Creative Daily Scribe: BIG I, SMALL f. Why didn’t I stop? What emotion o...

Creative Daily Scribe: BIG I, SMALL f.
Why didn’t I stop?
What emotion o...: BIG I , SMALL f. Why didn’t I stop? What emotion on her angelic face assured me that she was okay? What if I had stopped? Would ...

BIG I, SMALL f.

Why didn’t I stop?

What emotion on her angelic face assured me that she was okay? What if I had stopped? Would it really have changed anything? Or was her mind made up?

Would she have told me to “mind my own business”? Or would she have reluctantly accepted a kind ear from a helpful stranger?

And now, because of my selfish inactions, a fourteen year old girl called Eve, killed herself. She was lying on a cold metal table in a sanitary morgue while I sat in my own kitchen, clutching a mug of hot coffee. I wondered why I didn’t take five simple seconds, for a truly troubled teenager.

My indecisiveness pricks my conscience, asking the same questions over and over again. Like a woodpecker chipping away at a tree – my own self-worth is eroding hour by hour.   

Years of training, clinical practice and common sense were absent when needed most. I saw the hopelessness in her face, gait and eyes. But I ignored it, consumed with my own issues.

In that brief moment when I glimpsed Eve’s tearful face, I should have stopped.

I know that now.

Her young enchanting eyes told a tale of desperation. Hers was a story of lost hope and of those who let her down. Her head hung, heavy from the weight of continual disappointment.

It is hard to describe, how you let someone down that you really never met or spoke to. A glance was all I got, but I saw the fear, apprehension and anxiety in her face. And I did nothing about it until it was too late.

I stopped working immediately after informing the Police. I couldn’t face patients or the smarmy idiots I work with. While they said all the right words, I knew they meant none of it. They said they understand my situation and condescendingly state the phrase “we’re all human.”

But I know that some of them may have acted differently. But they weren’t in my position. Self-righteousness oozes from their pores, reveling in my torment.

I know that some of them are now forming papers in their head, about my situation. How can they possibly profit from this sad scenario? Apart from my boss, most of my workmates are vultures. They bicker about everything and would clamber over each other just to get ahead.

The hateful cynicism I have towards them courses through me. They are not worried about Eve’s parents or the mental wellbeing of the idiot who passed the poor fourteen year old – just before she jumped from a bridge to her death.

Our lives are short. That’s one thing that I will take away from this mess. The biggest thing I have learned is to always trust your gut. If it screams that something isn’t right, you should listen to it – no matter how silly the situation seems or how proud you are.

Turn around and ask the question.

“Are you okay?”

Those three words can mean more to someone in despair, than the other three words famously depicted in movies. It gives a lifeline to those that are literally, teetering on the edge. It gives them hope that someone somewhere, is looking out for them.

That’s why my ignorance in those few brief seconds, now makes me doubt myself.

Who will trust my professional or educated opinion, if I barely trust myself?

Two days ago, I ignored my instincts. In that moment, my life as I know it, changed.

I had just completed an eleven hour day, dealing with the needs of others. I returned home to a mountain of housework, dinner to make for the two boys and a wicker basket full of clothes to wash. Doing everything on my own this past year or so was beginning to take its toll.

Just after 8pm, I went for a jog to wean out the days’ stresses. By pounding the pavement, I would drain the negativity of the day out through the balls of my feet.

My body was only warming up in the first half mile when I saw Eve.

It was her seated position that first piqued my interest. Why would someone sit on the grass, facing a small, boring, concrete wall? You could tell from behind that she was a teenager, due to the slumped shape of the shoulders and thin physique.

I initially guessed that she was listening to music, under the mop of thick black hair, escaping the world’s loud droning soundtrack. Her tousled hair poured over her shoulders and lay upon a red and black lumberjack shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a dark t-shirt of some kind.

My squeaky, spongy trainers announced my approach toward her. I had gone running in the rain two days previous and not all the water had drained from the soles. Even through the gaps in the narrow railings, I could see the desperation etched all over her face as she turned to meet my gaze.

Those piercing, ice-cold blue eyes penetrated my core. And yet when I think back, how could I have ignored them? The bewitching brightness of her misty eyes contrasted sharply with the dullness of the grey concrete wall that lay behind her.

It took mere moments to take in such vivid detail. But I continued on, forcibly silencing my gut to turn around. Why I did that, I may never know.

I ran down the hill, over the bridge and past the football pitch. I ran for the next two and a half miles, wondering about the emotive face of a troubled teenager

I ran a loop just so I could check back on her. But she was gone.

In more ways than one.

I returned home and thought no more about it. I put the kids to bed and ignored the flashing light on the answering machine. It was probably my soon to be, ex-wife.

The following day I checked in for work as per usual. As I pulled my car into the underground car park, the news report over the radio glued me firmly into the drivers’ seat. I felt a cold unnerving chill rake down my spine, despite the heat of the summer morning.

“Police are appealing for information on the whereabouts of fourteen year old girl Eve Taylor. Eve was last spotted in the…”

I knew straight away.

I just knew it was her. The pained expression on her face. The sense that no one listened or cared. I had a chance to try and prevent it, but my own problems came first. This is what stung most.

Was the empathy within me gone?

My legs felt heavy climbing the one flight of stairs to the ground floor of our offices. I was out of breath too, but quickly realized I was hyperventilating. Luckily for me, my boss Shirley spotted me struggling. She hooked me from under the crook of my armpit and led me into her office.

I told her about what I thought I had seen. I trusted Shirley’s judgment implicitly. She was always calm and assessed everything rationally. She advised that the best course of action would be talking to the Police.

She simply stated that my information might not be pertinent to their investigations into the young lady’s disappearance. I might have seen someone else entirely. I was jumping very quickly to a sudden conclusion, she said.

But I knew my gut was right.

Half an hour later I was sitting in a communal grey office of the local Police station. I talked to the Sergeant in charge of the case. He didn’t say much, but I could tell by his body language that he didn’t approve of me. No matter how many times he said there was nothing I could have done, I knew deep down inside, there was.

Put yourself in the Policeman’s shoes for a moment. How do think it would look when a Clinical Psychologist doesn’t stop to help a young lady – who is clearly in emotional dire straits? And then this person feels the need to explain himself the following day?

I could see his analytical brain ticking over. I knew questions like “Did he know the girl prior to the incident?’ and “What had he to gain by not stopping?” were running through his head.

I knew guilt was written all over my face and that’s why he was suspicious of me. As he asked more questions of me, I drove myself further into trouble.

As I fell further afoul of myself, his radar picked up. His probing instincts told him to delve deeper. As I spoke, I wondered if he would start investigating me after I left the station. What criminal record of mine would surface that I didn’t know about? I knew I wasn’t guilty of anything, but what would they dig up on me?

Would he investigate my motives for coming to the station? Why would I ignore a teen in despair?  I knew he was judging me. But my own self-judgment was far more important. Self-loathing was now atop my conscience.

An hour later I left my office for the day. My boss, despite her deep concern for my mental state, told me to take as much time off as I needed. I wasn’t sure how I would cope with this. I had the haunting image of Eve behind my eyes. I had to start coping with it and didn’t know where to start.

So yesterday evening, I reluctantly walked down to the bridge where I thought Eve may have abandoned hope. The old stone wall had gritty jagged edges on top, but enough space to wedge a shoe into. I couldn’t bring myself to look over the edge to the fast flowing water below, but its deafening rumble was enough to know that the current was strong and forceful.

This morning, after a restless night without sleep, the news on the radio reported that Police divers had located a body. It reported that it was that of a young female. I knew once again it was Eve. She was somehow speaking to me, from beyond the despair.

The body had been found downstream, close to the mouth of the river that washes into the sea. It wasn’t confirmed yet whether it was her, but basic geography told me that her river washed toward the sea.

If they hadn’t found her, she might have been swept out to the ocean, never to be seen again. Her parents will see a bloated version of their beautiful daughter - but it will still be their daughter.

At least I am grateful that at least her parents will have a body to bury. Not having that closure can be excruciating.

I’m don’t know whether I should attend the funeral. But I need closure too. Or am I being selfish? And do I mainly want to apologize to young Eve?

I wonder if the Sergeant told the family that they had a witness to her last moments. Were they told that I could have intervened? And my actions could have or might have saved her?

How do I move on?

How can I function as a father?

How can I EVER trust my own judgment again?

Creative Daily Scribe: Wife of a Terrorist. I ran out of the house just t...

Creative Daily Scribe: Wife of a Terrorist.
I ran out of the house just t...: Wife of a Terrorist. I ran out of the house just to get away. Some of the photographers and bloodhound journalists followed for a few...

Wife of a Terrorist.

I ran out of the house just to get away. Some of the photographers and bloodhound journalists followed for a few blocks but I soon gave them the slip. Here I sit on a wooden park bench, wanting the pounding rain to cleanse my forever tarnished soul.

My chest heaves as tears mix with the waters of the puddle beneath my feet. For a moment I am lost in thinking that when the storm clouds clear, my DNA will evaporate into the sky along with the rainwater. Right now, I wish I could float away too. I have never in my life, felt so alone.

My makeup is starting to run on my pale skin. My mascara is smudged all over. I really don’t care anymore. I dig my nails into the flesh of my left arm, just to check that I am still alive. It takes blood to flow before I feel pain. I didn’t think I could feel possibly any worse, but now I do. I try to use my sleeve to wash some of the salt from my eyes.

The adrenaline-sapping past couple of days have tested my own convictions about life. Mainly about how some people view it as a cheap resource. Am I just a pawn in telling the morbid tale of my bastard husband?

How did I not know? How could I have lived with this monster for eleven years and not suspect him of such unspeakable acts? How did I not see the telltale signs? Did I turn a blind eye to anything remotely off?

Forever I will be judged by the hatred in people’s eyes, wondering if I ever knew. They will wonder if I was complicit in the gruesome tragedy. I do not care about what they think, even though deep down inside, I do. I know I am innocent of their accusing glances.

Even my own direct family has had their suspicions, but no one shares their thoughts. I can tell by the way they shuffle about and avoid my gaze. This, above all other times, I need their support. Instead I get mutterings and shrugged shoulders.

We shared everything together. We were the picture of happiness. Was it all just a façade? Or was it evil lurking behind toothy grins?

I hope our two children of eight and six years old, are not affected by this. I don’t think they fully comprehend the situation, but they know that their Daddy is in some sort of trouble. They have been shielded, to an extent. I honestly hope they are young enough to forget this all in time. But snippets and snapshots of history will forever know our surname – all because of him.

How could I not have spotted any sign of such vulgarity, racism and ignorance? Were there any signs that he was capable of such atrocities? He was always so kind and thoughtful. Where did he hide his weapons? Where did he fund the cash needed to finance such a vendetta against innocent men, women and children?

The police have drained me mentally and physically. Here the rain is reinvigorating my body, washing away the insinuations that have been thrust upon me. They don’t believe me. They could not believe that I had absolutely no inkling. In my heart I know that I am innocent. I was not complicit in any of that bastard’s dive into depravity.

My solitary moment in the park is interrupted by an ever eager journalist with a camera. It is pointed in my direction as the reporter speaks into a microphone from about one hundred yards away. They’re trying to be quiet, but are making more noise than the howling wind and bone-chilling sheets of rain.

I don’t care if I look like shit. People have made up their minds about how dark my soul must be anyhow. So a brief glimpse of a grainy picture of a soaked woman, sitting on a park bench crying her eyes out - won’t change their minds anytime soon. They’ll just think I’m even more mental than they first thought.

I sit back and spread my arms out up to the sky. This is the first bit of peace and quiet I have had to myself in almost a week. No insane or inane questions. No arguing - defending my own good name. I can hear my own heart beating, fuelling my empty stomach and soul. I stop crying. I pull down the rolled up arm of my blouse to cover the drops of blood on my arm. Hoisted aloft, the blood falls toward my armpit. My sense of desolation deepens – no one can help me or answer my questions.

I walk toward the cameraman and his bubbly blond sidekick. I look directly into the lens of the camera and politely ask that they leave me and my family alone. The pint sized blond fires questions at me, just like Albert did from his guns one week ago. I ignore them all and walk back toward the house.

My cameo in the park is already running on the news as I re-enter the house. I walk up the stairs and turn on the shower. I step into it, still fully clothed. My mother has followed me, concerned for my wellbeing.

I crawl into a bawl. I rock back and forth in the tub. The feeling of pounding water seems to soothe me. My mother turns off the shower and holds me close. Despite her frail frame, she manages to squeeze me tighter than I ever remember. The hug takes me and I cannot cry anymore. I wail.

I disrobe the wet clothes and scuttle under a warm duvet. Reassurance from my mother distracts me from the shivering. How does life move on from here?

Will this nightmare ever end? When will the sins of his actions be washed away? Will life ever be the same?  

Frantic.

The iron metal side gate clattered loose. It clanged repeatedly, hard against the open latch. The first bang woke me, but the repetition made me sit bolt upright in my bed. 

The security gate could only be opened from the inside.

My pulse started to race. I gulped down the glass of water on my bedside locker to calm myself. I tried to switch on the bedside lamp but nothing happened. I tried the main room light but that too failed to illuminate.

The howling of the wind outside confirmed to me that either the power was gone in the neighbourhood - or something else was at play.

Glancing out the bedroom window I couldn't definitively tell if it was a neighbourhood problem. Rain lashed the pane in intermittent sheets of thick and misty ocean spew. Visibility was less than fifty feet. I powered on my mobile phone and quickly saw that I had little or no reception. Was this just coincidence?

I threw my heavy cotton dressing gown on over my t-shirt. Before unlocking my bedroom door, I took a deep breath. My hand shivered as I grasped the handle. I hesitated, knowing I was going out there without any defence. History had taught me to be me cautious and less impulsive.

I wheeled around and reluctantly pulled open the second drawer of my wife's old bedside dresser unit. Unwrapping a thick white bath towel, I revealed my newest line of self defence.

It gleamed despite no lights being on in the room. I loaded the shotgun with six shells and placed six more into the right hand pocket of the dressing gown. I slipped my mobile phone into the other pocket. I grabbed the small yet powerful torch from the top drawer of the bedside locker and sellotaped it to the barrel of the gun. It shined a bright path in front of the gun.

The last time something went bump in the night inside my house, I ended up in hospital with broken bones and multiple bruises. The mental torture of night terrors took longer to heal. Every bump for many nights left me sleeping with one eye open.

There were no guarantees of safety once I stepped out onto the landing. My ears were listening out for any semblance of anything that didn't belong. I quickly scanned the landing, swishing the shotgun left and right. The torchlight showed nothing blatantly out of place. I flexed my left hand, trying to stop it from shaking.

The old oak floors creaked and groaned under my weight as I nervously shuffled down the stairs. The banister inched a little as I grasped it for support in the dark hallway. Reaching the front door, I started clearing the rooms from front to back. I felt a cold rush of sea air brush my bare toes from underneath the door.

It was then that I first heard the sound of branches scraping off the window of the study to my left. It made me wince but kept the adrenaline flowing. I moved slowly, checking every space that could hide an intruder.

As I reentered the hall, I heard something move in the kitchen.

I paused before turning the knob. I flicked the safety off the shotgun. My finger quivered on the trigger.

I moved quickly the aim of the gun from left to right, covering all angles. The dog flap fluttered. It flapped once again, making a somewhat similar noise I had heard in the hallway. But I wasn't convinced that it was the same noise. Not that I wanted to go outside, but I had to go investigate.

My dark green gabardine coat was on the hook at the back door. Putting it on and stepping into my navy wellies, I braced myself for the weather assault. Hearing anything above a roar would be difficult.

The flowerbeds under the windows were badly disturbed, as were the stones at the base to the iron gate.

Twigs and light branches flew left and right. The sound of waves crashing against the nearby rocks only added to the cacophony of sound. The smell of salt lingered in the air, dulling my senses further. The gate led out to a path that in turn led to the steep cliffs.

Nothing stirred - apart from everything.

Stepping out onto the shale path, I checked left and right. A bare sliver of moonlight eked through the rumbling clouds of discontent above. I checked the public car park to my right, which was entirely empty apart from the swirling mini-tornado of leaves.

As I made my way back to the gate, something moved, just out of sight.

I spotted a dark shadow further up along the path. I shouted out, but no one responded. I flicked the light to and fro along the path, but saw nothing. But I definitely saw something move.

Fighting my conscience which told me to go back inside, I nervously walked along the cliff path. The slippery shale stones were unsteady underfoot the rubber soles of my wellies. The overused, over trodden pedestrian path wasn't safe, but my instinct drove me onward.

The sound of the waves was getting louder as the nearer I got to the cliffs edge, as was the intensity of the mist which was becoming incessant.

Then I saw another movement in the corner of my eye.

Sitting on top of a cliff side grassy verge was my dog, Max.

The poor frightened thing barked back at me, half apologetic. I lowered my gun and ran toward him. The poor thing was shivering cold. I threw my coat over him and carried him back to the house.

Max was spooked by neighbours letting off fireworks in the run up to Halloween. He had been left outside by accident, and in his panic had somehow managed to unlatch the gate trying to get away from the local pups throwing bangers into neighbours houses.

I lit the fire and sat in the rocking chair with a cup of hot chocolate. Max dried off with the heat of the hearth and fell asleep at my feet. Meanwhile outside, the storm raged on through the night. 

He had frightened the bejaysus out of me, truth be told.