. The orchestra leader, again cleared his throat loudly, and tapped his musical stand rapidily with his violin bow, but to no avail. The conductor was no longer of normal sound mind, as the illicit white powder began to take full effect on his body and mind.
Then when all seemed lost, he seemed to have regained his composure and skills as a conductor, and led the orchestra through the more complex stanzas. With that completed, his movements again became fast and erratic. The orchestra  followed his leadership, producing discordant, tuneless sounds. In her seat, Emily followed along, her face now brightening into a wide smile, as were her eyes. Her laughter barely contained within her shaking shoulders. So it continued, the unexpected acceleration of the composition, the sudden slowing down. The discordant notes, strange melodies not of this world. The conductors wide eyed staring engagement with the audience, followed by his dismissive attitude, and then a warm loving attitude toward members of the orchestra. His running around the orchestra pit, screaming. Then shouting. Then laughing, loudly. Tearing at his tuxedo. Catcalls and laughter began to emerge from the stalls, as this farce unfolded onstage. Some left the theatre in frustration. Emily glanced high up into the theatre, where the executives, and producers from the record company were seen leaving their private box early, shaking their heads in bewilderment, and laughter.
Quite soon after, stage management wary of their good reputation, brought the curtain down, and as the house emptied, led the frazzled, bewildered and out of control conductor off stage.
Revenge was indeed sweet.