Sunday, 17 July 2016
You Can't Take Anymore...
And once upon a time, you would have taken it all.
Didn't matter what you'd done,
I would still have been there
Somewhere and somehow,
Linked with you.
Part of life and all I'd known.
Sometimes we'd talk, you'd cry, reach to take my hand
As I sat there trying to understand.
But too many times you kicked hard against that line in the sand.
You tried to cover your tracks as you scuffed at the dirt with your well-trodden shoes.
And even though I saw those tell-tale signs
They were not clear and you swore blind
That it was all in my mind;
'Course you would
You have done this before.
Words are just words and nothing more.
I know this now and I wish like hell
That I had known before.
That may well have saved me so much pain
As I plummeted to the darkest murkiest crevices on the ocean's floor
If I had known that you were this vacuous shell,
I would have seen
What you pretended to be
As you morphed into something with me.
But you never said.
You never will.
You lie.
You cheat.
You deflect.
You steal,
And you pretend that none of it is ever real.
You are so far from what a person should be.
Genuine thoughts, compassionate,
Filled with humility.
And sure, you will say it's not your fault.
But you took away a chunk of me.
Teenage years ripe with virginity
Hopes and dreams, want and need
Lay dormant in a growing bud; tiny seed
Thoughts forming, starting to unfold
Ready to take on the entire world.
And yes, I let you in
Mind to mind,
Skin to skin,
But with each year we shared,
I slowly became ensnared.
And because of how things came to be
I forgot the biggest part of me.
My love for life
Withering and dying as I stayed your wife.
And this is not about you now.
It never should have been somehow.
And it never will be
About you and me
That part of my heart was stony cold,
And I let you know as you grew old.
I left you there, far behind
Questioning thoughts buried in my mind.
You couldn't even let me be
When it was clear to you and me
That what we once were
Had long-time past become a blur
Of my honest truth and your familiar lies
You had the chance to let me go
To preserve the past and leave it so
But you couldn't even bear that thought
So rather you would leave me caught
Trapped; conflicted by motherhood
Couldn't leave although I should
Couldn't face the thought of doing wrong
Eroded self once so strong
But I am here and you are there
I have learned to accept that I played a part
In the life we made that was just a paper heart.
You won't know now and never will
I'm stronger now and greater still
Your deceit and denial fired that inner-me.
Your hurt-betrayal set me free.
I have closed the door,
Slammed it shut for evermore.
Doesn't matter what you try to do
Nothing good'll come to you.
You have a mind, and you have some thought
In you're own sad world, you're rightly caught
Keep your pain, and
Any pointless gain
As no matter what you do or say
You're further distanced by one more day.
Anger, hurt or sheer despise
Occasional flashes in my eyes
But your atrocities have taught me this
I am this person I used to miss.
Yes, I was here all along
Hidden beneath the weight of wrong.
Wishing that we never once did meet
Walking through life on my own two feet
But up I hold my head and hand
I know my errors; I understand.
I paid the price and took the fall
And now I know you're nothing at all.
It wasn't true, it wasn't real
I didn't breathe, I didn't feel
I took that step, I walked outside
Seeing then what you fought to hide.
I have walked away, I won't turn back
Yet you're there crawling through a crack
But you can't take anymore, don't you see?
You are nothing. Nothing to me.
Doesn't matter what you try to do
I'll give nothing of me to you.
Carry on in this pointless vein
And your actions fall just like rain.
I watch those drops bounce then fade away
As I celebrate me, myself, and my life today.
Tuesday, 5 July 2016
Stolen Life...
Melanie wiped the remnants of the dream from her eyes. Her fingers burned against the iciness of her pale skin. 'It was just a dream wasn't it?' she implored.
The vision of Finn splayed awkwardly across the stage danced flamboyantly in her mind's eye. He had only remained conscious for a few moments. 'Why can I taste blood, Maggie?' He had asked. 'Why?' Then his grey-green eyes had rolled to the back of this head and his horrible rattled breathing had quietened to a steady rasp. Aunt Margaret had thrown herself across him, as best as the silver choker would allow; her mouth widened in a hollow silent scream.
Melanie swung her legs over the side of the bed coaxing her toes to touch the frozen floorboards. She must make the tea as Aunt Margaret would be resting. The frigidity in the house bit through her. She could see her own colourless clouds of breath hover as she descended the stairs. There was no warmth inside this house. Not even from the red people. Not now. The cold air gnawed away at her flesh penetrating through finally burrowing deep, lodging itself in her very heart.
Melanie busied herself in the kitchen fearful of meeting the dog's watching eyes. It would know that Finn wasn't here. But still she couldn't face it. She wondered if Finn would ever gain consciousness. He had fallen heavily like a large stone thrown into a bucket of still water.
'Are you all right, Pet?' The kind words cuts through the air and engulfed her. She turned to face Franky.
'I, I don't...' Melanie stuttered, 'Oh, poor Finn.'
Fat translucent tears rolled down her face. The Irishman held her stiffly to her his chest just as he had done when she had seen the severed hand in the knife drawer. Only this time it was a reality that she has seen. Not an illusion. No amount of soothing could convince her otherwise. How could this act have gone so horribly wrong?
'You mustn't cry,' Franky said in his slow manner, 'Your Uncle Philip doesn't like women to show emotion. Come on, Pet.'
Melanie fiercely fought with her feelings desperate not to make her uncle any angrier than he was already. Furiously brushing away the tell-tale tears from her dark eyelashes, she poured Franky a cup of tea. The two sat in silence, each plagued by their own devouring thoughts.
Aunt Margaret spent most of the day visiting Finn at the hospital. She took Victoria with her for company but also to convince the little girl that Finn hadn't gone to heaven yet. With those two away, it left only Jonathon, Uncle Philip and Melanie. Franky had gone to another ceilidh. So she kept shop while her brother and Uncle busied themselves in the workshop.
Melanie had always felt more at ease in the shop than in the house but today the presence of the handcrafted toys was a constant shocking reminder of the disastrous Puppet Show. She shuddered. When a young man came in looking for a present for his seven year old nephew, Melanie didn't feel her usual excitement in her role as the server behind the counter.
'No sale! No sale!' screeched Joey. Melanie looked away from the bird, catching sight of her uncle bent over engrossed in the task at hand. She managed a feeble smile as she listened to the man's questions. But no feelings of delight escaped her blanket of gloom as she opened box after box of tiny wooden animals. The man didn't seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm however, and left with a large brown paper parcel tucked under his arm.
Melanie tried to forget the fearful ogre who was working just feet away from her. She had never felt at ease in her uncle's presence. Uncle Philip had said that he would use her for his next puppet show. Goodness! How would she ever cope? She ruffled the parakeet's feathers thinking of Uncle Philip's thick bushy eyebrows raised in fury. She couldn't even elegantly control her own long legs, let alone the complexities of a wooden doll. Once again, her mind turned to the comforting possibility of running away. Maybe one day.
Aunt Margaret returned with Victoria late that afternoon. 'No good, Melanie. He hasn't woken up,' Her Aunt's hand shook as she gripped the chalk tightly, each letter formation scraping against the blackboard. Her mouth mute and thin-lined.
'Maybe tomorrow,' Melanie audibly whispered as she squeezed her aunt's twig-like wrist. Her aunt nodded, her large dark eyes vacant and unblinking. Victoria played quietly on the floor at their feet, her early-years chatter lesser than usual, obviously aware that something was not quite right.
Dinner was abnormally quiet that night. After all, cheeky Finn wasn't there to pass antagonistic comments that undoubtedly annoyed Uncle Philip.
'Rehearsals start tonight, girly,' barked Uncle Philip as he stabbed his dinner knife in Melanie's general direction.
His words shattered the silence like a heavy foot treading down on a delicate Christmas bauble. Melanie's heart pounded, the dark red liquid thundering in her ears. She looked at her aunt who held her fork in mid air, whiter than white. Saliva collected at the corners of her open mouth, silvery strands growing with every passing moment. She briefly met Melanie's pleading eyes but then began to methodically cut her potatoes into manageable sized pieces. Her heart sinking, Melanie felt abandoned and alone. She didn't even have Finn.
It was now her third rehearsal with Uncle Philip. She dreaded going down to the workshop. The place was suffocating and filled with his frightening creations. He wouldn't allow anyone else in the room when they were practising. It was just to be Uncle Philip and Melanie.
Tonight was different. Melanie automatically sensed it as he closed the door and walked steadily towards her. She backed away until the coarse, splintered edge of the workbench pressed into her young spine.His warm, sour breath whistled in her ear blowing wisps of her fine dark hair loose. She flinched instinctively.
'Just like your Ma aren't you, girly?'
Melanie stood stock still. Repulsed by this breach of her personal space. She couldn't answer, his bodily presence stifling any inclination to cry out. Her flesh crawled with growing cold-hearted fear.
The hair of his eyebrows stood upright and proud, sprouting out of the deep pores of his flesh in long wiry strands. Melanie began to count each greying thread as Uncle Philip's hand edged its way over her knee.
'Three, four, five...' murmured Melanie.
His palm felt rough as it traced its inevitable path upwards along her snowy flesh. She wondered how many toys he had crafted with that hand, all the time acutely aware of its progress slithering silently like a snake waiting to pounce on its prey.
'Seventeen, eighteen...'
His breath came hotter and faster in her ear. She remembered the false teeth in the glass. The particles of food floating aimlessly in the cloudy water. The bright shiny pinkness of the artificial gums against the yellow-white of the teeth. And still the hand climbed.
Melanie's leg ached but she daren't shift her body weight for fear of speeding up the process of the inching fingers. Her mouth was clamped shut unwilling to breathe in any of this foulness. Her eyes remained focused on the thick eyebrows and her brain buzzed with over exertion.
'Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven...' He couldn't be doing this, could he? She stole a glance down at her own hand gripping the wooden bench. The knuckles bursting out of the taut flesh in bright mounds of whiteness, her fingers creaking under the strain.
She could feel Uncle Philip push against her. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. She tasted blood just like Finn had. Uncle Philip's bushy moustache tickled her ear, the fibres fiercely bristling against her delicate lobe. With a start, Melanie felt his mouth hard on hers. Tears sprang hotly to her eyes. His hand plunged roughly between her legs. His tongue like sandpaper as it probed for hers.
Everything was hard and rough. Pain seared through her as cleanly and sharply as wire through a block of cheese. The smell of wood chipping, the lacquer of his hair, the denture adhesive, the sweat of his putrid excitement. She choked on everything. The roughness of his hands, the hardness of the bench against her as he pushed her backwards. Down. She rolled her eyes upwards not wanting to see Uncle Philip doing this to her. And then she felt as if she was splitting in two. The hard swell inside her, ripping right through going deeper and deeper.
Melanie's head began to swim. She was struggling to focus, the force pushing her head backwards. From the upside down shelf, two black shiny eyes reflected hers. A gold painted beak jutted out from a sea of white virginal feathers. It was an ugly disgusting puppet. Another of his masterpieces. The beak was unnaturally pointed. Sharp. In and out, in and out it went. And as Melanie lay helpless and soiled, Uncle Philip crushed every breath from her immature lungs with his weight and force. And all the time, the snow-white swan watched.
To be continued...
The vision of Finn splayed awkwardly across the stage danced flamboyantly in her mind's eye. He had only remained conscious for a few moments. 'Why can I taste blood, Maggie?' He had asked. 'Why?' Then his grey-green eyes had rolled to the back of this head and his horrible rattled breathing had quietened to a steady rasp. Aunt Margaret had thrown herself across him, as best as the silver choker would allow; her mouth widened in a hollow silent scream.
Melanie swung her legs over the side of the bed coaxing her toes to touch the frozen floorboards. She must make the tea as Aunt Margaret would be resting. The frigidity in the house bit through her. She could see her own colourless clouds of breath hover as she descended the stairs. There was no warmth inside this house. Not even from the red people. Not now. The cold air gnawed away at her flesh penetrating through finally burrowing deep, lodging itself in her very heart.
Melanie busied herself in the kitchen fearful of meeting the dog's watching eyes. It would know that Finn wasn't here. But still she couldn't face it. She wondered if Finn would ever gain consciousness. He had fallen heavily like a large stone thrown into a bucket of still water.
'Are you all right, Pet?' The kind words cuts through the air and engulfed her. She turned to face Franky.
'I, I don't...' Melanie stuttered, 'Oh, poor Finn.'
Fat translucent tears rolled down her face. The Irishman held her stiffly to her his chest just as he had done when she had seen the severed hand in the knife drawer. Only this time it was a reality that she has seen. Not an illusion. No amount of soothing could convince her otherwise. How could this act have gone so horribly wrong?
'You mustn't cry,' Franky said in his slow manner, 'Your Uncle Philip doesn't like women to show emotion. Come on, Pet.'
Melanie fiercely fought with her feelings desperate not to make her uncle any angrier than he was already. Furiously brushing away the tell-tale tears from her dark eyelashes, she poured Franky a cup of tea. The two sat in silence, each plagued by their own devouring thoughts.
Aunt Margaret spent most of the day visiting Finn at the hospital. She took Victoria with her for company but also to convince the little girl that Finn hadn't gone to heaven yet. With those two away, it left only Jonathon, Uncle Philip and Melanie. Franky had gone to another ceilidh. So she kept shop while her brother and Uncle busied themselves in the workshop.
Melanie had always felt more at ease in the shop than in the house but today the presence of the handcrafted toys was a constant shocking reminder of the disastrous Puppet Show. She shuddered. When a young man came in looking for a present for his seven year old nephew, Melanie didn't feel her usual excitement in her role as the server behind the counter.
'No sale! No sale!' screeched Joey. Melanie looked away from the bird, catching sight of her uncle bent over engrossed in the task at hand. She managed a feeble smile as she listened to the man's questions. But no feelings of delight escaped her blanket of gloom as she opened box after box of tiny wooden animals. The man didn't seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm however, and left with a large brown paper parcel tucked under his arm.
Melanie tried to forget the fearful ogre who was working just feet away from her. She had never felt at ease in her uncle's presence. Uncle Philip had said that he would use her for his next puppet show. Goodness! How would she ever cope? She ruffled the parakeet's feathers thinking of Uncle Philip's thick bushy eyebrows raised in fury. She couldn't even elegantly control her own long legs, let alone the complexities of a wooden doll. Once again, her mind turned to the comforting possibility of running away. Maybe one day.
Aunt Margaret returned with Victoria late that afternoon. 'No good, Melanie. He hasn't woken up,' Her Aunt's hand shook as she gripped the chalk tightly, each letter formation scraping against the blackboard. Her mouth mute and thin-lined.
'Maybe tomorrow,' Melanie audibly whispered as she squeezed her aunt's twig-like wrist. Her aunt nodded, her large dark eyes vacant and unblinking. Victoria played quietly on the floor at their feet, her early-years chatter lesser than usual, obviously aware that something was not quite right.
Dinner was abnormally quiet that night. After all, cheeky Finn wasn't there to pass antagonistic comments that undoubtedly annoyed Uncle Philip.
'Rehearsals start tonight, girly,' barked Uncle Philip as he stabbed his dinner knife in Melanie's general direction.
His words shattered the silence like a heavy foot treading down on a delicate Christmas bauble. Melanie's heart pounded, the dark red liquid thundering in her ears. She looked at her aunt who held her fork in mid air, whiter than white. Saliva collected at the corners of her open mouth, silvery strands growing with every passing moment. She briefly met Melanie's pleading eyes but then began to methodically cut her potatoes into manageable sized pieces. Her heart sinking, Melanie felt abandoned and alone. She didn't even have Finn.
*****
Tonight was different. Melanie automatically sensed it as he closed the door and walked steadily towards her. She backed away until the coarse, splintered edge of the workbench pressed into her young spine.His warm, sour breath whistled in her ear blowing wisps of her fine dark hair loose. She flinched instinctively.
'Just like your Ma aren't you, girly?'
Melanie stood stock still. Repulsed by this breach of her personal space. She couldn't answer, his bodily presence stifling any inclination to cry out. Her flesh crawled with growing cold-hearted fear.
The hair of his eyebrows stood upright and proud, sprouting out of the deep pores of his flesh in long wiry strands. Melanie began to count each greying thread as Uncle Philip's hand edged its way over her knee.
'Three, four, five...' murmured Melanie.
His palm felt rough as it traced its inevitable path upwards along her snowy flesh. She wondered how many toys he had crafted with that hand, all the time acutely aware of its progress slithering silently like a snake waiting to pounce on its prey.
'Seventeen, eighteen...'
His breath came hotter and faster in her ear. She remembered the false teeth in the glass. The particles of food floating aimlessly in the cloudy water. The bright shiny pinkness of the artificial gums against the yellow-white of the teeth. And still the hand climbed.
Melanie's leg ached but she daren't shift her body weight for fear of speeding up the process of the inching fingers. Her mouth was clamped shut unwilling to breathe in any of this foulness. Her eyes remained focused on the thick eyebrows and her brain buzzed with over exertion.
'Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven...' He couldn't be doing this, could he? She stole a glance down at her own hand gripping the wooden bench. The knuckles bursting out of the taut flesh in bright mounds of whiteness, her fingers creaking under the strain.
She could feel Uncle Philip push against her. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. She tasted blood just like Finn had. Uncle Philip's bushy moustache tickled her ear, the fibres fiercely bristling against her delicate lobe. With a start, Melanie felt his mouth hard on hers. Tears sprang hotly to her eyes. His hand plunged roughly between her legs. His tongue like sandpaper as it probed for hers.
Everything was hard and rough. Pain seared through her as cleanly and sharply as wire through a block of cheese. The smell of wood chipping, the lacquer of his hair, the denture adhesive, the sweat of his putrid excitement. She choked on everything. The roughness of his hands, the hardness of the bench against her as he pushed her backwards. Down. She rolled her eyes upwards not wanting to see Uncle Philip doing this to her. And then she felt as if she was splitting in two. The hard swell inside her, ripping right through going deeper and deeper.
Melanie's head began to swim. She was struggling to focus, the force pushing her head backwards. From the upside down shelf, two black shiny eyes reflected hers. A gold painted beak jutted out from a sea of white virginal feathers. It was an ugly disgusting puppet. Another of his masterpieces. The beak was unnaturally pointed. Sharp. In and out, in and out it went. And as Melanie lay helpless and soiled, Uncle Philip crushed every breath from her immature lungs with his weight and force. And all the time, the snow-white swan watched.
To be continued...
Stolen Life...
Melanie wiped the remnants of the dream from her eyes. Her fingers burned against the iciness of her pale skin. 'It was just a dream wasn't it?' she implored.
The vision of Finn splayed awkwardly across the stage danced flamboyantly in her mind's eye. He had only remained conscious for a few moments. 'Why can I taste blood, Maggie?' He had asked. 'Why?' Then his grey-green eyes had rolled to the back of this head and his horrible rattled breathing had quietened to a steady rasp. Aunt Margaret had thrown herself across him, as best as the silver choker would allow; her mouth widened in a hollow silent scream.
Melanie swung her legs over the side of the bed coaxing her toes to touch the frozen floorboards. She must make the tea, for Aunt Margaret would be resting. The frigidity in the house bit through her. She could see her own colourless clouds of breath hover as she descended the stairs. There was no warmth inside this house. Not even from the red people. Not now. The cold air gnawed away at her flesh penetrating layers, finally burrowing deep, lodging itself in her very heart.
Melanie busied herself in the kitchen fearful of meeting the dog's watching eyes. It would know that Finn wasn't here. But still she couldn't face it. She wondered if Finn would ever gain consciousness. He had fallen heavily like a large stone thrown into a bucket of still water.
'Are you all right, Pet?' The kind words cuts through the air and engulfed her. She turned to face Franky.
'I, I don't...' Melanie stuttered, 'Oh, poor Finn.'
Fat translucent tears rolled down her face. The Irishman held her stiffly to her his breast just as he had done when she had seen the severed hand in the knife drawer. Only this time it was a reality that she has seen. Not an illusion. No amount of soothing could convince her otherwise.
'You mustn't cry,' Franky said in his slow manner, 'Your Uncle Philip doesn't like women to show emotion. Come on, Pet.'
Melanie fiercely fought with her feelings desperate not to make her uncle any angrier than he was already. Furiously brushing away the tell-tale tears from her dark eyelashes, she poured Franky a cup of tea. The two sat in silence, each plagued by their own devouring thoughts.
Aunt Margaret spent most of the day visiting Finn at the hospital. She took Victoria with her for company but also to convince the little girl that Finn hadn't gone to heaven yet. With those two away, it left only Jonathon, Uncle Philip and Melanie. Franky had gone to another ceilidh. So she kept shop while her brother and Uncle busied themselves in the workshop.
Melanie had always felt more at ease in the shop than in the house but today the presence of the handcrafted toys was a constant shocking reminder of the disastrous puppet show. She shuddered. When a young man came in looking for a present for his seven year old nephew, Melanie didn't feel her usual excitement as the server behind the counter.
'No sale! No sale!' screeched Joey. Melanie looked away from the bird, catching sight of her uncle bent over engrossed in the task at hand. She managed a feeble smile as she listened to the man's questions. But no feelings of delight escaped her blanket of gloom as she opened box after box of tiny wooden animals. The man didn't seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm however, and left with a large brown paper parcel tucked under his arm.
Melanie tried to forget the fearful ogre who was working just feet away from her. Uncle Philip had said that he would use her for his next puppet show. Goodness! How would she ever cope? She ruffled the parakeet's feathers thinking of Uncle Philip's thick bushy eyebrows raised in fury. She couldn't even elegantly control her own long legs, let alone the complexities of a wooden doll. Once again, her mind turned to the comforting possibility of running away. Maybe one day.
Aunt Margaret returned with Victoria late that afternoon. 'No good, Melanie. He hasn't woken up,' she chalked anxiously on the board, her hand shaking as she wrote.
'Maybe tomorrow,' Melanie audibly whispered as she squeezed her aunt's twig-like wrist. Her aunt nodded, her large dark eyes vacant and unblinking. Victoria played quietly on the floor at their feet, her gurgling lesser than usual, obviously aware that something was not quite right.
Dinner was abnormally quiet that night. After all, cheeky Finn wasn't there to pass antagonistic comments that undoubtedly annoyed Uncle Philip.
'Rehearsals start tonight, girly,' barked Uncle Philip as he stabbed his dinner knife in Melanie's general direction.
His words shattered the silence like a heavy foot treading down on a delicate Christmas bauble. Melanie's heart pounded, the dark red liquid thundering in her ears. She looked at her aunt who held her fork in mid air, whiter than white. Saliva collected at the corners of her open mouth, silvery strands growing with every passing moment. She briefly met Melanie's pleading eyes but then began to methodically cut her potatoes into manageable sized pieces. Her heart sinking, Melanie felt abandoned and alone. She didn't even have Finn.
It was now her third rehearsal with Uncle Philip. She dreaded going down to the workshop. The place was suffocating and filled with his frightening creations. He wouldn't allow anyone else in the room when they were practising. It was just to be Uncle Philip and Melanie.
Tonight was different. Melanie automatically sensed it as he closed the door and walked steadily towards her. She backed away until the coarse, splintered edge of the workbench pressed into her young spine.His warm, sour breath whistled in her ear blowing wisps of her fine dark hair loose. She flinched instinctively.
'Just like your Ma aren't you, girly?'
Melanie stood stock still. Repulsed by this breach of her personal space. She couldn't answer, his bodily presence stifling any inclination to cry out. Her flesh crawled with growing cold-hearted fear.
The hair of his eyebrows stood upright and proud, sprouting out of the deep pores of his flesh in long wiry strands. Melanie began to count each greying thread as Uncle Philip's hand edged its way over her knee.
'Three, four, five...' murmured Melanie.
His palm felt rough as it traced its inevitable path upwards along her snowy flesh. She wondered how many toys he had crafted with that hand, all the time acutely aware of its progress slithering silently like a snake waiting to pounce on its prey.
'Seventeen, eighteen...'
His breath came hotter and faster in her ear. She remembered the false teeth in the glass. The particles of food floating aimlessly in the cloudy water. The bright shiny pinkness of the artificial gums against the yellow-white of the teeth. And still the hand climbed.
Melanie's leg ached but she daren't shift her body weight for fear of speeding up the process of the inching fingers. Her mouth was clamped shut unwilling to breathe in any of this foulness. Her eyes remained focused on the thick eyebrows and her brain buzzed with over exertion.
'Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven...' He couldn't be doing this, could he? She stole a glance down at her own hand gripping the wooden bench. The knuckles bursting out of the taut flesh in bright mounds of whiteness, her fingers creaking under the strain.
She could feel Uncle Philip push against her. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. She tasted blood just like Finn had. Uncle Philip's bushy moustache tickled her ear, the fibres fiercely bristling against her delicate lobe. With a start, Melanie felt his mouth hard on hers. Tears sprang hotly to her eyes. His hand plunged roughly between her legs. His tongue like sandpaper as it probed for hers.
Everything was hard and rough. Pain seared through her as cleanly and sharply as wire through a block of cheese. The smell of wood chipping, the lacquer of his hair, the denture adhesive, the sweat of his putrid excitement. She choked on everything. The roughness of his hands, the hardness of the bench against her as he pushed her backwards. Down. She rolled her eyes upwards not wanting to see Uncle Philip doing this to her. And then she felt as if she was splitting in two. The hard swell inside her, ripping right through going deeper and deeper.
Melanie's head began to swim. She was struggling to focus, the force pushing her head backwards. From the upside down shelf, two black shiny eyes reflected hers. A gold painted beak jutted out from a sea of white virginal feathers. It was an ugly disgusting puppet. Another of his masterpieces. The beak was unnaturally pointed. Sharp. In and out, in and out it went. And as Melanie lay helpless and soiled, Uncle Philip crushed every breath from her immature lungs with his weight and force. And all the time, the swan watched.
To be continued...
The vision of Finn splayed awkwardly across the stage danced flamboyantly in her mind's eye. He had only remained conscious for a few moments. 'Why can I taste blood, Maggie?' He had asked. 'Why?' Then his grey-green eyes had rolled to the back of this head and his horrible rattled breathing had quietened to a steady rasp. Aunt Margaret had thrown herself across him, as best as the silver choker would allow; her mouth widened in a hollow silent scream.
Melanie swung her legs over the side of the bed coaxing her toes to touch the frozen floorboards. She must make the tea, for Aunt Margaret would be resting. The frigidity in the house bit through her. She could see her own colourless clouds of breath hover as she descended the stairs. There was no warmth inside this house. Not even from the red people. Not now. The cold air gnawed away at her flesh penetrating layers, finally burrowing deep, lodging itself in her very heart.
Melanie busied herself in the kitchen fearful of meeting the dog's watching eyes. It would know that Finn wasn't here. But still she couldn't face it. She wondered if Finn would ever gain consciousness. He had fallen heavily like a large stone thrown into a bucket of still water.
'Are you all right, Pet?' The kind words cuts through the air and engulfed her. She turned to face Franky.
'I, I don't...' Melanie stuttered, 'Oh, poor Finn.'
Fat translucent tears rolled down her face. The Irishman held her stiffly to her his breast just as he had done when she had seen the severed hand in the knife drawer. Only this time it was a reality that she has seen. Not an illusion. No amount of soothing could convince her otherwise.
'You mustn't cry,' Franky said in his slow manner, 'Your Uncle Philip doesn't like women to show emotion. Come on, Pet.'
Melanie fiercely fought with her feelings desperate not to make her uncle any angrier than he was already. Furiously brushing away the tell-tale tears from her dark eyelashes, she poured Franky a cup of tea. The two sat in silence, each plagued by their own devouring thoughts.
Aunt Margaret spent most of the day visiting Finn at the hospital. She took Victoria with her for company but also to convince the little girl that Finn hadn't gone to heaven yet. With those two away, it left only Jonathon, Uncle Philip and Melanie. Franky had gone to another ceilidh. So she kept shop while her brother and Uncle busied themselves in the workshop.
Melanie had always felt more at ease in the shop than in the house but today the presence of the handcrafted toys was a constant shocking reminder of the disastrous puppet show. She shuddered. When a young man came in looking for a present for his seven year old nephew, Melanie didn't feel her usual excitement as the server behind the counter.
'No sale! No sale!' screeched Joey. Melanie looked away from the bird, catching sight of her uncle bent over engrossed in the task at hand. She managed a feeble smile as she listened to the man's questions. But no feelings of delight escaped her blanket of gloom as she opened box after box of tiny wooden animals. The man didn't seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm however, and left with a large brown paper parcel tucked under his arm.
Melanie tried to forget the fearful ogre who was working just feet away from her. Uncle Philip had said that he would use her for his next puppet show. Goodness! How would she ever cope? She ruffled the parakeet's feathers thinking of Uncle Philip's thick bushy eyebrows raised in fury. She couldn't even elegantly control her own long legs, let alone the complexities of a wooden doll. Once again, her mind turned to the comforting possibility of running away. Maybe one day.
Aunt Margaret returned with Victoria late that afternoon. 'No good, Melanie. He hasn't woken up,' she chalked anxiously on the board, her hand shaking as she wrote.
'Maybe tomorrow,' Melanie audibly whispered as she squeezed her aunt's twig-like wrist. Her aunt nodded, her large dark eyes vacant and unblinking. Victoria played quietly on the floor at their feet, her gurgling lesser than usual, obviously aware that something was not quite right.
Dinner was abnormally quiet that night. After all, cheeky Finn wasn't there to pass antagonistic comments that undoubtedly annoyed Uncle Philip.
'Rehearsals start tonight, girly,' barked Uncle Philip as he stabbed his dinner knife in Melanie's general direction.
His words shattered the silence like a heavy foot treading down on a delicate Christmas bauble. Melanie's heart pounded, the dark red liquid thundering in her ears. She looked at her aunt who held her fork in mid air, whiter than white. Saliva collected at the corners of her open mouth, silvery strands growing with every passing moment. She briefly met Melanie's pleading eyes but then began to methodically cut her potatoes into manageable sized pieces. Her heart sinking, Melanie felt abandoned and alone. She didn't even have Finn.
*****
Tonight was different. Melanie automatically sensed it as he closed the door and walked steadily towards her. She backed away until the coarse, splintered edge of the workbench pressed into her young spine.His warm, sour breath whistled in her ear blowing wisps of her fine dark hair loose. She flinched instinctively.
'Just like your Ma aren't you, girly?'
Melanie stood stock still. Repulsed by this breach of her personal space. She couldn't answer, his bodily presence stifling any inclination to cry out. Her flesh crawled with growing cold-hearted fear.
The hair of his eyebrows stood upright and proud, sprouting out of the deep pores of his flesh in long wiry strands. Melanie began to count each greying thread as Uncle Philip's hand edged its way over her knee.
'Three, four, five...' murmured Melanie.
His palm felt rough as it traced its inevitable path upwards along her snowy flesh. She wondered how many toys he had crafted with that hand, all the time acutely aware of its progress slithering silently like a snake waiting to pounce on its prey.
'Seventeen, eighteen...'
His breath came hotter and faster in her ear. She remembered the false teeth in the glass. The particles of food floating aimlessly in the cloudy water. The bright shiny pinkness of the artificial gums against the yellow-white of the teeth. And still the hand climbed.
Melanie's leg ached but she daren't shift her body weight for fear of speeding up the process of the inching fingers. Her mouth was clamped shut unwilling to breathe in any of this foulness. Her eyes remained focused on the thick eyebrows and her brain buzzed with over exertion.
'Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven...' He couldn't be doing this, could he? She stole a glance down at her own hand gripping the wooden bench. The knuckles bursting out of the taut flesh in bright mounds of whiteness, her fingers creaking under the strain.
She could feel Uncle Philip push against her. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. She tasted blood just like Finn had. Uncle Philip's bushy moustache tickled her ear, the fibres fiercely bristling against her delicate lobe. With a start, Melanie felt his mouth hard on hers. Tears sprang hotly to her eyes. His hand plunged roughly between her legs. His tongue like sandpaper as it probed for hers.
Everything was hard and rough. Pain seared through her as cleanly and sharply as wire through a block of cheese. The smell of wood chipping, the lacquer of his hair, the denture adhesive, the sweat of his putrid excitement. She choked on everything. The roughness of his hands, the hardness of the bench against her as he pushed her backwards. Down. She rolled her eyes upwards not wanting to see Uncle Philip doing this to her. And then she felt as if she was splitting in two. The hard swell inside her, ripping right through going deeper and deeper.
Melanie's head began to swim. She was struggling to focus, the force pushing her head backwards. From the upside down shelf, two black shiny eyes reflected hers. A gold painted beak jutted out from a sea of white virginal feathers. It was an ugly disgusting puppet. Another of his masterpieces. The beak was unnaturally pointed. Sharp. In and out, in and out it went. And as Melanie lay helpless and soiled, Uncle Philip crushed every breath from her immature lungs with his weight and force. And all the time, the swan watched.
To be continued...
Early Death...
You fought so hard to stay with us
Your fight was so in vain
You gently closed your tired eyes
And took away your pain
We saw you getting weary
When a cure was not to be
Death gently put his arms around you
And whispered, "Come with me."
I didn't see you close your eyes
Or hear your last faint sigh
I only heard that you were gone
Too late to say goodbye
My love and warmth are all I can give
These you shall have as long as I live
What Does It Take?
Who created time and who ensures that we all experience pain and suffering?
Time washes over us, occasionally distorting our identity in the ripples of true life. Then comes the whirlpool with its hypnotic and magnetic powers estranged from all other rulers, pulling us under to a world where nothing is familiar except the the looming fear of complete solitude.
Is life such a necessary test? What does it take to reach that state of sublime bliss?
We are all struggling to reach this perfected silence, where nothing can penetrate the heart or mind.
Souls are the most precious of all answers. But can they alone survive when the light and warmth fade and when confronted with a wall of blackness?
Only time can tell.
Goodbye.
Time washes over us, occasionally distorting our identity in the ripples of true life. Then comes the whirlpool with its hypnotic and magnetic powers estranged from all other rulers, pulling us under to a world where nothing is familiar except the the looming fear of complete solitude.
Is life such a necessary test? What does it take to reach that state of sublime bliss?
We are all struggling to reach this perfected silence, where nothing can penetrate the heart or mind.
Souls are the most precious of all answers. But can they alone survive when the light and warmth fade and when confronted with a wall of blackness?
Only time can tell.
Goodbye.
Burdens...
Have I seen you for the last time? Is this really goodbye? All I want is for you to be happy and I know that I can't make you happy in the way that we both dreamed of all those years ago.
Perhaps life no longer has a purpose for you; it doesn't seem to. But if you really are going to leave this existence and discover the supreme peace beyond all this, then I shall support you and understand it. For your sake, think things through properly and call, even it is to say the final goodbye. Whatever, I'll be here.
So much is rushing through my mind and heart. Things that I have never answered. Don't ever apologise to me. You have been a pillar of strength for me and all I can be now is the best friend that I can possibly be in these circumstances. You will always be special to me; always.
I know that you've made mistakes but you've also been the warmest person I've met. I don't regret a moment of our relationship. But I don't want to rekindle anything because when it goes wrong, it will somehow become imperfect...
Perhaps life no longer has a purpose for you; it doesn't seem to. But if you really are going to leave this existence and discover the supreme peace beyond all this, then I shall support you and understand it. For your sake, think things through properly and call, even it is to say the final goodbye. Whatever, I'll be here.
So much is rushing through my mind and heart. Things that I have never answered. Don't ever apologise to me. You have been a pillar of strength for me and all I can be now is the best friend that I can possibly be in these circumstances. You will always be special to me; always.
I know that you've made mistakes but you've also been the warmest person I've met. I don't regret a moment of our relationship. But I don't want to rekindle anything because when it goes wrong, it will somehow become imperfect...
Wednesday, 17 February 2016
When Lines Blur...
Come on raise your head once again. I'm trying to push forward but I am being tugged back. Heart open, head willing but feelings collide, pulling me back inside.
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