Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Extended > Vulneralbe Adults 2
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1051 guests online and 1 member online |
Extended Work
| print friendly version | |
| Vulneralbe Adults 2 | |
| By IPFaulkner | ||||||
| 17 May 2006 | ||||||
|
Here's part 2 to the first chapter. I think I stuck Chapter one in short stories if anyone needs to find it. AS before I haven't read it for a month or two - currently working on Chapter 15. One of my worries is about how quickly the plot develops - if it is moving at a fast enough pace. The plot is based (very generaly) on Hansel and Gretel and inbetween this chapter and 3 I start to fill in the back story (childhood) in the style of a Grimm bros fairy tale. I think it works but maybe it doesn't... CHAPTER TWO Letter from Consultant Paediatrician regarding Mary Pearson – 1976 Dear sir/madam, RE: MARY PEARSON: (8.10.73) This child attended two appointments at my out-patient clinic during January and February 1977. She was referred by her GP who suggested she may be mentally retarded following regular visits by the Health visitor during her early years. Having observed the child’s language acquisition and carried out some testing, I can confirm she is mentally handicapped and developmentally backward. My observations would also suggest that there may be some level of limb spasticity which may cause some developmental problems. The child’s mother did indicate that she was slow to crawl and walk. I suggest the family or yourself contact the education department to make sure the appropriate schooling is provided for this child. Yours sincerely, Dr. --------- UK Gold belched out its regurgitated sitcoms and dramas, the canned laughter continuing to cue jokes 20 years after their initial broadcast - Del boy and Trig now launched into space and bounced back to undemanding audiences via satellite technology and digital boxes. Mary shuffled in her seat, bored, restless and uncomfortable. Following the morning’s bathroom incident however, she was unlikely to complain. She had stopped talking to herself but the gestures that accompanied them occasionally emerged, reflecting her imaginary world – her most fertile source of stimulation since she had stopped attending the centre. She tucked her legs under her body and moved in her seat again. A look flew across the room and ricocheted off the walls but thankfully the silence was not broken. Instinct told Mary that relations had deteriorated very early in the day. If things were this bad before lunch and The Bill re-runs had not improved matters, there was little hope of escaping hostilities before bed-time - only the flimsiest of pre-text would be required. Mary wanted desperately to please her mother – partly because it was the safest option but also because she was her mammy. However, what she did not understand was that these efforts to ingratiate herself only irritated her mother more. The signals that her mother received were somehow distorted in transit, never seeming to replicate the transmissions Mary thought she was making. Six weeks had passed since she had stopped going to the Centre. Mary had been told to tell them herself that she didn’t want to spend her days there anymore. She doubted anyone had believed her. She told them with her fingers crossed to make sure. When the manager of the centre contacted her to discuss Mary’s withdrawal, Mrs. Pearson had threatened to call the police if their “harassment” continued. She said she was sick of people interfering in the way she cared for her daughter. It was help she needed not people passing judgement on her. She had slammed the phone down on him and dared Mary to contradict her with a brutal look. As far as Mary knew, no-one had contacted them since. Mary had, over the years at the centre, become a skilled – though at times confused – negotiator between her mother and the day centre. The complex dynamics of what to say to whom and when had become an everyday necessity. She had developed a flawed instinct for managing information and its dissemination. She had learned that the successful deployment of a new story from home could draw attention to her like metal filings to a magnet. A good story would result in “The Look”. She was not supposed to understand, but she knew when she saw it that she had hit gold and could expect an extra portion at lunch-time or to be included on a trip she had previously failed to make the cut for. Occasionally, she would exaggerate her genuinely pathetic status at home, but this was rarely a success. The rules were always just beyond her comprehension. If she presented a sketch of difficulties far worse than those she really faced, “The Look” would not materialize – sometimes they would laugh and tell her how funny she was. Why were these story’s funny when a dull, normal life anecdote - like carrying a bag of washing to the laundry or cleaning the house - could elicit tears? She did not understand. Sometimes she would be talking to herself while painting or something and she would detect another signal – “The Silence”. She would look up to see carers staring at her with sad faces. She would play back to herself what she had been saying. She could rarely work out what it was from these mundanities of everyday life that had drawn this response. She was desperate to ask what she had said but instinct told her this would break the spell. At home, the Game of Attention had never been played. But at the Centre she knew the board was out but she was never sure how and when she had rolled a six. The rules were lost to her. So, although it was at times confusing, she missed the centre. It had been an escape hatch that parachuted her out of the house for 7 hours a day. The Centre had felt like a magic castle, where she could briefly be a Princess. She knew it was not forever – but fairytales never where. The darkness began when she stepped off the bus and looked up the staircase to her house. Some things she did not miss; the verbal examination at the end of each day from her mother, the battles in the morning about getting ready on time, her mother telling her how she was bad for going and leaving her all day alone, the chores stacked up and saved for her return. In fact, although she would love to go back, she soon fell into a new routine and at least here she could better predict the laws of cause and effect. She focused on the daily routines and chores, breaking the day into portions; from breakfast to The Bill re-runs, from The Bill to lunch time, from lunchtime to Are You Being Served? and so on. Most days she failed to please; if she made it as far as Murder She Wrote she assumed her mother was ill. She passed the time as best she could, sometimes listening to her mum, sometimes doing chores and, as often as she could, daydreaming. She spent a lot of time daydreaming. She imagined she had been trapped by the Wicked Witch and waited for a Handsome Prince to rescue her. A rich vein of story was always running through her head – her eyes only nominally focused on the TV or her jobs. This blankness irritated her mother too so, as often as she could, she would retreat to her bedroom and stare out of the window at the magic land she had created in the street or neighbours gardens. This particular morning seemed to have slowed to a stop but finally lunchtime arrived. Mary made sandwiches and settled down to watch more ‘Classics From the Vaults’. She began to drift off again, her focus no longer on the TV, when she nearly jumped clear over the coffee table, caught entirely unawares by a sudden unexpected burst of outrage from her mother. “Look at the flaming mess you’ve made? Go and get the dustpan and brush. NO! Oh for God’s sake now all the crumbs from you are on the floor. For God’ sake Mary! Think about it for once.” Mary scurried off to the kitchen and found the dustpan. Given what had already happened she should have been on her guard; she was sure worse was to come. In the next hour one of three things would happen: She would say something/do something resulting in: 1. An absolute bollocking, followed by banishment to her room until tomorrow morning. 2. Her mother bursting into tears and taking to her bed until tomorrow morning. 3. Her mother going haywire and ripping stuff up/calling her names. Both mother and daughter being expelled to their respective rooms until the morning. It could seem, to the inexperienced eye, that these options might be better than the status quo in the sitting room. This, however, was not the case. Option 1 would result in a regular – but unpredictable - verbal barrage. Her bedroom door would swing open, followed by a torrent of abuse, something being thrown or destroyed and the door shutting. The next onslaught could be 5 minutes or an hour away. Option 2 would require Mary to nurse her mother well again to make up for her indiscretion. She would inevitably fail in her attempts to do this, resulting in heart felt sighs from mammy and stage whispers questioning why she was being punished by God. This could last quite some time and, again, calls for help would be regular and unpredictable in nature. Option 3 was a brief (10-15 minutes) hurricane of madness. After this there would be need for an assessment of damage every bit as difficult as those facing insurance adjusters in Florida during hurricane season. Of course, her mother always came off worse by virtue of the fact that Mary had little to destroy. Naturally, Mary was held directly responsible for the destruction and, unless she was willing to take her chances through Options 1, 2 and 3 again it was not sagacious to point this out. The Crumb Incident was clearly a prelude, a minor tremor, a warning for the local inhabitants who could read the signs that worse was certain to follow. An account of a journey South under difficult conditions. 5.30am: Johnny leaves his flat. He doubts there will be anyone actively looking for him. If they had been desperate to capture him yesterday, gaining entry to the block and then his flat would not have proven a challenge. There is no chance whatsoever that someone is watching his flat at this time in the morning. He simply is not worth it. However, leaving later in the day would be foolish. He knows he has no friends in high (or for that matter low) places and if he is caught he would be in real trouble. He would prefer not to be “made an example of”. Examples like him tend to be found floating in the canal 6 weeks after disappearing mysteriously from their homes. He is very edgy. He tries to walk with his head down. He presses on with his hands in his jacket pocket, hold-all slung over his shoulder, as fast as he can without running. Every corner carries a demon. All alleyways are pressed full of figures wanting a word. The early morning light is casting shadows, occasionally his head bolts up and he looks frantically around – almost swivelling through 180 degrees, moving in momentary panic and paranoia. Unfortunately, his genuine need for caution is not helped by the agitation and muscle pain he is starting to feel due to his drug withdrawals. It will soon be 24 hours since the chemist gave him his last 30ml of methadone. His body has waited patiently for the heroin top up it has become accustomed to. However, it is will only be prepared to accept this state of affairs if the methadone arrives in the next few hours. It is about to be disappointed. 6.25am: arrival at Central Station: Johnny prepares for a long wait. He watches the information board flicker its news; he follows the London train as it travels from the right of the screen and eventually off the left side. Already fifteen minutes late before it begins its journey. Johnny watches the temporary inhabitants of this Victorian glass hanger change from last nights club casualties to business suited 9 to 5ers. Pitying the latter and envying the former, Johnny still believes he could effortlessly fill either role if he chose to. During his wait he scrounges two cigarettes and reads the Metro from cover to cover. He finds a copy of yesterdays Sun and reads that too. He uses his last 80p to buy a King size Snicker and a bag of crisps. He wants to steal a bottle of Irn Bru but thinks better of it. His luck changes and he finds £1 near Burger King. He looks at the price of a bottle of Irn Bru and decides to go for coffee instead. At about 7.15am his body starts to ask serious questions. By 7.30, it is stamping its foot like a spoiled child. He feels the goose bumps up and down his stomach and back. He starts to feel sick. Johnny has tried to mentally prepare himself for this. He knew that he would have to forfeit his script today if he was to make it safely out of Glasgow. However, he feels irritable and uncomfortable. His nose starts to run and he has a fit of sneezing. He grabs a handful of napkins from Burger King and joylessly counts down the minutes by the digital clock on the notice board. 8.28am: Johnny waits for the commuter train because it’ll be busy and he has no money for a ticket. With luck, and a lazy conductor, he’ll make it all the way on one train. The alternative is a game of Chess with Scot-rail throughout the West coast of Scotland until he, hopefully, arrives in Girvan. He knows he only has so long before he makes a David Banner like transformation; but not into a green monster in stretch trousers, but something equally conspicuous – “A Junky”. Already his withdrawals are uncomfortable and he knows the wider world has little patience with those who choose his “alternative lifestyle”. He needs to make this as short a journey as he possibly can if he is to remain inconspicuous. 910am: “The next stop is Kilmarnock…” Johnny limps off, soaked with sweat, feeling extremely unwell. The man in the peaked cap looks relieved to see him go. They had shared a level look that said, “You have no ticket and, more to the point, I know you have no ticket. The next stop is yours.” Message received, Johnny cursed to himself and strode off the train glaring at the inspector, but accepting the score draw he had been offered. Johnny spends the next ten minutes trying to plot an alternative route to Girvan, followed by an emergency dash to the toilet. He barely makes it – almost sharing a problem his sister had the misfortune to suffer an hour earlier. Johnny spends the redundant hour before the train considering the pros and cons of heroin use. 09.55am: All aboard for Girvan. Debate concludes with merits of heroin giving the disadvantages a serious kicking. 10.21am; Express service plan de-railed by vision of another ticket collector who looks purposeful enough to have him arrested. Johnny disembarks at Ayr. Next train not due until 12.29am. A lifetime. He decides to go for a walk and heads for the beach. The cramps have passed for now. He continues to feel sick but suspects that, despite this temporary recovery, his symptoms will worsen if he has to go cold turkey for much longer. Johnny spends his time in Ayr well. Both hours are used to recall crap childhood memories of non-idyllic days at the beach. Arguments about fish and chips and his dad pissed, urinating against the sea wall on the beach side. On his way back from the beach he passes what was Hanger 13 – a short lived but notorious nightclub in the 90’s - and smiles to himself at the memories he cannot recall because he was too twatted the one time he went. 12.41am: He reaches Girvan without further incident. A minor miracle. He considers how to persuade his mother to lend him money until his giro in two days time and wonders where the nearest dealer lives. He stops near the graveyard on his way toward his mothers to throw up the King size Snicker and God knows what else. He wonders whether the beating he has escaped could have been worse than this.
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|