The room was stifling as only the rooms of the dying are. Unable to keep himself warm, as his body broke down, the central heating was ratcheted up. The lights were dimmed as though he were sleeping peacefully, as opposed to someone who had headed into a losing battle and had been struck with a mortal wound now struggling to live. I sat by his bed watching every rasping breath hoping it would be the last, but really I knew he still had a way to go yet, no matter how much I wished for his pain to end. Three to six months a doctor had given him nearly three months ago to the day. We only heard six months and expected another Christmas together. A sense of being cheated had pervaded through the house in the past weeks. His three month sentence drawing quickly to a close.
So on and on with the rasping, in and out of air, each a struggle to comprehend, as we continued our vigil. Not letting him be alone as his final hour drew every closer and he quickly drifted away from us. Just the day before he had seemed to wake up a bit and even eaten, but that was a good last meal. His consciousness drifting already. The others had now given themselves the permission of a reprieve to cook themselves a meal and have a break. Leaving just him and me together. Never a comfortable situation even when he was very much alive and well.
The dimness and heat of the room bought me to that strange never-land in-between awake and asleep. It was then I became aware of them. As well as the hushed noises coming from the kitchen downstairs, I heard Them gathering on the other side. Somber men in dark, heavy woollen over-coats suitable for the cold, damp November evening. Shaking hands in greeting, introductions being made, they were quiet, respectful and formal. Brothers, uncles, fathers, friends. All male I noticed. The only woman he ever loved, liked even, was downstairs cooking, fearful for her lonely future. Understanding she was being left behind and not understanding it. A man’s man, not in the macho sense of the word just one who really never understood women. Couldn’t understand the flightiness of his granddaughter; or the ever changing moods of his daughter-in-law; nor the choices of his sisters. Comfortable really only with his wife and son. They had been his world and the world he was now leaving.
And they stayed gathered, as we were, in a quiet vigil, holding their own. Waiting for their brother to join them finally. Ready to greet rather than bid farewell, comfort, explain his new reality, smooth his transition. I heard their whispers, realising there was still some hours to go before the inevitable happened; their quiet catching up on news between each other, biding time, rubbing cold hands against the cold night.
And so we all waited.
The panic hadn’t set in but the tears had. Her bottom lip quavering as the shock of discovering the note on the empty pillow and what it said sunk in. They were going to kill her baby. Rip her limbs from her body; gauge out her eyes; horrific torture, unless she gave them what they wanted. But she wasn’t sure she could find all they were looking for and so many conditions. Why so many? And what did this word ‘revenge’ mean. Had she done something to deserve this horror, it certainly didn’t feel like it. Could she find someone to help her, but no - the most important condition of all - tell no one. No. One. Otherwise her darling Felicity gets it.
The tears were coming easily now, but she still managed to force herself up from her bed. She checked the cot once more hoping that her baby would miraculously appear or have never been missing along; her desperate searches a figment of her imagination. But no, only the hollow on the pillow gave a clue that Felicity had even been there. She couldn’t believe that she had left her alone. Even in that short time asleep in her cot she never imagined that she wasn’t safe. But there were obviously monsters out there. Monsters who would take an innocent just to punish her. She grabbed her bag and filled it with a few clothes and other things. Random Stuff. She had no idea why she was even packing but it felt like the appropriate thing to do. She dried her face with her sleeve and scurried the down the stairs and through the house to the kitchen.
When she opened the fridge door the voice caught her by surprise, she didn’t think anyone else was home. ‘Hey missy moo, what you after in such a rush?’ She broke far too easily and despite the instructions cried the whole story of how her nasty big brother Jack and his bully friends had stolen her beautiful baby doll Felicity because he knew it was her most favourite and was threatening to destroy her unless she gave in to this whole list of demands and conditions all because of something about revenge for breaking his police car with her digger (‘it was an accident!’). Her tears reached a crescendo as she realised she had broken the most important one of all. Tell. No. One. Obviously translated as do not tell Mummy. ‘Oh really, well we’ll soon see about that.’
After a lot, and it really was a lot, of shouting; She still didn’t quite understand this new word, even though she knew the ramifications; Felicity was returned unharmed. That evening she was tucked up safely, order having been returned to the household eventually. After the shouting had come lots of talkings and cuddles. And as Mummy switched off the light she was left alone with her sweet baby, to ponder this new word she had learnt today - revenge.
But I shielded it with my hand and it burned up again to light me along the dark passage. I had no idea how long I’d been here in the underground. It can’t have been too long if my candle still burned; but time had stretched and warped and flowed out of recognition. Drafts flickered the flame which I had to keep protecting, tantalisingly hinting of escape to back above ground, but looking for the source just added to the torture. The vague light made horror friends of my dancing shadows along the walls as they followed me through the tunnels.
Why I kept walking I didn’t know; I knew I was lost but to keep moving seemed the logical thing to do, however, irrational. To keep still was to await fate, moving meant life; I had some control even if it meant just making the choice of going right, right and right. But right, right and right again and I never once went down the same passage. Each seemed to hold its own character, a smell, a hint of aged decay.
I just didn’t know how much longer I would have once the candle had burned through. I tried not to see or imagine how scratch marks on the floor and walls were not made by some predecessor. My hearing now so acute I was deaf. I’d heard numerous scuffles and screams and then the silence and decided it had been silence all along. The last imagined scuffle had been sometime ago, whatever sometime ago meant. Nothing to hear and soon nothing to see. I wondered yet again after my friends and how I had lost them so easily after we had all made the most solemnest of vows to stick together. Together we could over come anything. Together we had each become lost so easily.
We were chosen as the most beautiful, brave and worthy of our city. We were told to be proud to be chosen. The truth being in my mother’s tears and father’s coldness as they bade me farewell among the baying crowds. Me just waiting for someone to call time on the bullshit and realising the mob were doing exactly that, but still doing nothing to actually stop it, in case the grain that made their daily bread and filled their bellies would be stopped. So there was a real limit to their empathy.
I should have a future with a family, sailing, harvesting, fooling around, growing old and wondering how I’ve turned into my parents. Not lost underground in some foreign land - my body never even left for the crows let alone burnt for the gods releasing me to find the ferryman. I always worried how I would find the him, now seemingly such childish worries. My spirit will be left to wonder this endless labyrinth. I don’t want anger but anger is coming easily right now.
But time has ended, the candle burns itself out; I feel hot breath on my neck.
