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Shorts
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| Images | |
| By Brio | ||||||||||
| 22 July 2006 | ||||||||||
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OK bitten the bullet, and on persuasion from others, posted. I don't think this is that good, but then I am my own worst critic so I'll leave it to you. Feedback of any kind would be great, thank you. B x Daffodil white walls surrounded him, making the poky little two storey flat seem slightly bigger than it actually was. His place was sparsely furnished, just a couple of green armchairs, a small table and a little unit on which his TV and his boogie box stood. It did him ok. At least it was his. He'd made the break, something he'd always be grateful to this job for. Oh he'd tried to make the break back home but everywhere was just so expensive! Even with his job and all his studies, he still had to go back home and face his dad. Face a barrage of abuse. Watch his mum live in fear. He'd have taken the abuse if it meant dad leaving his mum alone, but he didn't. Well she'd not have to live in fear no more, dad had seen to that, and it was entirely his fault. If only he'd pushed her away, if only she'd not touched him, if only he'd been a doormat, if only.................. *** Simon couldn't believe the department had hired him!! "Spencer is a recovering alcoholic" Sister Williams had told him. Pah! If that was the case then his dad had been "recovering" for the past 15 years. Once an alcie always an alcie. He remembered the first time he "met" Spencer. It was Christmas 1999. Drunks were routine admissions at this time of year, and Spencer was part of that routine. Simon hated drunks at the best of times - too many memories, but it was all part and parcel of the job. They passed through like groceries on a conveyer belt. But Simon loved his work. He took pride in it, and he wasn't going to let a few drunkards put him off. But having to work with one? And in a busy A&E? It wasn't right. He was scruffy, clumsy, nosy, too much like his old man. He looked around him. Pictures stood in frames on tables or hung on the walls, smiling out at him, and a sizeable number of birthday cards adorned the faux mantelpiece.. He had friends; people who loved him. Spencer was just a glitch in his life. He doubted Spencer even had a life. He'd heard earlier through the departmental grapevine that he’d even set up home in the pump room!! Simon chuckled at the thought. Not only does he look like a tramp but he lives like one too. The little green telephone that lay on the floor flashed its fluorescent tube lighting as it gave short, sharp, shrill rings. He looked at his watch. 10PM. Who's calling at this time of night? He crawled onto the floor and picked up the handset. "Hello? Oh hi Chloe. Yes I'm fine thanks. Thanks for the card and present. Much appreciated. Look, sorry to keep this short and sweet but I have a bit of a headache, I was about to go to bed. Speak to you tomorrow OK? Bye, and thanks so much for ringing." He put the handset back in the cradle and smiled to himself. Dear, sweet Chloe, always thinking of others. He manoeuvred to a standing position and padded to the front door. As he checked everything was locked, his eyes caught sight of his present from the department. A bottle of the finest Scotch Bristol's shops had to offer. He eyed it with disdain before turning and walking up the stairs. *** As Simon lay in bed, images appeared in the inky blackness of his room. He heard voices..... He could see himself curled up on the sofa at home. He was only about 9 or 10. He saw his mother, a petite, fair-haired woman, sitting in a wooden rocker knitting by the light of the fire, humming softly to herself. He allowed himself a smile. He liked to remember his mother like this - peaceful, content, happy. The image changed and he saw himself as an even younger boy, about 5 or so, in the local park. He was on the swings and his mother stood behind him, pushing higher, higher, higher, till he felt he could touch the sky. He could hear her laugh, soft and tinkling, ringing in his ears. As sleep began to capture his mind the image changed again to something not so pleasant. He screwed his eyes up tight as if to try and block everything out. He could see himself again, only this time he was older, about 17 of 18, and he was sitting at the kitchen table studying. He saw his mother slouched over the sink washing the dishes. He heard a door slam. "Meg? Meg? Where the feck are ye?" Simon looked at his mother. Instantly she stood up straighter, and ran her thin bony fingers, which had started to shake, through her wiry greying hair, a look of terror sweeping over her face as her husband barged into the kitchen. Iain Wolfe was a big man. Not fat, just big built. A surly man, he was not one to be reckoned with. "Food woman!" he bellowed. Simon could clearly smell the alcohol on his father from across the table as he dragged out a chair and plonked himself down. "Ignorant sod." He didn't even bother to look up, busying himself with the assignment he’d been trying to write for the last hour, and thanking God he hadn’t written much as his dad would probably slop food and stuff over the tavle, as he did every other night. "I'm busy dad." "Busy! Busy! You and your bloody books, you're always busy! Who needs to know all this bulls*it anyway? Real life's the only way to learn my boy." "Dad, I need to study if I'm going to get a job." "Oh yeah, for your poncy nursing job." Ian hit the table with his fist and swept the books and papers onto the floor. Simon looked at his dad, then dropped to his knees and began to pick everything up. "Iain leave him be love, have something to eat." Meghan handed him a plate of sandwiches. Forcefully and carelessly, he knocked the plate from her tiny hands and sent the delicate china crashing to the floor, where it splintered into tiny fragments. Iain bent down and grabbed his son by the shoulders. "Be a man boy." "Like you you mean?" Rage burned bright in Iain's eyes, as he raised his hand and delivered a hot, stinging slap. And another. And another, leaving vivid pink welts on his son’s cheek. Unfortunately this ritual was nothing new, although the blows were harder today. Meghan gingerly touched her husband on the shoulder, looking pleadingly at him, tears shining brightly in her eyes with fear for her only son. "Please stop." Iain spun around, fists raised. "Want the same?" Sobbing quietly, she stepped back. He turned round to see Simon putting all his books and papers back onto the table. He pushed the books back onto the floor. "Iain please." "Shut up you bloody useless bitch." "Well if that's what being a man does to you then I'm damn glad I'm not one!" Simon snarled, his heart racing. Iain reached for his belt. Megan stepped forward. "Mum, leave it," he said in a low voice. “I can take it because I AM a man.” Iain unbuckled his belt and wrapped one end twice around his hand. Not listening, Megan stepped in front of her son. Simon didn't deserve this; he was just trying to make something of himself. She would take it. Iain, realising Megan's interception, hit out at her. She was knocked off her feet by the blow, and on falling she hit her head on the corner of the worktop. Simon screamed. Limp and lifeless, she lay on the kitchen floor, blood slowly oozing from her head, forming a puddle of red viscous liquid on the black and white check flooring. The two men stood there, as if frozen to the spot, and stared at the motionless figure on the floor. Tears formed and ran down Simon's cheeks. He ran to her. "Mam? Mam it's me Si. Mam.” He knew. He’d seen a few in his time, but he refused to believe it. He firmly grasped her shoulder and shook hard, as if by some miracle, mixed with the shouting, it’d bring her back. “Can you hear me? Mam? MAMMY!!" He felt for the pulse in her neck. Nothing. Simon slowly rose, tears blinding him as he stumbled from the kitchen. "Bastard." He mumbled. Sobbing and shaking he dialled 999 for an ambulance and the police. This was all his fault. If only he’d gone upstairs when he heard his dad come home; if only he’s bitten his tongue and taken the beatings; if only he’d spoken a bit louder then his mother might have heard him. Slowly walking back to the kitchen he heard his dad crying. He saw him, hands covered in blood, kneeling over the limp form. Iain looked up at his son with a blood smeared, tearstained face and bloodshot eyes. Simon glared back in disgust. He hated this man. He hated him with a passion. This man, this...insipid creature had just killed his mother! Iain reached out a hand to him. "I'm so sorry." He sobbed. "I didn't mean this." He turned to walk back out to the hall. "Si, son, please?" He stopped still. His head thumping with rage and emotion. He turned, and came face to face with this…excuse for a human. Once so big and domineering, he was now small, pathetic, a coward. "Don't ever, ever call me son again." *** Simon sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding, his body drenched in a cold sweat. As he sat, trying to slow his rapid breathing and accelerated heartbeat he snapped on the light and glanced at his little bedside alarm clock. 4:45AM. His alarm was set for 5AM, so he may as well get up now. He wasn't due in work till 6, so he could spend a bit longer in the shower. *** He looked at his watch as he stood outside the doors of Bristol City A&E. "Morning sir." Spencer said as he walked past. Simon looked at him, and walked through the doors to face another day in casualty.
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