Shhhh I'm Writing

Eighteen years, four days, six hours, twenty three seconds and one moment before the doors opened and he saw the light. 

He was captured two years ago. Only three years, sixty five days after they had taken his father. Incarcerated, he was left to count seconds, each a notch on his mental bedpost. Through the bars he heard the whispers of those left behind. A spectrum from mumbled remorse to screams of injustice. These insurgents do not listen to laws. They take as they choose. And they had chosen him, brutally and maliciously. Just like his father.

But he was young and there was an army on the outside. Names and faces he knew as old friends of his father. They equipped him with familiar weapons. They taught him how to fight. Then made an attack, hard and quick, paratroopers from above, tunnelers below. He rioted and for a moment he was winning. The army told him, from the outside, the prison walls were on fire. He told them, smoke was rising and the enemy was going quiet.

Escapes had been made before, some lasting years. For him it was less than years. For him it was one month, twelve days and three thousand seconds before they stole him back. The insurgents were angry. They multiplied marching out. Their mantra ‘divide and conquer’.

Allied reinforcements were sent. An elite force of snipers. Their tactic to target. They injected one bullet, specialised for maximum impact, into each enemy.  They stood back to watch, hands linked in hope, circling the perimeter. Until news reached them, there had been no kill shots. 

The enemy spread, and fortified walls, for one year, seven months and four days, in anticipation of the big push. The army went all in.  Grenades were thrown and bombs dropped. Handcuffed and beaten he was too weak to escape.

It took just one week and five days for the allies to abandon him. Letters containing ‘Nothing more to be done’ and ‘terminal’ found their way on morning rounds. He was left with a spoon to dig at stone walls.

The guards are pacing. They keep watch, now, more than before. They are waiting for something.

Eighteen years, four days, six hours, twenty three seconds and one last moment, where he felt a hand on his, and heard a voice he knew, and shut his eyes, and took one last breath, and walked through bars, and guards, and walls, and into light.

Stepping feet that Pattern the path lead Billy home.

His young hand reluctant to turn the knob

Of a shiny blue door.

His voice calls out, a loving murmur, a bitter heart.

‘Hallo sweetheart’, she replies,

‘How was your day?’ he lies.

Bodies mimicking, leaning in,

Kissing cheeks.

Then a routine sharing of days-

His spent at work, too short,

MI5,

The dream job a release from monotony.

His eyes track in, a new addition: clear liquid,

Calling dry lips and a bored mind.

She watches his fingers fumble the cap,

Talking of nothings,

She watches his lips tasting a new something.

The liquid level slumps, her temper rises,

‘You’re drinking too much’ she scowls,

His response to gulp it down.

Her hands reach out,

Bottle pulled from lips, he frowns,

Drops escape onto him,

And the green floor.

Frustration leaks from her mouth,

And she hits out,

A punch to his arm, a push to his chest

He growls.  He yells.

He’s fed up of playing house.

It was always her game. Not his.

A knocking, a pause, a silence.

Then Mum’s head at the door.

Roles shattered,

As she calls him to reality.

Released from his sister’s game.

He shoots across the garden, Mum ensuing.

In the green and yellows of her artificial home

Her feet stamp in frustration

Of her brother.

She sits                                                           

Pouring the remains of the bottle,

Watching the fizzes, and bubbles

Of the lemonade.

She sips.

‘Men’, she sighs.

The taste of stars

That touch your mind  

Are wrestled in down deep.

Alone inside a darker night

They scream out to be free.

With hands that claw

The empty sky

And fists that pound their rage

Through eyes that see

But never speak

Except to wet their cage.

Gold bars that lie to all outside

With their false perfection,

Confining flares of gilded hues

That fight inside of you.

And always I will guide them in

A galaxy of bright,

Blazing a trail- Star after star

That leads me to your light.

The choice is

Made, alas for him tis the end  and

Now alone I stand,  a solitary soldier.  Tall in

 This cardboard Coffin,   Exposed to groping talons

  Awaiting my advancing doom.   Left envisaging the battle.     

Ah the agony to have been devoured so, Duncan the first

To go, the brutality as it savoured your corpulent body  with

Slow-chapped  caverns of torture. As the clock struck twelve you

Were soon followed. Oh to be alongside you now, to see the sugar

 Frosted Gates. But no I the survivor confined within this dungeon,

 Dashed With the hued evidence, Left to watch as the beasts reach  

Back  Collect  Your  skin  upon mammoth  claws  and  callously

Deposit  Your  remains  in  slathering   pit  they enjoy  their  

Sport,  vociferous   Laughter   fills this  battleground.  Their

 Victorious  voices  mocking.  My time draws near. As does

The jowled Primate. I now acknowledge my fate.

 I see what I must do, I shall  go down

Fighting –  and  choke  the

Bastard

It was just a spark to start, all alone, waiting

For the breath of a whisper to give it air. It caught.

Your lie ignited, reunited the elements.

It ate the old first, crisping a glossy paper past,

Your face seared now, burnt bitterly in my fire.

It spreads insatiably- pulsing my heart, body, mind.

A new force, my new resolve. The fire rages in these eyes,

But they see- a sea of lies, its feeding rivers, like trails

Of lighter fuel From your mouth to my heart. The flames consume,

Devouring all that traps me. The walls are crumbling.

This fire sets me free.

You retreat, spouting soft springs of sentiment to cool

The fire, as it envelopes you, licking at your skin, Blazing away-

Until there is nothing left. But us. Now me and you. Divided

By dying flames and blackened air that glazes the past

Into a scorched mirage. Our love was the victim-

Burnt

      until

             dead.

Bedtime

All five teddies were sleeping peacefully in her bed. She had told them all a bedtime story. Milk onto reluctant faces had left little wet patches of white around their mouths which she blotted off. Reaching over them, she wedged the quilt down into the small gap between the bed and wall. Moving to the other side she pulled it tight, so it was up under furry chins. No getting out of bed for them. They were safe now. She was a good mummy.

A harsh yellow light was invading from the hallway. That meant it was dark outside. Time to turn on the nightlight so the teddies don’t get scared. She flicked the switch so sleeping beauty glowed out from her plastic prison. She checked her teddies. They were still asleep.

She crept over to the white wooden dressing table. The bottom draw held her pink plastic box of beads. She sat down legs crossed and tipped all the beads out. She picked up each bead and placed it back in the box in piles of matching colours. A small noise downstairs made her stop for a moment. She listened. It was just talking. Maybe tonight would be peaceful for her teddies. She went back to arranging beads, listening. Mummy was talking now. She liked Mummy’s voice it was always soft like a cat purring. Not like other voices. She heard a deeper voice. It made her stop again. It was from the television. That voice was kind too, she decided, not like Mummy’s though. But still nice. Not Like his.

She soon heard him. She didn’t mind the shouting so much. She didn’t like mummy’s crying though.

She shut the door. She didn’t want her teddies to hear. It was dark in the room now. The only light came from the glowing nightlight plugged into the socket. She looked over to the bed; the teddies were still asleep, good. Trying not to listen she ordered beads. Red with red, pink with pink, blue with blue. The clinks as the beads hit the box seemed to get louder. Red, pink, blue over and over, until a door was slammed. She waited. The TV was silenced. She waited. There was a twinkling of glasses being tidied. She waited. Soon there were quiet footsteps on the stairs and then on the landing. Waiting, waiting, watching the door. Each breath was too loud. She sat paralysed, a bead clenched in her hand, listening as the footsteps passed by her door and then disappeared into another room. She knew it must have been Mummy going to bed, only she was that quiet. After that the house was noiseless.

She sat in the dark as her teddies slept.

When all the beads had been sorted and the teddies checked she crept silently to her door. She opened it onto the shockingly bright hall. One, two, three, four, five big steps across the landing. Stop to listen. Then five more to reach the big white door. Pushing lightly on it she tiptoed into the blackness of the room. It was too dark in here. Mummy didn’t have a nightlight. She didn’t need to see though, she could hear; the muffled breathing, the click of each passing second from the clock, the groaning of the wind against the window, small naked feet tapping the wood floor as she edged closer. Eventually her hand reached the end of the metal bed frame. She felt her way round to Mummy’s side of the bed. Mummy was facing away- asleep. Carefully she climbed onto the edge of the mattress, and then waited; she didn’t want to wake her. Leaning over she kissed Mummy’s bruised cheek.

‘Sleep well Mummy’, she said. 

Climbing down she grabbed hold of the quilt tight in her hands. She pulled it up over Mummy’s hunched shoulders. She tucked it in. Safe now.