Rage.

The comfort of having my former husband behind bars, brought about my long wait for justice. But it also brought out a trait in me that I didn't know I possessed.

And even though I understood what I did was stupid - I enjoyed the emotion of retribution for more than a millisecond.


Three days after he was jailed, I drove to the mall on a chilly December morning, and saw red.

A few seconds earlier, there was no one in my rear view mirror. Then I saw a big pickup truck.

He was so close to my rear bumper that he might as well have been sitting in my back seat. I could see the whites of his eyes and his smug, toothy grin.

His dirty, scraggly blonde hair poked through the sides of his baseball hat - contrasting sharply against his bright blue football shirt. His thick neck muscles bulged with impatience.

He weaved in and out, trying to get by me. He tried to undertake me twice but the slippery grass verge on the inside prevented him doing so. His loud music filled the cool winter air.

I was getting sick watching his pickup truck weave in and out. Then came a small gap in the traffic flow. He didn't hesitate. He passed over a double white line with minimal clearance gliding by my car. There was probably only inches between our vehicles.

That's where I made a mistake.

I jumped on my horn. I shouted "Asshole!" as he passed. I know he heard me.

The car in the opposite direction flashed his hi-beams as he barely scraped by. He stuck two fingers out his window in salute.

Two minutes later, as I turned into the mall parking lot,  my hands shook. I kept reciting his numberplate out loud. I tried to remove my keys from the ignition, missing once.

His car appeared abruptly in front of me. Less than twenty feet away. He pointed at me with his fingers. In the shape of a gun. And then mock fired.


Revving his engine loudly, he sped away with white smoke billowing from his tyres.

He had definitely caught my registration plate. My car colour, make and model. Every part of me shivered.

Once I stepped inside the mall I rang the local Police station. I recalled the details ten minutes later to a young female Police officer. She said that they would follow it up straight away.

Returning to the car, I pulled flyers off my windscreen - I couldn't think of shopping. I threw them on the passenger seat. As I opened my home front door I picked the mail off the floor. Throwing all of the paraphernalia on the kitchen table, there wedged between two bills and a free newspaper, was a piece of blank white A4 paper.

Opening it up, I collapsed to my knees. The feeling of helplessness was returning after a brief sojurn.

"WATCH YOURSELF YOU COCKY BITCH! NEXT TIME I'LL PUT YOU IN HOSPITAL!"

I didn't sleep for two nights. My mind raced. My skin itched. I second guessed myself doing mundane everyday things. I lived alone. The lack of a home alarm in my new house didn't help with my new found insecurity. I became a curtain twitcher. Watching my back, checking my shadow.

A week passed and I had heard nothing from the Police. I even dropped into the station to see if the Police officer had anything new on my case - she didn't even remember me.

The fact that she didn't seem bothered, re-lit a dampened fire in me. I had fought back once, on my own, and won. Despite the incompetence of others, I had persevered.

It was simple. Considering his supped up vehicle, most likely he hadn't bought it new. So I looked up his make and model on used car websites.

Playing the "I want to buy a big noisy pickup" line - I got the address of the current owner without breaking sweat. A sultry voice can work wonders.

With headway being made and vengeance in my veins, I parked my car out of sight and surveyed the suburban address. Within one hour, I spotted the same red Ford F-150 truck pull into its drive.

And there he was. The same jerk who had near shunted me with the same smug grin. With a few seconds of chauvinism and idiocy I almost went back into my shell. He clambered out of the driver's seat clutching a cardboard box of cheap domestic beer. He was nothing to be afraid of - if anything, he was to be pitied.

I waited for three hours before all the lights went out. The street went eerily quiet. A light breeze blew wisps of errant rubbish from over-filled bins. Wearing dark clothes, I crept low toward his house. Constantly checking around, I only heard the faint noise of a whining dog.

Using the local foliage for cover and latex gloves for my own protection, I pulled a sharp blade from the pocket of my hoodie. I started slicing, cutting all four tyres beyond immediate repair. Air hissed slowly, like a release on both the rubber and my inner self.

I keyed the word "ASSHOLE" into the bonnet.

My final act was to write on the back of his note. I put it back through his letterbox, before I scurried back to my own car. I added my own veil of intent.

"LEARN TO DRIVE PROPERLY ASSHOLE. AND REMEMBER - I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE NOW."

Creative Daily Scribe: Beverly.With her eyes closed, Beverly felt he...

Creative Daily Scribe: Beverly.




With her eyes closed, Beverly felt he...: Beverly. With her eyes closed, Beverly felt her left hand twitching. Flicking impatiently, moving from side to side. Her mouth was bo...

Beverly.




With her eyes closed, Beverly felt her left hand twitching. Flicking impatiently, moving from side to side.

Her mouth was bone dry and her lips were locked together. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth, swallowing hard. It tasted salty. She took in a deep breath while her other senses stalled. An overpowering acrid smell of rotting flesh and burning filled her nostrils.

She tried opening her eyelids, but it was terribly difficult to do. Suddenly, the odd sensation in her hands abated and she felt sensitivity in the tips of her fingers. They were cold and wet. She rubbed her forefingers and thumb of her left hand together, which were sticky.

Behind her, she could hear the dull clicking of a nearby clock. Drips within the vacuous room filled the voids left in between the ticks and tock of the clock.

Beverly tried speaking, but all she could manage was a bare grunt. It took a lot out of her to make the effort. Every movement and thought was draining her. She felt her head droop to her right hand side and felt a heavy dullness overcome her body. She was drifting back to sleep — but her eye opened for the briefest of seconds — revealing the colour red on the floor.

And then, for the barest of moments, she was sure she heard and felt something scuttling around  beneath her feet. She knew someone else was in the room.




Beverly wasn’t sure how long had passed since she last was awake. She remembered, through the fog, that her eyes were tightly shut. She strained once more, and yellow cake from her right eye loosened. She blinked rapidly to dislodge it. The lack of aqueous fluid in her eye stung badly, as she bore it to the dull light of what she assumed was nighttime.

Breathing was laborious. Having the ability to see once more was causing her heart to race unexpectedly. She closed her eye, breathing deeply to slow her heart rate. Having composed herself, she remembered that the floor was red. Opening the eyelid slowly, she saw that the floor area, although unorganised and scattered with debris, was relatively clean.

Out of the silence, she heard a muted thud. Not too close, but within the building. Beverly tried moving her head back to centre, to look back at the ceiling. The movement hurt all the way down her spine, tingling her every nerve. She screamed, realising that her mouth was covered by some form of gauze and something on top of it.

The door burst open, she heard scuffling of shoes behind her and the feeling of helplessness quickly returned.




Her fingers tingled before she knew she was awake. This time, she heard voices. Speaking in a language she vaguely recognised. She had taken a flight to Budapest for cosmetic enhancement of her breasts and lips.

The words were terse, stunted and it sounded like they were arguing. Two men talking in two different rooms. The space in one echoed while the other was metallic. She could hear water flowing.

Beverly tried opening her eyes again - this time her left eyelid started to open for the first time. The effort left her breathless and tired.

The thirst was becoming unbearable. Her right eye opened further than before. Breathing deeply, Beverly saw something new.

She saw a row of grey cupboards, with two doors hanging off their hinges. Small vials of labelled medical fluid filled one open cabinet, yet the other was full of dirty, bloodied towels. Beverly shivered.

She tried moving her head once more. Despite her yoga core strength, she barely moved more than an inch. Frustrated, Beverly started to cry. Except the tears didn’t come. They couldn’t.

An alarm above her started to bleep and she heard footsteps behind her.

The greyness of sleep returned.




The awakening this time was far more brutal. Beverly saw someone she thought she recognised. She was kicking and screaming. She was bleeding. Two grown men in white jumpsuits were trying to restrain her.

Her blood dashed upon their whites. She could see everything. Her senses, previously dulled were wide awake with adrenaline.

She was handcuffed to a gurney. Every sinew of hers was moving as it should. She was fighting against the restraint. The skin around her wrists chafed against the cold metal.

Despite the language barrier between English and Hungarian, she heard curses that resonate in every language. Beverly recognised the gravelly voice and striking ice-cold blue eyes that had greeted her in the hotel lobby. Instead of being kind, open and disarming - they were grey and functional like the theatre around him.  

Before the calmness of sedatives and induced sleep took hold, she heard the muted sound of a thump.




Beverly woke, sitting upright. Her chin and head were flopped down, looking directly at her breasts. The oddest first thought struck her - my boobs haven’t been enhanced, she noticed.

The reactive part of her brain reminded her of the impending situation. She tried to lift her head but it was restrained in place by a studded black leather strap. The studs were pointed and silver in colour.

The strap went around her head and looped around both of her thighs, which were partially blood stained. She was naked apart from the strap. Her shoulder length brown hair had been brushed and tickled the sides of her face.

Her mouth was still covered by the gauze and what she now saw was another thin black leather strap. Her hands were tied behind her back. She sat in what reminded her of what her dentists chair felt like — plastic and uncomfortable.

The flickering light of the fluorescent bulbs above cast a shadow in front of Beverly that she hadn’t seen before. The tall lean figure of a medical drip on a stand. She had noticed that she wasn’t thirsty anymore.

The temperature had been turned up in the room. Beads of sweat formed on her brow. She could hear faint chatter in the background. Definitely one woman and two men.

In front of her, she saw the glow of a red light flick on. She heard a whirr and footsteps behind it.

Beverly tried using her ujjayi breath that she had been taught in yoga classes to calm herself down.  

She had an inkling of what was coming next.




Beverly woke this time facing a pool of pink fluid on the floor in front of her. It took her a while to realise that it was her saliva, mixed with blood. Her skin was on fire, yet cool air kissed her naked body.

She lay face forward with her head lower than the rest of her body. Breathing was extremely laboured with her face taped downward. She lay on what seemed to be a masseuse table. Except she could feel cool air lick her stomach.

But it wasn’t air.

A grey haired man with red ringed eyes stared back at her. Beverly tried to fight. She was restrained tightly from head to toe. Her energy reserves were depleted.

She could see small droplets of blood dripping into his open mouth. He enjoyed every drop, laughing loudly as Beverly endured physical and mental torture. The nearby dull thud returned — from what seemed like next door.

This time, exhaustion took over and lulled Beverly beyond the depravity underneath her.




Beverly felt forward movement of the gurney. The sudden jerky movement caused further friction on her ankles and hands. She knew she was bleeding, but screaming out loud would be pointless.

She was moved into a far smaller room with better lighting. She didn’t want to open her eyes for fear of seeing something she didn’t need, or want to see. The room smelled clean - like an industrial solvent.

Opening her eyes gradually, she was looking out through a viewing window into the hallway of what looked like a hospital. Except this hospital was more akin to a prison.

Ceiling tiles hung loosely above her. Damp stains lined the walls and floors. Flies lay dead on the sill of the closed window. The air hung thickly, like an invisible shroud would swallow any of her faint and tired screams.

Beverly listened intently for any sounds that she might recognise. All she could hear was the constant hum of a nearby motorway. If she could get there. She was strong, despite her situation.

Lifting her head, she gazed down at her fifty year old body and the situation she faced.

Her hands and feet were tied down by handcuffs. Her bare legs were taped down at the midway point of the thigh. A thick black leather strap was fastened underneath the gurney, holding her stomach down. Finally she had the gauze and leather strap over her mouth.

As Beverly lifted herself for a second time, the strap on her stomach shifted downward.

It revealed a large open wound beneath her ribcage, cauterised at the edges.

She passed out.




Beverly woke with the blue and grey eyes staring directly at her. She was still in the small room that smelled clean.

She couldn’t hear what he was saying. His lips moved the dirty pale blue surgical face mask. His eyes spilled out hatred and vitriol. She had no idea why he was angry at her. Until the haze of medication wore off and the volume of his rant near popped her ears.

He was raving at the western woman’s need for body perfection. He was gesticulating wildly about how women should act their age in broken English. Beverly was sure she heard the word “whore” at least five times.

She was calm. This man had multiple personas. She had a chance.

When Beverly had met him on both occasions - prior to waking up on a gurney in this hell - he was polite and atypically Hungarian. He said that he knew reputable doctors that could do her type of surgical procedures for half the price that she was initially quoted.

Beverly thought that his crazy pitch in a hotel lobby was odd. But she didn’t want to waste all of her father’s inheritance on herself. She wanted to put away a portion of it on college funds for her two grandchildren. The more she saved, the better chance they had. So she cut a corner and here she lay.

Beverly plead with her eyes. She grunted “please”. He slapped her hard across the face, snapping her head violently to the side. Then he unhooked the thin leather strap that covered her mouth. Beverly gasped, tasting the cold air for the first time in some while. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, French kissing her deeply.

Revolted by his action and purely by accident, Beverly’s stomach wrenched. She got sick into his mouth.

He overreacted. Slapping her hard across the back of her head, she fell unconscious.




Beverly woke with a major headache. She smiled, knowing this meant she could feel pain. She was staring at the ceiling of the theatre again and couldn’t move her head. It was held in position by straps and restraints both under and above her head. But there was no gauze or impediment on her mouth. She could lick her lips.

Glancing around she could see the shadow of the tall drip again. She felt lucid. The room around what she could see looked empty, previous to before.

A heart monitor beeped above her. A finger encasement on her right index bleeped back the information to the monitor. A needle leading to the drip led into the crook of her left elbow.

The handcuffs were gone. Black cable ties replaced them at her wrists. She could even feel bandages where the skin had been removed.

Moving her head ever so slightly, she saw that she was wearing a gown. It was a dull white colour with a button flap over her chest. She even saw a butterfly motif on the gown. It was a yellow butterfly with black edging.

Beverly started breathing heavily, getting a little excited.

The excitement didn’t last.

Another woman dressed just like Beverly, was wheeled in beside her.




Beverly woke to chanting, cheering and humming of male voices. Pretending to be asleep, she slowly
flicked an eyelid open. They were waiting for her. She could hear the audible whirr of a camera.

Six men, dressed in surgical blue gowns, stood on Beverly’s left with excitement in their eyes. In their hands in front of them, were long sharp blades. On Beverly’s right was the other lady, who Beverly had got a brief glimpse of. She lay motionless.
On a loud command from a loudspeaker, they moved in unison around their unsuspecting victim.

They gathered around her like the hours of a clock.

Beverly noticed the large glass jars on the counter. They were filled with formaldehyde and body parts. The woman’s face looked grey and lifeless.

They raised their blades high into the air.

Upon second command, they plunged their knives deep into various parts of the lady’s body.

Beverly turned away, bringing her hand up to her face. She knew the camera was on her.

She wasn’t restrained.

Waiting for Sarah.

Larry picked at his grubby fingernails. Using the blade of a rusty penknife he plucked out small lumps of caked black dirt, flicking them onto the floor of his battered Volkswagen Crafter van.

She knew too much and had to be dealt with.

The left thumb was proving to be a tricky one. He had caught his nail it on the lining of his weathered green army Parka jacket earlier. Not wasting time, he subsequently chewed it off and filed it by rubbing the tip swiftly over his black corduroy pants.

Wiping the knife, he finally caught a glimpse of Sarah leaving her workplace.

I have a lot to do this evening. Pick up the dry cleaning and do a food shop on the way home. Chicken and roasted vegetables for dinner sounds good. Then make calls to some friends in the force. Maybe there will be some fresh leads on this murder hunt.

She descended the steps from the red sandstone building in such blurring quick movement. Sarah paused to do something on her phone. Larry started the engine of his white van. He checked that his electrical numberplate changer was working. He followed stealthily, not getting too close. The alleyway beyond the north end of the park would be where he would make his move.

I turn on music - Calvin Harris beats fill my ears and tune out the day. A smell of pine trees and a warm autumnal breeze invade my nostrils - a complete contrast to the frustration I seemed to encounter all day. This investigation is going nowhere - fast.

She walked gracefully as always, pointing her toes like a ballerina, moving effortlessly. Her slight, slim frame could be blown along by a strong wind. Larry had watched her for the past few days and knew her ritual. This would have to be timed right down to the millisecond.

Her long red hair billowed behind her as she moved along the tree-lined path that framed the exterior of the city park. The contrast of her hair and her bright canary yellow coat made her stand out against the more earthy colours of the oak trees and dark railings.

The song Summer was interrupted by an incoming call. The tone on the opposite end of the phone was terse and forthright. The instructions from the Detective Garda were clear and simple. 

Sit down and stay put. We're coming to you.

She walked down past the eastern side elf the park and entered the pedestrian entrance. This wasn't her normal habit. He had to pull up and park, watching her from a distance.


Her routine had been broken by a phone call. Her expression changed dramatically. She began to look around, doing a full 360 degree turn.

Her multi - coloured spin reminded Larry of Wonder Woman.

Except this girl wasn't anyone special - she was just a cheap journalist bitch.

And she had seen Larry's face. And she would pay.

I was now shitting myself. How would this evil bastard know who I was? Was it the story that flushed him out? Or was the Detective over-reacting? 

How did he know what I looked like?

Sarah sat down but then got up from the park bench.  Confused, she sat back down again. Her gaze darted to and fro, watching anyone that approached her with suspicion. Larry had to act swiftly.

How long would they be? I knew that in the city I wouldn't be too far away from a copper, but what would I do if they didn't get here in time? 

I searched my handbag for anything that resembled a weapon. My apartment keys were the best option, as I slipped them in between my fingers with the metal prong protruding.

She was spooked, rummaging around her handbag.

If the murder hunt was stalling, well I definitely had a new lead! If this Detective was correct, he was coming for me. 

I was number four.

Larry donned the uniform, hat and pulled on a hi-viz jacket before closing the side door of the van. He walked at an even pace and entered the park at the same point Sarah had. She was just metres away.

Thank God they're here! A lone Garda approaches me with his hands upturned, indicating calm down. His dirty hands register with me, but don't distract me fully.

I feel anything but calm. I say nothing but exhale loudly. The last few minutes have been anything but normal.

She suspects nothing. She trusts the uniform, silly bitch.

"Sarah, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. You were quicker than I expected." 

He takes me by the elbow, leading me toward the street and a parked white van.

"My colleague had told me where you'd be - and what you'd be wearing."

His grip is firmer than I first imagined and I can feel him near lifting me. I know this is wrong - his hands, the information he divulged - but he is very strong.

Out of the corner of my eye I see another two Gardai running toward us. 

With guns raised. 

My stomach sinks. Oh shit.

Time to go Sarah. Time to go.

Bright Pink Knickers.

My eyes struggle to open.  Sleep is caked at the corners, preventing light getting through. A dullness seeps through me.

I hear the sound of a repetitive monotone bleep before my eyes adjust fully. They focus on a small TV screen about ten feet away.  The colour pink flashes behind my eyes as I close them once again.

The next time I wake my throat is on fire. My movements are stunted as I try to wriggle my fingers. They respond as the rest of my body remains motionless.

As I clack my dry mouth open, I feel movement beside me. My wife’s face comes into view. She is speaking to me frantically, but I am not quite hearing her. 

I can see her lips moving and I notice how beautiful she looks. Despite the puffy cheeks and dark circles. A thought pops into my head - why does she look knackered? I smile at the word and how funny it sounds in my head.

Water is brought to my lips. I sip through a straw, being very aware of how the plastic feels against my tongue. I don’t know if five seconds or five hours pass, but the next thing I know is that several people are in the room. The room is too bright for me as I drift off again.

As I wake once more, I am far more alert to my senses, yet still a bit ropey. There is no hazy or almost surreal feeling like before. But everything moves as if in slow motion. And the next thought that pops into my head - women’s knickers?

Things start clicking into place. I am far more in control of my body and voice, and am starting to feel the pain from my two splintered and shattered legs. I know that I am paralysed from the waist down – long before any man in a white coat confirms it. 

I have come to terms with it – my flying career is over. 

I will never be a commercial pilot again.

On the fourth day, I am up to seeing visitors and investigating officers. The doctors don’t want me to be over exerted. 

Flashes of moments in time start coming back to me.

It was the end of a long day. We were about nine hours into our duty. 

Hurry up and wait was the theme of the day. 

Pressures were being applied by ATC and our own company to maintain the schedule.

That's where the slow motion starts.

Tim got up to use the restroom from the left seat and I strapped in. 

Thank God I did.

Out of nowhere, we hit a large pocket of clear air turbulence.

Tim’s body hit the underside of the overhead control panel, flopping him down hard.

Blood oozes from his head. I can see a diamond shaped gash.

Haley has survived the initial pocket in the forward galley. I heard her hitting the floor. 

I contact Haley through the interphone and buzz her in.

She screams at seeing Tim’s limp body on the controls, after I have contacted ATC and appraised them of our situation.

I calm her down and advise her to strap into the third seat.

Then pocket number two catches us by surprise.

Tim is a heavy, dead weight missile in the cockpit - flapping left and right.

His right arm hits me square in the left temple.

No one is flying the plane. 

I am conscious but unresponsive.

ATC keeps hailing me.

Flashing lights, sirens and horns are lighting up the control panels like a Christmas tree in suburbia.

I notice how pretty they look.

I hear a loud, bone-chilling shriek behind me.

I turn my head to see blood spattered all over my left shoulder epaulet. The deep red colour contrasts starkly against my white shirt.

Perfect shaped circles of spattered blood.

The sweet smell of sweat fills my nostrils.

Then I see Haley with her blood stained uniform standing in the gap in front of the locked cockpit door.

My first thought is “what is she doing out of the third seat?”

She is freaking out. Her skirt has risen up, almost to her waist.

Exposing her bright pink - almost luminous, knickers.

A fabulous, yet distracting sight. 

I somehow know I shouldn’t be staring.

Another blood curdling shriek from her brings me out of my reverie.

Thirty two seconds later, I manage to regain some control of the aircraft.

We crash land into a field, just over two miles away from our final destination.

Only for Haley’s knickers – no one would have survived.

A Good Day to Kill. 

The wailing sound of a siren jolted Gordon awake. He glanced quickly at the bright red numbers on his bedside clock. It was twenty minutes before he was due to rise.

For weeks, he was nervously waiting for this day to arrive. The sense of anticipation was nearly palpable. His mouth was bone dry. He guzzled a large gulp of water from the glass beside the clock.

Swinging his tall, lean frame out of the bed he stood up and stretched his body toward the sky. He went through a regular routine of neck and shoulder rolls to loosen out his upper body. He needed to be as limber and flexible as possible.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water several times on his face. Once he had dried his face with a small towel, he made sure to dry up the marble countertop. He then opened a banana that he had left there the previous evening. The day always went well when you prepared properly.

In the cabinet outside the bathroom, he donned his running gear he had laid out piece by piece. He started from the bottom up.

All the lines from the famous brand maker lined up symmetrically up and down his body. That pleased him. He pulled the black balaclava down over his head and fixed it so no part of his face was visible - apart from the eyes.

Having checked and double checked his gear, he chewed on some nuts and seeds. Disposing of one layer of running clothes in a bin along the way would be easy. Picking out the right bin without CCTV coverage was crucial.

Confusion, camouflage and speed would aid his escape. One slip up on his behalf could lead to his arrest. Alleyways and tunnels were his best friend. Sewers were a last resort.

He was already sweating just thinking about it.

Walking into the living room he sat down and studied the routes in and out of the park. He knew the park well, but wanted to absorb everything. Cameras would be monitoring his every move but that's where the excitement lay. The elusive chase. He would be one step ahead of them.

Once Gordon was sure of the route and backup routes to slip and slide into, he sat with his back against the front door. This was his sixth time weeding out the slack jawed imbeciles that congregate and clutter the running lanes of Central Park at the weekend.

With twenty deep breaths relaxing his every core he visualized committing the act. And then he saw himself bobbing and weaving, escaping their clutches.

It was time.

He picked up the map and burned it in an empty metal can. Slipping on latex gloves he removed the slim ultra light blade from it's plastic wrapping and slid it into the scabbard concealed in his left arm sleeve. Placing leather gloves over the latex, he now was ready to step out into the frigid air.

It was time to remove another annoyance. 

  

Search for a Good Samaritan.

He scratched the back of his near bald head as he seemed to scramble his brain for that last number. He exhaled loudly, drawing a blank.

“Pick the winning ones,” I offered.

“If only it were that easy!” he responded.

My ash walking stick made a loud clack against the tiles underfoot as I tried to prop it up against the neighbouring lottery stand. He kindly, quick as a flash, spun around and lifted it from the ground for me.

“Thanks a million son – if I bend down for that I might never get up again! Age is a terrible affliction, don’t you know!”

“Ah sure listen I played football last night myself and I’m creaking in places that I didn’t know I had places!”

“And why would you be aching at your young age?”

“Oh, I’m older than I look, despite the lack of growth on top!”

He smiled a broad mouth of yellowing teeth, yet his eyes were soft and luminescent. They were a deep brown colour, contrasting against his pale complexion. He was a beanpole of a young man, definitely a foot above my miniscule five foot frame.

“Jaysus I can’t remember the last number she always gets me to do! Can you believe that? We’re together twelve years and I do the same numbers for her every week – what the hell is that number?” he pondered.

“Well what numbers have you got?”

“I’ve got 2, 6, 10, 23, and 28 - but can’t remember the last one.”

“Is it a birthday, house number or special date?”

“No, it’s none of those. Jaysus what do I do now? She’ll kill me if I just throw a number in.”

“Can you give her a quick ring? Then that way she can’t blame you.”

“No, unfortunately I can’t – she’s at work.”

“Well you have to pick something. It could be lucky.”

“Jaysus I wouldn’t win an argument. It’d be like my luck to be the actual week where her numbers come up and I have one of them wrong.”

“Oh sure doesn’t everyone dread that scenario? To see your numbers come up when you haven’t had time to do them.”

“I think I saw an article in one of the Sunday papers where this guy was in hospital getting some operation done and couldn’t get out to do his lotto. And then guess what? His fecking numbers came up in the one week he didn’t do them!”

“Ah jaysus, that’d be hell. Talking of not getting a chance to do them – where is the eejit behind this counter to serve us? I’ve a bus to catch at ten to four.”

“Yeah you’re right. There hasn’t been anyone at this counter for some time.”

The large bustling post office was heaving with customers and four staff tended to them in rotation. Another couple waited in line to process their lottery tickets too. We waited another minute or two patiently.

“What time is it there son?” I asked of the young gentleman.

“Eh, it’s twenty minutes to four exactly.”

“Ah I can’t wait much longer – my bus could be early and I can’t afford to miss it. If I don’t catch it I have to wait another hour. And the cold of the evening drives my arthritis wild.”

“Yeah its mad how quickly the evenings are drawing in, isn’t it?”

“Every year passes more rapidly than the last. Make use of your youth, if I can pass on any advice to you.”

“Have you far to travel?”

“Not too far – the next town over. The bus ride takes about half an hour, depending on traffic and how often it stops.”

“Do you know - I might go up and ask them to tend to us. We’ve been waiting here for over ten minutes.”

“I genuinely can’t wait much longer son – I better go as crossing that road to my bus stop with this dodgy hip of mine will take at least five minutes.”

“Are you sure? Do you want a hand?”

“No son – I’m well able to look after myself despite my whingeing. Good luck to you – whatever number you finally decide to pick.”

“Pick a number for me then before you go? Then my wife can’t blame me if I get it wrong. I can blame you – the anonymous stranger.”

“Go for number 13. And my name is Philomena. So you can blame that doddery old woman.”

“Thanks for that Philomena. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck to you. Nice chatting to you too.”

I waddled out of the post office into the main thoroughfare of the shopping centre. People, young and old, stepped around me milling about to their destinations. Everyone seemed to be moving much faster than I. The chilly November wind assaulted my very core as the automatic glass doors opened to the street.

A police officer stood on the opposite side of the road, clapping his hands together for warmth. He smiled warmly as I took my time crossing the black and white pedestrian lines. Traffic waited for me as I scuttled across. From there it was about a hundred yards downhill to my bus stop.

The bus shelter was thronged with young men and they sat on the narrow bench, oblivious to my presence. They played on their phones, unaware of the world around them. Thank god I had my stick to keep me up. I propped my back against the window of a disused shop window for further support.

As I saw my bus approaching at the traffic lights a couple of hundred yards away, I spotted someone familiar jogging across the middle of the busy road. The bus pulled up to the stop as I recognized my friend from the post office. He held out his hand.

“Good luck to you Philomena!” he said, slightly out of breath.

I stood incredulous. What was he handing me?

“What’s this?”

“It’s my good deed for the day. You didn’t get a chance to do the lottery. You never know!”

“You didn’t have to do that!”

But he was gone before I got a chance to finish my sentence.

And that’s why I need to find that Good Samaritan.

Because I owe him half.

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?