The next morning dawned bright and clear, with the crispness of May in England.

K was already awake when C woke up. In fact K had not slept all night. The wounds Mrs. Finnegan had inflicted were painful enough, but it was the mental scars that hurt the most.

There were no sounds coming from downstairs. C prayed silently that a V2 had hit the house in the night and taken Mrs. Finnegan with it, leaving them safe. But in her heart she knew that God would never deliver justice with such a crude instrument. No, Mrs. Finnegan’s day of judgement would come. But C prayed that it might be today.

Then, quietly at first, a humming sound approached the house. It was Mrs. Finnegan. She was still alive, after all.

Downstairs the sound of a door slamming shut sent shivers through both girls, as they expected a repeat of the previous night’s brutality. They could hear Mrs. Finnegan pottering about and making noises for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps she had forgotten they were there.

Footsteps on the stairs. She was climbing them fast. She was coming for them. As C cowered in the bed K took up a position standing over her, protecting her little sister, no matter the cost.

The door opened.

The sight of Mrs. Finnegan chilled K to the bone. She was smiling at the girls, carrying a tray of breakfast.

“Come on now, lazy heads! Time to be up and having breakfast. You have to go to the local school this morning. Here, have this first and then get dressed and come downstairs. Bring the plates and tray back with you.”

Turning without a word, she walked quietly out of the bedroom, humming gently.

It was a trap. It must be. A cruel trick to get the girls to leave the safety of the bedroom.

The humming continued, but it was clearly downstairs, probably in the kitchen. Mrs. F. wasn’t waiting outside the door to get them. She was downstairs.

Trembling, with fear as much as with hunger, the girls reached out for the breakfast. It was a simple meal of a boiled egg each and 1 slice of toast. But to two, frightened and hungry girls it signalled a form of sanctuary. In their hunger the breakfast only lasted a couple of moments.

Cleaning up the crumbs as best they could, the girls collected the plates together and went downstairs. K was in the lead and C followed like a little lamb behind its mother. Neither girl dared speak. Neither girl dared make any noise.

“Bless you girls, that’s saved my old bones another trip up the stairs. Just put the plates over there. I’ll see to them when I get back. Now, let’s get you to the school.”

The rest of the day was a blur of memories. Being paraded in front of one teacher after another, reciting personal details to anyone who asked, each class being another gauntlet run of the jibes of the ‘girls with the funny voices’. But it felt more like normality than the night before and by the end of the day the girls had begun to relax a little.

As they walked back to the farmhouse neither girl spoke. Neither girl wanted to break the silence. To break the silence would be to admit that the previous night had not been a bad dream. But at least it seemed to be over.

The smell of cooking wafted through the door as they walked in, to see Mrs. Finnegan stirring various pots. The shortages of war were not being felt as severely here, as they were at home.

After the meal there was even a pudding, of sorts. A few slices of bread, cooked in milk – a luxury! – with some dried raisins. There was sweetness there, which made the simple meal feel more like a feast. The felling of full stomachs caused the girls to become drowsy and they nodded off on the couch.

……

“So she kept her secret for 40 years, because she thought we’d all be ashamed of her.”

It was hard to take in what I’d just heard. A bit of a shock, really. In so many ways I wish they hadn’t told me. But once the genie is out of the bottle it’s too late.

And it was late. Exhausted by the events of the day I could only stay awake for a little while longer. Sleep came in fits and starts and was interrupted with dreams. Perhaps our dreams are real life and what we think is waking is actually the real dream. Who knows?

What I knew was that my past was unravelling in front of me and re-forming, just like every cheap time-travel movie shows at some point when an event changes the future. Who we are is made up of so many things. But if the fundamental thing alters, can you ever say you’re really you again?

The next morning was just more activity. Why is there so much to do when someone dies? We rarely focus that much time and energy on anyone when they’re alive, but death has a way of making time revolve around them.

Inevitably there were lots of phone calls to make. People to invite to the funeral service, vicars to talk to, funeral arrangements to make. Very professional and sympathetic, funeral directors, but how do you look someone in the eye when selling them a coffin for their dead realative is how you make your living?

The body – what a cold and impersonal phrase – would be in the funeral chapel of rest later that day. We would be able to visit in the late afternoon.

I was the only one who felt at peace visiting her dead body. The others couldn’t face the prospect. S couldn’t even talk about it. But then she’d been the one who’d done all the caring. As a medical professional she had the skills, but it was obvious that it had taken its toll on her. Truth be told we were all glad it wasn’t us who had to do the caring. And S must have been very close to the edge of a nervous breakdown by this time. In fact it’s hard to say that she hadn’t tipped over.

When I visited the chapel of rest to view her body I was slightly apprehensive. Would I be scared? I didn’t know, but I wanted to see her.

Not as bad as I thought, actually. In fact, she looked like she’d just been caught mid-snore while she was sleeping. I only stayed a few minutes, talking to her with the knowledge of what she’d told the others. Her hands were very cold – of course – but I held them, just the same. I think it’s the deathly cold that strikes you about a dead body. It’s a cold beyond cold. An emptiness. I wonder if space feels like that?

When I got back to her house I heard raised voices. Anger was rearing its head.

“What’s going on?”, I asked.

As I walked through the halls of the hospice to her room, I was struck by the silence. Deathly silence really.

Inside her room everything seemed as it was before, except for her lifeless body, twisted as though in pain. I fell to my knees and started sobbing. This was not something I was ready for, despite 18 months of expectation. I don’t recall what time I left, or what was said. But the next day was a flurry of activity.

There’s just so much to do when someone dies. Certificates to collect, funerals to arrange, relatives to tell. So many officials and functionaries to deal with.

Strange how easy it is to forget that she’s dead. For a moment, after walking out of one funeral director’s office in disgust at the callous and impersonal way he was treating us, I thought I’d ring my mother for her advice on who to use.

Then I realised that I couldn’t. She was the one who was dead.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I remember that the sun was shining – it was hot, actually. And that evening we got together to discuss the plans that had been made by the four of us, her children.

It was then that I learned something that was to change my life.

“There’s something you need to know.”

“What?”, I asked.

“Well, I’m not sure if you’d be better off not knowing.”

What stupid thing to say. Why raise the point all?

“If you know then I’m sure I can cope.”

“Ok, well, she made me promise not to tell anyone until she was gone.”

……

May, 1941

Hitler’s war on Europe was affecting everyone, so there was no point complaining. Evacuation was a fact of life. Even so, it was actually quite exciting for two young city girls to think they’d be going to the country. They’d be safe there and away from the smells and crowding of the city.

C and K were being evacuated together. Their other sisters were all being placed individually.

“I’ll look after you, C.”, said K. “Don’t you worry.”

“No, I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be like going on a holiday.”

Holidays were not something familiar. In fact, holidays were a stranger to the family.

A few excited and sleepless nights followed and eventually the car came to take them. Smiling and waving goodbye they left the comfort and sanctuary of home. It never occurred to either of them that it was strange to be leaving without even a kiss from their mother.

The driver barely spoke as they travelled to the train station, but at least he didn’t tell them to shut up as they babbled on about what they’d do on the farm.

Some five hours later they arrived in the countryside. There was no car for them so they had to walk. It was a long walk and the woman who had met them at the station made no allowance for the fact the little girls were tired. At 7 and 11 years old they were old enough to keep up with her. After all, there was a war on.

The farm proved to be less glamorous in real life than it had been in their imaginations. In fact, it was positively dirty. And smelly. The pungent smell of animal manure was quite a shock and coupled with their hunger – they’d been provided no food for the journey – it was almost over-powering.

C began to cry.

“Now then, stop that!”, ordered the woman. “Mrs. Finnegan won’t tolerate cry-babies so you might as well stop now”.

From the doorway emerged a dark, dishevelled hulking brute of a woman, face lined from heavy toil. Scowling at the girls she took hold of C’s shoulders and marched her into the farmhouse.

Outside, faint words from within could be heard.

“…something to cry about…”

“You might as well join your sister now. Tell Mrs. Finnegan I’ll be back tomorrow with the paperwork. And mind you pay her respect.”

K ran inside to find her sister. She was sitting in the corner, tears streaming down her face. Mrs. Finnegan was holding a large wooden spoon in a striking position.

“Leave her alone!”, screamed K.

At this remark the wooden spoon was delivered with furious might across K’s cheek. The sting was such a shock that K didn’t realise she was now bleeding.

“You little bastards had better get used to the idea that this ain’t no holiday. You’re here to work and if you so much as look the wrong way I’ll leather you. I’ll leather you within an inch of your lives. Spoilt little brats.”

Mrs. Finnegan put the spoon down and began to sing to herself while she made a pot of tea.

C and K huddled together in the corner, sobbing as quietly as they could for fear that they might upset Mrs. Finnegan.

Sipping the tea noisily Mrs. Finnegan made a point of draining the pot in front of the children.

“You’ve arrived too late tonight for tea. Get ready for bed and be quiet.”

The two girls did as they were told. They were already scared enough not to take any risk. Hungry, cold and tired, they went to their bedroom. It was little bigger than a cupboard, but at least they were together.

Snuggling together for warmth, they lay in silence. K put her arm around her sister and pulled her closer. Downstairs the sound of Mrs. Finnegan moving around was followed by the smell of food wafting up into the little attic. The girls didn’t dare move, despite their hunger. They didn’t know if the food was for them, or whether they’d risk another beating by going to see. In the end their hunger and desperation convinced them to check.

As they returned to the attic, after another sound beating, they could hear Mrs. Finnegan downstairs, talking to herself.

“…beat it out of them. Insolent little animals. Think they’re getting a free ride here they’ve got another think coming.”

K hugged her sister tight. She wouldn’t let any more harm come to her.

“Wake up, you little pigs!”, screamed Mrs. Finnegan.

As the girls got out of their bed, drowsy from lack of sleep and food, Mrs. Finnegan howled like a wild animal.

“Who did that? Which of you pissed the bed? Who?”

K knew that C couldn’t take another beating so she spoke up.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me. It was an accident.”Running downstairs Mrs. Finnegan shrieked. All of a sudden the shrieking stopped and Mrs. Finnegan could be heard coming upstairs, slowly.

The old leather belt she used to beat K at least had no buckles. But it was enough to do plenty of damage. Making no noise as she repeatedly brought the belt down, Mrs. Finnegan didn’t stop until K was barely breathing.

C stood, unable to move with fear, praying that god would deliver them. No deliverance came.

When Mrs. Finnegan was satisfied she simply walked downstairs, humming.

Technorati Tags: novel, short stories, first novel

Looking at the tubes connected to her frail, wizened body, I felt a terrible cloying sickness inside me.

Death wasn’t something I wanted to contemplate. She was going to die: no question. The only question was how soon and how painfully. And how much would I let it affect me.

The sense of hopelessness and helplessness was actually heavy. I could feel it on my shoulders and it was heavy. There was nothing I could do to change her journey. Death is, at the end, a journey made totally alone and without a return ticket. Is there a destination? People have been arguing over that ever since people existed, but for me the answer was an easy one. I knew the answer to that question.

I suppose for most of us death isn’t the real fear. It’s what comes just before it. The possibility of terrible suffering; the uncertainty of how it will occur; the fear of loss of loved ones and our treasures. No, actual death is probably the easy part.

We’d had conversations about her condition and whether we should ‘assist’ her transition in any way. Each of her children had a view on that. But none of us had the stomach to say what we really felt. I wonder how many other children try to discuss euthanasia without ever discussing it? And of those who do, how many carry a terrible secret with them for the rest of their lives?

Near misses had happened many times before so we expected no different today and we all eventually took our turn to kiss her and tell her that we loved her and would be back tomorrow. All but one of us who stayed behind.

We anticipated the worst within the next few days, but we didn’t really discuss it as we left the hospital. If you say it out loud it might come true.

I got home around 10.43 p.m. and I was tired. It’s so exhausting when somebody’s terminally ill. It literally sucks the energy right out of you. But at least I was home now and away from the face of death’s new neighbour. I’d only had a few hours at the hospital because I’d been kept back at work to fix a problem the boss had created. And as usual waiting until the last possible minute to deal with it and then waiting some more he decided to ask for a fix at 6 p.m. I’d fixed it by 7.15 and was at the hospital by 7.40

Broke a few speed laws to get there because I didn’t want anyone to think I’d put work first. But of course that’s exactly what I had done. Still, I’ll go early tomorrow and spend some extra time.

Funny really, but I was never too tired to eat. It was late to be having a big meal, but I was pretty hungry so I did. Probably got to bed around 11.45 and fell to sleep dreaming about quitting work. I have young children who are growing up and I’m practically a stranger to them with work.

The sound was indistinct at first and I was still in that dazed state when you’re trying to wake up. Telephone. It was the telephone. Pitch black in the room so it was still night. My fuzzy eyes could just make out that it was about 12.31 am. No call at that time is good.

Of course, as I got downstairs, banging my toes on unseen obstacles along the way, the phone stopped ringing. My answering machine had kicked in, bu at least it was on monitor. No message left. I started the slow process of turning the machine off – why are they so hard to work when you’re half-asleep? – and the phone rang again. Cheap answering machines won’t let you intervene and pick up the call if they’ve already done so.

No message again.

By this time my wife had joined me and she was more awake so she switched the thing off. Only took one click of a button. Why had it been so hard for me?

The phone rang again.

My sister’s voice, calm and measured, ever the health professional. Twenty years of medical training and experience will do that to you.

“She’s passed. The others are at the hospital now.”

Now I was wide awake and getting dressed and finding my keys and putting on my shoes and looking for my wallet and grabbing my phone and thinking fast. Einstein was right about relativity. Time does move differently depending on the observer. At least the roads were quiet as I drove the 3 miles to hospital.

Walking up to the automatic doors I could see my brother and sister inside, waiting for me.

Walking through those doors was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

==========
Author’s note:
For a long time (it’s why I started this blog in the first place) I’ve wanted to write a novel. Like so many of us. Just never seemed able to get started.

This is part of the first chapter of that novel. Frankly, I don’t yet know if I’ll do what other would-be writers do and give up after so far. Or whether I’ll finish it. The question of publication isn’t even in the arena at this stage. The one thing I do know is that I would like to finish a novel, warts and all, even if it proves to me that I can’t write. At least it would prove to me that I can finish and that would be something to take comfort in.

I’ll be posting more parts on Fridays. It seems a schedule commitment I can work to.

My story was called Alchemy.

I’ve just had another look (and listen) to it today because I’ve been fixing the feed for iTunes podcasts. I updated my version of Podpress a while back and it stopped working properly. Well, I’ve updated it again and it now works beautifully.

In testing it I listened to a couple of the stories I’ve done as audio versions. I must say it’s actually quite enjoyable to make a little podcast, but when I listened to Alchemy I wanted to know more about the story. Frankly, the hook at the end was designed to elicit that response. Well it works on me, at least.

So I’ve decided to continue from where I’ve left off and I’ll post the result as my Friday story post.

At this stage I don’t know where it will take me because – and I’m surprising myself here – I’ve never actually gone back to something I’ve written and done anything with it, whether editing or adding. It should be quite an interesting process for me.

I’ve also had a look at the statistics that Podpress gives you. What’s fascinating to me is that the first podcast I did, several months ago, has been downloaded/listened to in iTunes far more times than it’s been viewed on the blog. The numbers for the other podcasts are rising too, but it’s clear that a little bit of time allows the podcast to be discovered by more people.

We’re still not talking huge numbers, about 468 last time I looked, but that’s a respectable audience even if they never come back for more. And I think having a good title and a good opening line will certainly help with that.

For anyone who has the time and equipment to do it, podcasting might be a very nice way of introducing more people to your blog.

Why me?

What did I do to deserve this?

Of course I blame my parents. It was their fault really. Sometimes life deals you a lousy hand and you just have to go with it. Sometimes your life’s over before you begin, really.

But none of this would have happened if my parents hadn’t done it. It was the biggest mistake of their lives, but they couldn’t see it.

Time’s ticking away and I’m going to have to hurry. That wretched busy journey; it makes me feel sick every time. I hate the way people stare at me. Really hate it.

I loved my parents really. But I knew that all the pain was their fault. They’d raised me that way and even after they divorced moma kept telling me. I just couldn’t help it any longer. It’s funny when I think about it, but they were just trying to do their best. And every day they tried to make me feel better, telling me I was just as good as all the other kids. Why didn’t they tell those other kids? Why tell me? I wasn’t the one causing all the trouble, was I?

Never should have let it get to me and swell up inside me like a raging river. I’m only one woman so how can I change the world? I can’t do it, I tell you.

I’m even arguing with myself to talk me out of it. But I’ve lost the argument. I know I’m going to do it and I can’t stop myself. My parents were right, you see. I am every bit as good as all those other kids. And grown ups.

Maybe if they’d known what was coming they’d have done it anyway. Maybe they’d have taught me to mind my ways more. Maybe. Always maybe. I’m sick of maybe. I can’t live life like this anymore. It’s crushing me. I have to be true to my parents. What they taught me is true and it’s no use denying it out of fear. But just four days ago poor Emmett paid the ultimate price for not being afraid. I’m scared.

I’m scared of doing something, but I’m more scared of doing nothing, I guess. I have to know for once and for all what rights I have as a human being and a citizen of Montgomery, Alabama.

Today I’m going to refuse to move if the white driver tells me to. I’m going to sit where I deserve to sit. Where my parents knew I deserve to sit.

I’m going to tell that man my name and he’s going to hear it.

“My name is Rosa Parks and I’m not moving.”

====
Author’s note: This is my idea of what Rosa Parks might have been thinking on that famous day. I have no idea what really went through Rosa Park’s mind to result in her famous refusal to give up her seat to white passengers, although she’s written of some of the motivation. But when it came to the moment itself, I’ve speculated about her thinking.

Belief in yourself is a blessing, even if it can sometimes seem like a curse if it gets you noticed in ways that are difficult. In the case of Rosa Parks, a young woman changed the world with a single moment of self-belief.

“Blast. We needed him in for this meeting. I’ll have to cover then. What time are we meeting them?”

Such a casual comment barely intersected with the reality that somebody had lost a loved one. Of course, eavesdropping isn’t exactly the most moral of activities, but that never stops me.

Sitting enjoying my lunch I couldn’t have missed what these two were discussing. They were right behind me and – as we say in this part of the world – fond of their own voices.

Very fond.

By now I’d got their measure. Serious minded career men: that’s how they’d like to think of themselves. Shiny suited used car salesmen with limited imagination and even less humanity is how I thought of them.

“Yeah. Cancer, I think. Anyway, that proposal he was working on needs a lot of tidying up, Tim. You up to it?”

“Of course. You can count on me.”

It was hard to listen to this. Somewhere, not a million miles away, some guy was mourning the loss of his father. In one moment his life was changed forever and his work colleagues were measuring that loss in the number of minutes’ extra work they’d have to do.

I did my best to forget about their comments and concentrated on the serious business of chowing down. It didn’t take much concentrating, to be honest. As the two used car dealers – excuse me, businessmen – stood up to go, I felt a wave of relief come over me. Their careless attitude towards human life seemed callous. Never once had they discussed how Geoff might have been feeling. Never once did they express any empathy for the guy.

“I’ll bring the car round, Tim. You wait here. It’s absolutely foul outside. No point both of us being soaked.”

“Right. I’ll take care of the bill then – Bill”

The slightly forced laughter suggested that little joke had been played out many, many times in the past.

I was tucking into dessert when there was an almighty crash outside. There had been a car crash right outside the restaurant.

Ghouls. That’s what people are. Still, I can talk. Carnage and destruction and a crowd appreciating the unfolding drama. I have to admit I was one of the crowd. Ghoulish spectators.

Of course, the accident involved Bill. He’d lost control in the rain and ploughed into a parked truck. Died instantly they say. Wouldn’t have felt much, they say. Notify his family, they say.

Tim just nods wordlessly. He looks shocked.

When he takes out his mobile I feel sorry that he’s going to be the one to deliver the awful news. I imagine that Bill’s wife is a caring wife and a good mother. His children will take it hard. I wonder if they will take time off work?

“Martin? Tim. I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid. Bill’s had a car crash and – well – it’s bad. No. No, he isn’t. He’s dead, Martin.”

I can only imagine how Martin is coping with that news over the phone. The shock will probably make him numb for a few minutes.

“No, of course not. I’ve got all the paperwork with me. Don’t worry; I can cover the presentation with my eyes closed. That account is as good as ours.”

So, not talking to Bill’s relatives then.

“Martin. If it’s not too soon to ask; after I bag this account can we schedule a time to discuss where I go from here? You can count on me. I can handle all of Bill’s accounts. No problem.”

The phone call is interrupted by the police officer who needs a little more information. Tim puts his phone away.

I realize there is nothing more to hear. My own pager is beeping. I’m needed for my next appointment in about a week. I always get plenty of notice. It gives me time to get to know my clients. Learn a little about them. Sometimes even eat with them. Or near them. Eavesdropping is so useful, sometimes.

Watching Tim drive off in a taxi I smile. There are times my job makes me sad. But my next client was going to make me very happy. Very happy indeed. Tim didn’t know it yet, but he was my next client. Unfortunately for him.

Call me an old softie, but as the angel of death I don’t always want to take people. Not always.

But taking Tim would be my pleasure.

===========
Author’s note: I haven’t posted many stories for a long time on here and I thought it was about time I started posting a few more. This particular story started out as a commentary on just how callous people can be when someone dies (the conversation was a real one I overheard).

But I couldn’t work out where to take this and after letting my mind wander I decided to make the narrator the angel of death. Probably because I’ve seen a film recently called Click, which has a shop assistant who turns out to be the angel of death.

When he first told me I’d be taking a trip across the Atlantic, alone, to spend four weeks with relatives I could hardly believe him. I mean, the guy barely let me out of the house alone, he was that scared that I’d come to some harm.

Silly really, that he felt like that. I was 12, not some little kid. Although of course I was a kid, really. I realize that now I’m older. But still, at the time it felt like I was being punished for growing up.

Those four weeks were wonderful. I got to do what I wanted, pretty much. Of course I didn’t equate that freedom with being on holiday: it was being away from dad that gave me that freedom. At least that’s how it felt.

Four weeks of being in charge of your own destiny can really change the way you see things. I knew that when I got back home my relationship with my dad would change. I wouldn’t put up with him telling me what to do anymore. I’d show him who was boss.

Inevitably, the four weeks passed much faster than I wanted and it was time to go home. I felt like I was stepping out of a dream back into reality. And I wanted the dream to last a while longer. Boarding the plane felt so oppressive. I knew I’d be going back to discipline and structure and boredom. God, why did the old man have to be so strict?

Arriving was hard work. All the queuing and waiting. I’d be glad to get home, really, and get into my own bed. The overnight flight had left me very tired and irritable.

Scanning the faces I looked for dad’s tired face. The stewardess wouldn’t leave me until she’d officially handed me over to him and of course she didn’t know what he looked like. So I had to find him. But I couldn’t.

My aunty was there, looking concerned. Didn’t really make a lot of sense, but maybe she’d come down for the ride? Anyway, we walked over and the stewardess and talked to her. They moved away from me to talk, but I didn’t mind. Old women weren’t very interesting. They must have been at least thirty.

The stewardess walked away, looking back at me. She must have had some kind of crush on me because she looked kind of wistful as she moved into the distance. Well, I was kind of grown up for my age.

‘Hi Tom. Your dad couldn’t make it so that’s why I’ve come to collect you.’

Ha! Typical. The guy was always putting work first. He probably had something important to do, like staple a report together. Anyway, at least it meant I didn’t have to see him just yet so there was some justice in the world.

When we got home dad’s car was in the driveway so at least he’d got back from work early enough to see me return.

Inside mum was sitting red-eyed and looking very small. She’d been crying.

‘Tom’, she cried, as she rushed over and hugged me.

Something wasn’t right.

‘Tom. Love. I’m afraid dad was very ill last night. He was rushed into hospital.’

‘Why? What’s happened? Is he ok?’

I didn’t know that I cared that much, but my face felt wet and I realized that tears were running down it.

‘Oh, son. I’m sorry, son. Dad’s gone, love. Dad’s passed.’

I could hardly make out the words through the thick sobbing. I wasn’t quite sure what mum had said. Where had he gone? Had he gone off with another woman?

‘We’ll go see him in a little while. You can see him.’

The enormity of what she’d said began to drift through my brain like a rolling fog in winter. It was a cold, icy presence that moved slowly.

I don’t remember much after that. I was too numb. I know we visited the morgue and I felt his forehead. I’ve never felt such terrible icy cold before. There was a total absence of life, of warmth. It was a dread chill that was shocking in its depth.

The next few days went quickly. I don’t suppose anyone got any proper sleep, but I found it very hard because I was still jetlagged. Strange how quiet the house was without him. I always thought he wasn’t around much, but now he wasn’t there I felt his absence. Literally felt his absence.

I’m sure I was shielded from a lot of the detail. Adults think they have to protect children so much, don’t they? Massive heart attack. I heard that by eavesdropping. Wouldn’t listen. I heard that to my face. Overweight. I knew that from just looking at him. It was easy to piece together what had happened. When you’re grieving you can’t help leaking information. It comes out like little bullets in random sequence. For years he’d been unwell, but still worked the long hours and ate to excess. He was an accident waiting to happen. That’s what I heard them say. How right they were, all that time. And how glad that they were now proved right.

For my own part there was sadness tinged with relief, quite honestly. He wouldn’t be able to run my life now. At least I could make some of my own choices. I was sad he was gone, of course, but that nascent part of me that wanted independence was glad. And of course I suffered tons of guilt for feeling that way. I could never share it with anyone. Can you imagine how they’d have reacted?

It’s only now, 25 years later, that I actually understand. My own son is 12 now. The day he was born I knew just how much my father loved me. And, like my father before me, I’m letting my son visit relatives across the pond. Only this time he’ll be visiting my cousin and her family. And I won’t sit and tell him what a sacrifice it is to send him there. I won’t burden him with the knowledge of how I have to work overtime to pay for the trip. How I have to sell my soul every day to provide for my family. Because that’s what fathers do. He’ll never know how much fear I have in my heart that something might happen to him while I’m not there to protect him.

No, he won’t understand any of those things until he has children of his own. I didn’t.

And I’ll make sure he has a father to come back to. I saw how my father’s lifestyle killed him and I was smart enough not to follow in those footsteps. No danger of a sudden heart attack for me.

When I look into his eyes I can see the same contempt I sometimes reserved for my old man. In my childish arrogance I thought I always knew better. And dad was wise enough and loving enough to let me, sometimes.

My father used to watch his favourite film constantly. It drove me crazy. He loved it, but it was always an irritation to me. There was a line in it, though, that I keep remembering. The father in the film speaks to his wife.

‘One night of tending a sick child of their own will tell them more about love than any words of mine.’

How wise. And true. One night of tending a sick child of your own tells you more about a parent’s love than any words can ever do.

My reverie over, I place the flowers on dad’s grave. I’ve come here every year for the last 12 years to learn about love and fatherhood.

I can never be a better son than I was, but I can be a better father than he was. That’s his true legacy to me.

==========
Author’s note: This isn’t autobiographical, but a couple of elements were inspired by real life events. I certainly understood in the most intuitive way what a father’s love is when my own child was born. That was the first time I truly understood that I would die for – and kill for – another human being. A bit dramatic, that last statement, but I think parents will know what I mean!

13 summers ago – how short a span of time that seems. And yet how remote. But the memory of that summer was as fresh as the grass in the meadow.
Gabrielle had been every boy’s dream in school, so when she agreed to go on a date with me I was in shock. I only suggested a walk in the forest because my family were poor and I had no money. Gabrielle thought it was very romantic. That first time we went she gently slipped her hand into mine. Floating on gossamer I squeezed, gently, and smiled at her.

For six weeks we would visit every day – sometimes spending the whole day together. Gabrielle made my heart soar in a way I could never understand.
I was 12 and Gabrielle was 13, but in many ways I was much wiser than she was. Funny to think that we never even kissed that summer. But then real love has so many other ways to express itself.

It was a difficult thing, seeing the clearing again. The day Gabrielle died I vowed never to come back. But never is such a long time. I was 13 – I thought my heart would never mend.

I place the single rose in the centre of the clearing with my hand-written note.

“Forever, Gabrielle. Forever”

=============
Author’s note

This is my entry for the Clarity of Night contest.

An audio version is available here. I thought it might be interesting to show how I *hear* the written words in my head.

I never thought when I started my journey that I would end up a prisoner. Incarcerated for no reason other than I look different from my captors, who are all dark skinned and malign. My journey began with the hope of an innocent abroad: this was to be my big adventure; my defining moment.

And now I know the truth. It was always a bad idea from the start. I didn’t take the precautions I needed to take. How could I? Nobody could have warned me about this. Shortly after arrival here I was abducted from the safety of my home from home. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, so they could have taken me anywhere. I don’t think they wanted to hurt me, strangely, but I struggled so hard I suppose they had to calm me down somehow.

They probably managed to prevent me injuring myself by…wait, I know about this. This is the Stockholm syndrome. I’m starting to feel sympathy for my captors.

…

It feels like it’s underground, anyway, and there’s a constant hum of some kind of machinery. I’m trying to remember as much as I can for when I’m – if – I’m finally released. I gave up hope of rescue a long time ago. It’s hard to reckon time when you can’t see outside, but I guess I’ve been here a couple of years now. In the early days I wanted to be rescued in a blaze of glory. Then I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. Now, I just want to record as much as I can in case anyone ever gets to read this. Maybe some lessons can be learned.

They’ve tortured me when I couldn’t give them information. It wasn’t physical torture. More like them crawling inside my head. Very clever they are, with their mind games. But I can’t tell them our strategic weak points because I don’t know many and the ones I do will have changed in my absence. Still, they probe.

…

I sense something is different today. There’s an air of anticipation. I allow myself to hope that perhaps today will be a day of release.

…

I was wrong yesterday. There was nothing different about the day – just my futile hope that release might be at hand.

…

Six months since I’ve had the will to write my last entry. I think they know I’m no use to them now. I think they will kill me. They no longer look at me and the gaps between feeding are growing. I’m weak.

…

So, this is it. This alien cell that has been my home for so long – how long has it been now? – is to be vacated today. I sense it in my bones. I feel their presence before I can hear or see them. There is a malevolence that permeates the very air.

…

The blow to my head takes me by surprise and stuns me. But I remain conscious. Conscious of being dragged in an upward direction. I pray that the end will come swiftly and that my writings will be found, one day, by another of my own race.

As the huge doors open I see that my captors are already wearing what look like gas masks. Helmets. Some kind of protective device. Figures. I won’t need one where I’m going.

With a sudden jerk the two holding me throw me through the doors into the exposed and lifeless surface of Mars. I know my time is brief, even as the fire in my lungs spreads. I’ll be dead within two minutes.

…

“I’m afraid there is still no sign of the crashed vehicle, Ladies and Gentlemen of the press.”, said General Curtis.

“After three years, all attempts to locate the Mars-Intrepid 1 have failed. Major Proberty is considered lost, missing in action. He will be remembered as a hero.”

“General, does this mean there will be no more attempts to send a man on a solo mission to Mars?”

“That information is classified. No more questions, please.”

And with the turning off of the lights and the dispersal of the crowd, Major Proberty’s place in history began at once to fade.

In a hangar a few miles away Major Steve Robson began his preparations for his journey to Mars. His solo journey to Mars.

Didn’t know what to think about them, really. All staring towards me. Some of them looked kind, but even with a smile a lot of them caused me anguish. Silly really. It’s not like any one of them is going to get up and hurt me. Why would they? How could they?

Feeling somewhat self-conscious (so preferable to feeling scared), I cleared my throat to address the bullies in the school group. There were only two or three, but that was enough to make life miserable.

“I want you to know what you’ve done. You’ve destroyed another human being. I can’t take it anymore.”

Silence.

Cold smiles made even colder by the lack of human warmth within the shell curling the lips. That’s what they seemed like to me: shells, rather than people. How could they be real people when they had no compassion, or humanity?

“I’m going to end it all now. I can’t live like this anymore.”

Silence.

What can you expect? My friends, such as they were, could never do anything about this. Some of them had suffered worse than I. Strange, really, that so few could bring fear to so many. Even though we had the advantage of numbers we didn’t have the instinct to gang up on another human being. That was our weakness; our downfall.

And after considering long and hard what I could do about this, I had decided the only thing to do was to end it all. Violently. Permanently.

There was no fear left. My decision was made and it was time to end things.

With a steady hand I took the lighter and applied it. The flame sputtered into life and took a few seconds to catch hold. For a brief moment I doubted what I was doing, but now it was too late and the flame was well underway, growing, taking on a life of its own.

“What are you doing, honey?”, my wife asked, as she came into the room.

“I’m burning that blasted school photo. It’s haunted me ever since it was taken. Too many memories of the school bullies.”

“Well, I’m glad you got rid of it at last. It’s been hanging on the wall bugging you for so long. You should have got rid of it ages ago. Look at the mess you’ve made!”

And with that simple act of vandalism I was free of the haunting memory of the schoolyard bullies who had made some of my schooldays so miserable. I had witnessed the funeral pyre of a life that no longer existed. I had risen, from the ashes, like the phoenix, as a new creation with a new job.

Being the new headmaster at my old school wouldn’t seem so bad now.

Note from author:
I wrote this with a fairly flippant ending in mind, but it was inspired by a news story recently of a tragedy in which a young boy who was bullied at school took his own life. He was only 12 years old. A terrible tragedy. But the story and the human tragedy of that were far to heavy to carry over into this short piece.

Bullying at school is a terrible thing and for those of us who didn’t really suffer it, it may be hard to understand just how bad it can be. Well, it’s at least bad enough for one young soul to have taken his life.