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……

 

London, England.

Photo by Adrien Ledoux on Unsplash

The ‘interview’ began gently, almost imperceptible. An ever so gentle probing of one’s character. An opportunity to judge their sense of self-esteem, and their willingness to stand up for them selves and fight back.

He held out the cigarette, and asked in a friendly manner.

‘Have you got a light ?’

All so very innocent, yet deceptive. The rattle of the tube trains loud as they whisked their passengers into the center of London, and outwards towards the safety and quietness of the suburbs. He offered him the lit cigarette he held by his side.  Certainly not the reaction this human predator was expecting. No one hand diverted into a trouser or jacket pocket, affording the would be thief, come mugger an opportunity to  be victorious as he unleashed a ferocious, and unexpected assault a now one-handed adversary.
Something was certainly ‘off’ about the man asking for a light to his cigarette. Just something didn’t seem right, did not ‘feel right’. He moved away down the platform with some non believable excuse.

It was hard not to paint every young black person as a ‘near do well’. To see them as human, some struggling, some quiet religious. Yet so many caught up in the prison system. The local newspapers only to happy to report yet another ‘person of African decent’, a coloured person to you and me, involved in crime in one form or another. The reasons for their choice of ‘career’ many and varied, and depending on one’s view, you could either feel somewhat sorry for their upbringing. Some brought up in poverty and squalor, ill educated, non interested parents, schoolteachers, no mentors and all the rest. Some turned to crime, while others choose not to. Whether that was just good fortune, who is to know.
Were you one of these Guardian Newspaper readers. Those do gooders, who may over their Chianti and cheese at the various parties they attended in the best houses of Hampstead and Chelsea, would have decried the unfairness of it all, as they snacked on yet more canapes and scallops. Exclaiming that really someone must do something about the situation. Perhaps, they allowed, that next time round they may, actually, heaven forbid, vote for a labour government to run the country. The laughter around the oak dinner tables of such fine homes reverberated long and loud into the evening.

The phone call was brief and do the point.

He excused himself from the table, and the animated, and at times laughter filled conversations, at the select Chelsea townhouse, that had become near enough his second home. Among people he trusted, and felt at ease with. People, who if given an opportunity would certainly put the world to right. Or so they believed. Sort out all these tiresome issues, that forever filled the newspapers and daily radio news reports.

Slowly he walked upstairs to find a quiet room together his thoughts. He needed to be alone. He stood in the darkness by the open french windows that looked out onto the quiet street. He glanced at the quarter full moon, in the late evening sky, and considered where his adopted child might now be. He noted the expensive vehicles on the clean, tree lined street, outside the expensive houses, and considered had it being a wise move to allow his adopted son the freedom to live as he pleased. What did that child really know of England, and the ways of the west. Brought from the ragged and poverty stricken streets of Kampala, Africa, to the unforgiving streets of London. Innocent and pure. Raised with Gods love by his Mother. Expecting so much from his new homeland.

People know people. After quiet some time contemplating alone, remembering. He made a phone call to the Embassy. He spoke to the military attaché, and old friend from a time long ago, when he was a different type of man. He briefly explained the situation, and accepted the condolences of the Military attaché. But revenge and retribution of the most savage and violent type was what he wanted, and asked the Military attaché to use his high level connections to ensure, discreetly, that the perpetrator’s of the crime were brought to justice, the South African Way. Quietly, and out of sight of police and interfering politicians.

He poured himself a straight whiskey from the decanter that adorned the mahogany bedside table. Enjoying and hoping the strong bitter taste of the liquid would fortify him over the next few moments. In the darkened room, he drank from the crystal glass, and dialed the number.

With hesitation, and pause for thought he slowly dialed the number.

His words were soft, and comforting.

‘Margaret, are you sitting down………..’

In the diplomatic area of Kampala, one of the few remaining well to do area’s of the city. Inside the gated community, behind the armed guards. She sat in the quietness of the evening on her veranda overlooking the vast expanse of bush that stretched out before her. The sounds of the many wild animals, unseen but heard, making their presence felt.
She recalled memories of her only son, and the many happy times they had spent together. How he had spoken of his plans and dreams to travel. The medical career he had planned, and his determination to use those skills for the poorer people in the townships, who were left to fend for themselves, by the many.
She had listened to and encouraged his honorable aspirations, and wondered how London was turning out for him, and had he perhaps met a nice woman.

The jangling of the phone ringing in the lounge disrupted her thoughts.

Her screams echoed throughout the large house, like a wounded animal caught in the most brutal of traps. The servants altered by her screams ran quickly to her rooms. The large breasted African housekeeper, whom she treated as a surrogate Mother, moved quickly to her side, as she knelt on the floor, weeping, sobbing and shaking. Held her gently in her arms. Comforted and soothed her as best she could, under the circumstances.
A human in pain is hard to witness at any time. But the searing pain a Mother feels for a child, unfairly taken from this life, is something else. Those screams of distress can cut through the hardest of hearts, and last a lifetime in one’s memory.

In the weeks that followed it did not take long for that call to come through. The efficiency of the South African security forces had always been top class, just as he remembered them.

‘ That delivery you requested has arrived, and is ready for collection at the embassy ‘.

The phone call brief, and to the point.

‘I’ll come and see to it this afternoon’. His response just as brief, and businesslike.

He sat back in the leather armchair, behind the dark mahogany desk, which he never liked. Among the shelves lined with books. Many of which he knew he would never manage to read, let alone, understand. Still, he assured himself, it would impress some of his clients.

He was unsure how he would deal with the package. He was still grieving. A very restrained, private type of grief. Not noticeable to others. In his former life he had seen the most brutal forms of death and destruction, and could not, would not allow emotions such as pity, sorrow, regret to intrude and detract from the job at hand. He did not allow himself to indulge in analytical, searching questioning of the methods and motivations he used, and the reasons for such.

But this was different. This was family. His family, albeit an adopted family / child. The distress of his wife was very real. That child, her child was cruelly and unfairly taken from her. He knew she stood once again on the precipice, and would not be surprised if this event would see her slide back once again into the bottomless, empty abyss of her addiction. Sobriety or relapse, only time would tell. Whether God, or her cohorts, or her own strength would save her, it was hard to say.

It was not too long since their attempt at procreation had led to that still-born child, whom she still grieved for. He on the other hand, had brushed it off, as a fact of life. The way men of a certain caliber are able to do. Their childless, cold marriage they were expected to endure, rescued in part by the adoption of the young boy. Now a young man, making his way in the world.

But focusing his mind on the issue at hand. A crime. An unfair, unjustified had been committed and had to be punished. Revenge, retribution was only right, and fair, and to be expected. It was what he expected, no, demanded of himself. He could not….

The ringing of the desk phone, disrupted his thoughts.

‘Will you need your car and driver this afternoon’.

‘No, that’s fine. Give him the afternoon off’.

The drive from his office, close to Parliament Sq to the South African Embassy, took him through the better parts of London. Gave him some time to turn his mind from his problems. As he drove, he reflected on how much London had changed in recent years.
The massive influx of the Eastern Europeans had to be seen to be believed. They brought with them an air of hardworking, industrious efficiency. Serious and dour, seldom seen smiling. There energy had changed London, and not for the better. The physical attractiveness of the Eastern European women, was some, little compensation for there cold and austere demeanor.

In the quiet road away from the thronged busy, wealthy high street, the cameras watched silently, as his car approached the embassy gates. The gates opened to allow his vehicle access. There was the perfucntionary security check just inside the gate. Although polite, and dressed like well to business executives, the security guards exuded a undeniable aura of seething violence, cruelty and brutality, just beneath their thin veneer of civility.

‘Welcome Back, Sir’, one of the guards offered. He pointed Edward in the direction of the building at the rear of the embassy, and managed to smile in anticipation of, perhaps some secret knowledge of what lay within.

 

 

 

 

 

Blank Space.

Photo by Geran de Klerk on Unsplash

He awoke, finally. Another uncomfortable, barley slept night. A thirst, that no amount of water could ever quench. In the darkness he lay on the bed, listening to the silence. Slowly his mind began to clear a little. Images of the previous few days passed through his mind.

Acquaintances, strangers. Alcohol, pubs. Airplanes, city lights. Heavy traffic. Laughter. Dancing, darkened nightclubs, Thumping music. A mishmash of images and recollections, fading in and out of his memory. Brief and unclear. His head was heavy. Stomach empty and aching for food.

Never again, he promised himself. It’s just not worth it. Never was. Foolish, inane,  conversations, with forgettable, ridiculous people he hardly knew or cared for. False camaraderie and human closeness. A brief interlude from an empty life. The paranoia as usual was ever present, greatly exaggerated by the copious amounts of alcohol.

His memory was patchy of the previous few days. Unsure how long it had being this time. One evening, a few days, or maybe a week or two. He knew the gaps in his memory would eventually be filed. He made his way to the bathroom, unsteady on his feet, tripping over en route. The bloodstained light coloured carpet, of little surprise to him. His bloodied hands, unexpected. Through bloodshot eyes, he glanced at his face in the low lit bathroom mirror. Sickened, and angry at his own inability to control his addiction. He quickly looked away. Dried blood on the newly scratched scars on his face and neck. He slapped himself hard about the face, encouraging this dream to end. He threw water on his face, to awaken his consciousness.

He again checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Still the bloodied facial scars. He looked at his hands. His body was tense, and tightly held. His fists clenched. Swollen veins protruding through his muscular arms. His once lean and trim torso now beginning to show the signs of alcohol abuse. The unsightly swollen area covering his liver. His stomach losing its muscular definition. He watched himself, through narrow, piercing, angry eyes, the veins throbbing either side of his head in the bathroom mirror. How had his life come to this, he asked himself.

Snippets’ of angry words, surfaced in his memory. Screaming, tearful, hysterical and  pleading. Thoughts and a determination to avenge her disrespect. She would be made to pay. He would see her weep, and be distraught, and only then would he be at peace. He would take from her, what she had taken from him. He swaggered from the bathroom like the wealthy, powerful successful man he was. He had not finished with her yet.

‘Come here’, he demanded. ‘I want to speak to you’. His loud voice vibrating around the house.

He roughly opened the bedroom closest to him, and slammed it closed loudly when he found it empty. In his disoriented hung over state he found it hard to navigate his own home. Doors appearing where they did not belong. Rooms not where they should be.
Like a savage beast intent of finding sustenance, he marauded around the first floor of the house. Again he tripped over it, on the way back to his room. This time switching on the landing light. He looked down at the bare leg protruding from the door, and followed its shape as he pushed open the door to the room. The cream coloured silken nightgown that covered the body, was torn, ripped. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she moaned softly. The bloodied nose, bruised ayes, matted hair, she lay at an awkward, unattractive angle.
He did not recognize her at all. Cursed himself quietly for drinking so much. He searched his mind for recollections, which were not forthcoming. The light from the landing illuminating the scene before him. The upturned chairs, clothes scattered untidily on the floor. The overturned, broken child’s cot. The non moving, non breathing form on the floor. He moved towards the child’s form on the floor, noting the blood matted hair on the back its head. Turned it over, and recoiled from the slightly tinged small blue face, and obviously broken bones in its jaw line. Congealed blood visible under the innocent skin. Thankful it was not his child, but also fearful and afraid.
His breathing now rapid, heartbeat thumping hard in his chest. Perspiration forming on his forehead, back and above his lip. Images of police officers. Court cases, vile newspaper headlines. Prison, for ever.
Standing up, now energized with the adrenaline pumping through his body, his legs shaking. His mind screaming and begging for it not to be so.
He quickly returned to the bedroom from where he came, slipped on his crumpled jeans, and a white t-sheet. Searched underneath the bed for his shoes, and ran down the stairs and out of the house at speed, leaving the front door open. Into the still dark early morning, he ran. Along, somewhat now familiar streets. The shock helping to clear his mind. He ran as fast as he could, as far as he could. Pass the other detached houses. Down the tree lined streets, with the expensive cars outside. In the early morning, birdsong echoed softly.
He could not find his way out of the large, select cul-de sac, passing the same properties, again and again. He stopped outside a detached house, exhausted after his intense running, breathing hard. That dark Mercedes looked quiet familiar, with the sticker from the French holiday campsite on the trunk. He moved closer toward the car in the driveway, the gravel crunching under his feet. Peered into the backseat, at the two property magazines laying there. Further examined the the front passenger seat, and the child seat, with the recognizable rag doll toy, resting on it. The security light from the house, activated by his movement, illuminated the area.

She opened the front door quietly, and peered out. Recognizing his, rather disheveled appearance, she marched out in anger. In the cold morning air, her breath was visible, as she moved closer to him. Her baby daughter on her hip, crying loudly. He continued to peer into the front seat of the car, leaning on the car roof for support. Breathing hard, and gently weeping. Thankful some memory was returning.
She moved closer to where he was leaning on the car, and glared and him, taking him in fully.

‘What have you done’, she snapped at him. More an accusation, then a question.

Her face contorted into an ugly combination of anger, disgust and fear, so close to his. Her screams were loud, piercing, in the quietness of the early morning.

‘What have you done’, again, she screamed.

‘Look at your hands, look at your hands. They are covered in blood’.

 

===========================

Written in response to writing prompt : ‘Trying to make sense of the events of last night’.

Justice.

Photo by Evan Dennis on Unsplash.

This was torture. This was cruel. Tantalizing, and teasing. She’s in the forest. That was all the message said. They along with the detectives looking after them rushed to the scene, to be greeted by this.

They searched among the trees, with the cruel question marks. They searched by the lakeside, but to little avail. The birds in the trees above giving the forest a semblance of peacefulness. Again they wept. She could take no more, and turned to her husband for sustenance and support. But he too was hurting, and incapable of helping her.
The police officers who accompanied them, offered what physical and mental sustenance that they could, grateful that it was not their own child who had been taken. Intent of holding their own children tight, and loving them that bit more when they returned home later that evening.

He watched smiling from afar. This was revenge pure and simple. Some say revenge is a forlorn and pointless exercise to indulge in. But can they not understand the joy and pleasure it affords one. To watch the perpetrators of unsavory deeds and acts get whats due to them, it’s only right. He was undecided how long he would keep her in the cabin or if he would ever let her go. His main concern was which was the best way to inflict as much human pain and suffering onto her loving parents. To continue with this teasing and tantalizing method, raising their hopes and then dashing their hopes. Or perhaps to dispose of the child once and for all.

But he too was a reluctant victim of an unjust world. Of a corrupt society, and a fraudulent  legal system. Where favours and deals were conducted out of sight, among the well to do of the old boy network.
Where was the justice for his loss. Where was the care and compassion for his sadness. Why were the police so lackluster in their investigations. These and other questions ran through his mind. Enough justification for his actions.
He along with many others, would always remember her for her diligence and tenacity. Her absolute determination, to see right be done. She like many others could see the injustice of the International Co-operations refusing to play fair. Making billions of profits in sales, and paying little if any tax on it. Hiding their profits in tax havens, guided by highly paid knowledgeable financial professionals. While at the same time, these duplicitous co-operations claiming their innocence and honesty. Blatantly lying to the public, trying to deceive the masses.  Do they take us for fool’s. While normal people suffered, and struggled to pay the tax they were forced to pay, by their governments, or face possible imprisonment and large fines.

Outraged by such injustice she used the power’s of her office to work her way through these large deceitful co-operations, one by one, and with other’s intent on bringing them to justice, and making them pay financially. He remembered her, with her paper’s spread out over the kitchen table. The scent of her fragrance so alluring. With forthright indignation. He watched her stern face and body held tight with anger, as she explained to him what had being going on, and what she was going to do about it. Her frustration at her colleagues in the seats of power in the Government,  of her own country, and other countries. In an attempt to calm public outrage, the swiftly convened government committees  and public inquiries that quizzed the executives of the deceitful, dishonorable co-operations. Before the government ministers and officials, in front of the TV cameras, again the executives lied. Bewildered and disillusioned by politics and it’s dishonesty. Many of her colleagues had called for reparations and promised changes in the law. But what had it come to, nothing. Promises made but soon forgotten. With the public temporarily calmed, and philosophical about political ineptitude, once again big business had won out. She slammed the kitchen table hard, in frustration. Public services so badly in need of funds were to be denied once again. Overcrowded hospitals lacking equipment. Overworked Doctors, exhausted. Children playgroups disbanded. Psychological counselling services for the disturbed, curtailed. Had her government colleagues succumbed to the backhanded gifts of luxurious holidays, share options, mortgages quietly forgotten and much else besides. He watched and silently admired the power of her outrage, the disillusionment and unleashed anger that drove her. He loved her the more for it. Here was a woman, he would never leave. Where was the justice, she asked quietly. Who was to blame. She explained to him how they would be made to pay for it, in financial terms, and public humiliation. Justice for the people.

Neither realized just how powerful and to what lengths these business would go to. Hard to believe in this day and age. This was not a fast paced thriller movie. This was real life. In the quiet street, he watched as her hand was roughly torn away from his, and her lifeless sweet body was launched into the darkness of the wet night. He barely glimpsed  or noticed the speeding Mercedes, as he stood transfixed. Taken in by the sickening sounds of bones being crushed by the fast moving metal and glass weapon. Of human flesh and cartilage being ripped apart, never to be repaired. Watching in slow motion, the surreal, impossible event unfolding before him. His consciousness vacated his body, as he watched. A moment later, it returned to his physical body. His frame shook, as he wept quietly as he held her in his arms. She moaned gently in distress. Her breathing labored, and growing weaker with each inhalation. Her eyes turning grey, and her once luscious lips, a light bluish shade. Her precious blood covering her clear skin, and expensive clothing, she took such care with. His stomach swirled at the vision, and the rising contents of his intestines, were expunged from his body, with great force, onto the empty street. He longed to hold her gently, and make it not so. To chastise her, and tell her to let the corrupt and deceitful go. What does it matter. There would always be others of the same ilk. He cried aloud to God when her spirit left her body, but God did not answer.
He sat in austere courtroom. A place devoid of much emotion. Functional, that’s what it was. He watched the proceddings with disbelief and gripped the bench, to steady himself. As he watched and listebed, his face became red, and perspiring. His breathing rapid, and short. The veins in his arms, his neck, were held so tightly, to bursting point. His legs started to shake with the surge of adrenaline moving through his rigid body. He stood and repeatedly swore loudly at the judge, using language he did not realize he had at his disposal. The violence and venom in his loud raging voice, filled the courtroom, and suprized himself. The judge released the culprit with nothing more, than a meaningless and ineffectual slap on the wrist. An empty punishment. More evidence, if any was needed, of the hidden corruption, that affords freedom, to those in the know, with helpful connections.

The Judge and his family would be the first of the many who would feel the wrath of his revenge. He had much work to do.

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

The Poem.

Recite

The teacher made his rounds of the classroom as the boys studied and attended to the exercise he had given them. His anger and temper to the fore, as per usual. His sometimes formally normal thinking transformed into anger, paranoia, and victim thinking.  Looking for any, or just one of the boys to step out of line. Silently willing them to break his self imposed rules. Feeling quiet unwell, as a result of the nightly bottle of red wine, which many times had turned into two bottles. Looking forward to the mid morning break, for some badly needed hydration, and rest.

The alcohol helped him ignore, or in his mind deal with his failing marriage,and impending divorce. Life didn’t seem soo bad. Life didn’t seem that serious through the bottom of a wine glass. His throbbing head. Mouth as dry as could be. A sick, queasy feeling in his stomach. He was well used to such physical effects of his increasing alcohol consumption. Never welcomed, but the expected side effect of his over indulgence.

If he was not the coward that he was, he would have challenged a man of his own size and age to a physical altercation. But he was brooding for a row, and the children in his care would suffice. At the very least they would offer little opposition. Just the way he liked it. He walked around the classroom, with his hands behind his back. Peering over the shoulders of the boys as they attend to the exercise he had given them. Peering, but really looking and praying to find some boy stepping out of line. Looking for an adversary, a victim. Someone to unleash his anger on. Someone to castigate, embarrass and shame. Why not. If it would made him feel better as a man. Some small victory in life. In a life where he didn’t feel such a failure.
Much to his satisfaction, it did not take long, He knew from experience there was always one. There would always be one, among the class. The dreamer. The softly spoken. That gentle, innocent child.
He stopped behind the desk of the young blond boy. Whom he had immediately taken a strong dislike to, when he initially saw him in the class at the beginning of term. The boy he had singled out for special , non too pleasant treatment. The soft, innocent and attractive features, and a permanent slight anxiety and fear, evident his features. The perfect victim.
‘What’, he thundered, ‘is this ? ‘, as he held aloft the few lines of poetry the boy had written. His face red with anger, and delight.
‘What nonsense is this you have written, eh boy ?’
The young boy squirmed in his seat. Not wanting to be the centre of attention, as the whole class turned their attention to him.
The boy shock with fear. His face reddened. His breathing quickened. His legs shock. That sickly feeling arose in his stomach, and how he wished he was anywhere but here. In this place, at this time.

‘What are you ? Who are you ?’, the teacher said mockingly. ‘The next Keats or Shelly ?’
‘You think you can write poetry’, he roared. ‘Here ‘ he said, as he hurriedly scribbled some words on a blank sheet of paper. He handed the paper to the boy, and instructed him to stand at the top of the class and recite what was written on the paper.
The young blond haired boy, read the words at his desk, silently, and at the aggressive insistence of the teacher stood at the the front of the class, and began to read from the scribbled paper.

‘I am an idiot and a fool. Most of the times I actually drool
I have the talent of a newt
I am ugly and thick, to boot
I deserve to die, I tell no lie
I am sorry, for actually being alive
Will you forgive me, for being what I am
I am not, and can never be a proper man.

As he read out the words before him, standing in front of the class. The others boys listened, and then the laughter began. The boys laughed. The teacher laughed, as he insisted that the poem be recited over, and over. Having had enough, the young boy ran from the class. Tears streaming down his checks. But as he ran, the image, and words of his Grandfather, from beyond the grave, stood strong in his mind.
‘Do not allow people to make a fool of you. Be strong. Be kind, but take your revenge if necessary’. He ran past the school car park, and slowed down, as his tears subsided. The silent words and images of his Grandfather encouraging his strength and resolve. With the area near enough deserted, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the penknife his Grandfather had given him before he had passed away. The wooden carved handle, and the sharpened blade. Which he regularly sharpened , and kept pristine and clean. Looking about him, he slipped under the teachers white jeep. Easily recognizable. He began to cut the plastic, mastic covered tubes, and hose’s underneath the engine. Not knowing really what he was cutting. But the act of cutting and hopefully causing some damage to the car and teacher, more than satisfying. He began to snigger softly, underneath the engine. Then he began to laugh aloud. Picturing his Grandpa encouraging and praising his bravery and actions. Feeling and hearing his words and spirit.

Satisfied that he had done enough, He slid out from underneath the jeep, and moved to the edge of the car park. He watched from beneath the tree’s in the late afternoon sunshine as the arrogant teacher sat into the white jeep, started the engine and slowly drove away. He noted the trail of dripping liquid following the jeep, as it exited the school and onto the highway, and he smiled.

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.

 

Tea.

Tea

‘You’ll have had your tea’ ,  her broad strong Scottish accent breaking the silence. She sat
opposite him. His smile visible the other side of the large candelabra that stood on the centre of the large table.
She reached over and placed the cooked dinner before him. It was of course a waste of time. She began to eat her own dinner, savouring its taste, while continuing the conversation. Whatever she said, his expression never changed from that smile. The effects of the concoction she had laced his earlier meal now fully enshrined within his body. His features, his muscles frozen, and paralyzed. Only his eyes, breathing and hearing were now functioning.

‘Would you like some desert ? ‘, ‘What’s that you say’, taking his part of the conversation, ‘Ok then dear, nothing it is’. The dinner plate in front of him remained untouched.
His eyes searched hers for something, anything. Some reason, any reason. some explanation for this cruel imprisonment of his mind and soul within a immovable physical body.
She stopped eating for a brief moment and saw the questioning, and pleading in his eyes.
‘I can see you have questions, dear’, studying his eyes, which were wild, angry and fearful all at once.
‘A little explanation, no doubt is what you’d like’. His grotesque, continual smiling face, absurd in the obscene, and quiet comical at the same time, bearing in mind his predicament. She stifled a smile of her own, at the vision that sat before her.

‘Well if you must know, dear. Its men like you who use women like me, to satisfy there own selfish desires, with scant regard for their wives, or long term loving partners. It’s men like you who sicken me to the core, and the truth be told dear, I’ve had enough of it. I’ve had enough of the lot of you. The men who lie, deceive, cheat on their wives and love partners. I’m sick of the dirty, sleezy men I’ve had to deal with over the years, pretending like I am actually enjoy the physical act. Pretending that I enjoy their company. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m finished with the game, I’m getting out,’ she continued. ‘This will be my my final swan song’. With that she treated herself to another morsel of food, followed by a well deserved sip of red wine.
She reached into her handbag, that lay by her feet, and retrieved a small silver antique bottle, and placed it on the table a few centimetres from his hand.
‘In this bottle, is the antidote, that will unlock your body. All you have to do, is reach forward and drink it, and all will be well. She smiled as she looked into his fearful eyes.
‘From when I leave this table you will have twenty minutes before the leaking gas will be ignited, and then, well……’ With that she got up from the table, and left the room, stopping at the door, to glance one more time, at his fearful, pleading eyes, and listen to his increasingly frantic breathing. She noted the beads of perspiration of his forehead.

She moved upstairs to another of her gentleman callers, who she last left lying on the large double bed, under the silk eiderdown. His face contorted in anger. Again she explained the situation, as she had to her gentleman caller in the dining area. She reached into her handbag a second time, and retrieved another small silver antique bottle, explaining it was the antidote that would unfreeze his body, and placed tantalizingly well within his reach. She further explained the impending explosion and fireball possibly likely to follow within the next twenty minutes. Again, his expression remained unchanged. She paused just briefly at the door, to glance at his angry, hate filled eyes.
Finally she returned to the basement dungeon. It’s dark, wet red and black walls, and red candles contributing to a very foreboding atmosphere. The various implements that lined the cold brick walls, the tools of her trade. She approached him, where he hung on the cross. His face, his eyes, expressionless. No pleading, no fear, no anger. Just nothing. Rather a submissive acceptance of his fate. Again she explained, reached into her handbag and placed another silver antique  bottle containing the antidote, just within reach of his hand. She stopped at the arched doorway of the cellar, and took one last glance at him, and looked to the bench where he undressed, and had laid his black suit and clerical collar, and rosary beads.
Her work concluded, she left the house for the final time and drove into the windswept, wet night and to freedom.

The Watcher….

He watched them through the coffee shop window. Envy and anger carousing through his veins. Not even trying to hide his anger. It was more than evident through his piercing hate filled eyes,the tightly held hands. Perhaps he should not have followed,but he had to know. For his own satisfaction.
                          The passing traffic all a blur,as he watched them intently. The more they laughed together the more the chemical concoction in his stomach began to engage. The butterflies released,the rapid,gruff shallow breathing. The heartbeat growing quicker,harder,louder in his chest. The more they moved physically closer together,the more he wanted to run from his viewing position,and attack them violently. His jaw beginning to clench tightly. The waitress behind the counter eyed him with fear,from her position. She knew from experience when to steer clear of customers and when to approach. She decided to wait until he was gone,to clear tables in that area of the shop.

                           He glanced down at the most recent tattoo on his forearm,what a waste was his conclusion. ’Together Forever’,there two names enshrined inside a heart,shot through with an arrow. I don’t think so.Perhaps another tattoo may appear soon,how about ,’Dead Soon’,or ‘Betrayed and Devastated’,and an open coffin,and a knife dripping with blood. Yeah,that would seem so much more suitable,and honest. The piped music of the coffee shop,barely breaking his consciousness today. The banging and clanking of other customers cups,and plates,there inane chatter,hardly irritating him today,as they usually would have done. His mind was in a calculating revengeful mode. Inflicting human pain on another was where his mind was at. Psychological,physical pain. The desire to scar,to burn,to injure another. The way he was burning,and scared,wounded from the betrayal,and treachery unfolding before him.

                         Loyalty,honesty,being open. How they had spoken,and agreed of the importance of these characteristics in a lover. He was so happy to have found another who shared his beliefs and values. This was his first time being with another man. He had tried long and hard to hide  his true sexuality from himself,with alcohol,illicit drugs,one night stands with willing,drunken loose women. But they meant little to him,although he had become fond of some of these women,but deep down,he knew what he was.
               He had given his heart,his soul,and it was taken greedily by that older and much more experienced man,he of the religious order. The man he had turned to for spiritual guidance to sooth his troubled mind. Trying to understand his thoughts,feelings,the strange sexual desires he had fantasied about,in the privacy of his own mind. In the darkness of the night,which had at times sickened and disgusted him. He had turned to the Church,where else would a good Catholic boy turn to. Suicide was off the agenda. He wanted revenge,to hurt,to destroy another. He briefly considered embarking on an affair of his own,but concluded that his partner,now soon to be ex partner,seemed too hardened and callous to be affected to much degree by such an action.

                                                           He considered reporting the priest to the religious hierarchy,or to the Police. He was,after all still considered a child in the eyes of the law. Or to the newspapers. But events such as these were no longer the scandalous incidents they once were. He was aware at times how dismissive,and disbelieving the Police were of such events. How uncaring,and disinterested that God’s,so called representatives on earth could be.
      He reached into his pocket searching for them. Relieved to find he still had them,he rubbed the plastic packet containing the small white tablets between his fingers. So glad now he had not disposed of them. At least they would not be wasted. He would watch with pleasure and interest as they took effect on his partner later that evening. That non smoking,teetotaler,that fitness freak.
                       When his mind and body had being overtaken by the effects of the illicit tablets,well he was  anybody’s really.  To do with as they wished……….

 

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