Sometimes I lose track of where I came from. I never forget, not really, but I just can’t quite trace it back sometimes.
A long time ago, the lowlifes never feared me and the cops and politicians would sooner kick me into the gutter than seek out my help. I wasn’t a weapon to them. I was trash.
There was a time I had to take whatever job got swung my way. Mostly they were revenge jobs on piss-ant drunks or cheating husbands. Or both. My first job was to beat the crap outta some guy who was cheating at a small-time poker table. Got me a hundred bucks and the guy lost a few teeth. These days I wouldn’t touch a job for a hundred bucks.
But no, I had to take the ones that truly scared me, or cut a little to close for comfort – otherwise I would’ve probably starved. That’s how I met Eddie. He was on the drug squad back then, and I was chasing a little junkie girl. That one was hard, real hard. It changed my game though. I owe that little girl – pity she ain’t around to help me out now.
This story starts at the bottom of a bottle – most of my nights went that way back when I first started out. Let’s go back for a minute… go back to square one. Hard as it is to think about it, it’s a big part of me. Continue reading
Dappled patches of sunlight were barely visible through the window of the small cottage. Birds chirped their beckoning calls to Jaden as she sat, reading the history book her warden, Alistair, instructed her to. She had just six pages left to read and summarise before she had nothing but free time for the rest of the day. With hurried hands and an impatient mind, she wrote the last few sentences and tucked the parchment into the book. She practically pranced to Alistair’s study and plonked the heavy book on his dark oak desk.
“Done,” she said triumphantly.
“Good, I will look over it tonight,” her warden replied. Jaden fidgeted and switched her weight to her other leg, waiting for his permission. “Dinner will be ready at sundown, I’ll expect you washed and ready by then, as usual,” his wrinkled face softened, “Off you go then, and bring back some wildflowers for the table – your daises are wilting.”
The first time I posted this particular piece, it started with an apology for being slack. Here is another *smacks own hand*.
So I had an idea recently, and it grew, as ideas do. I’m republishing this piece now as part of a series, alongside another series, but it all meets up eventually. This is the first chapter for this character, and my next piece is the first chapter of another character.
I know, I know, I’m not making much sense, but just hear me out, okay? And keep an eye out for the next chapter – which as is all brand new, straight from the depths of my mind.
Sometimes I love my solitude. Well, I love it a lot. I can go days without seeing anyone I know and not bat an eyelid. Some days, I revel in it.
I love the darkness too. I’ve always been a night owl, and comfortable in the dark. One of my favourite things is the moment when you’re about to go to sleep, or maybe just lying in bed trying to sleep, and you turn the lights off. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a moment of perfect blackness, perfect darkness, when you can’t tell the difference between your eyes being open or closed. No light, just perfect stillness, darkness.
There’s an analogy I once read, that some people only have so much energy to spend on certain days. Only a few things can replenish that energy, like sleep or being alone with a good book. I feel that way most days. My house, my room, and being by myself are what replenish my energy. And being with my boy. They are my safe havens.
I love my solititude, my perfect darkness, and my space.
But sometimes, I get afraid of the dark.
Sometimes, I’m afraid to be alone.
And being afraid scares me.
Okay, so I’m going to jump on a bandwagon for a moment.
Actually, I’m going to stay on this bandwagon.
Anyone in Australia – and some overseas – will know about the Sydney Siege that is happening right now and has been happening for nearly 13 hours. A gunman has people held hostage in a cafe in Sydney. Most are assuming he is a Muslim terrorist, at this stage. I won’t comment that part right now, except to say I’m hoping with fibre of my being that everyone makes it out unharmed, and the perpetrator never again sees the light of day.
*update – the siege is over, as of 2am, and while the outcome could have been better, it also could have been much worse. Sure enough, the gunman will never see the sun rise again, but his death comes with the tragic and devastating loss of two hostages as well. My thoughts are with those families, and the people who must now recover from this terrifying incident.
Telling some who is highly sensitive to harden up and stop taking things personally is like telling someone with anxiety to relax and stop worrying.
Or telling someone with depression that their life isn’t so bad and to cheer up.
Or telling someone who is suicidal that they are selfish and have plenty to live for.
Four years ago today, a friend of mine passed away. A beautiful, courageous girl who was not yet 18, battled against cancer. She wasn’t one of the lucky ones. I wrote this piece about her a few years ago, and felt there was no better time to publish it to the world.
We all miss you darling girl, each year gets a little easier to bear – but this day is always going to suck.
The third step squeaked on the staircase but the plush, caramel carpet muffled the sounds of her footsteps. Their old floorboards had always been too hard and noisy. An armful of blankets obstructed Maggie’s view and she stumbled on a toy at the top of the stairs. A short expletive passed her glossed lips before she caught her footing. The blankets slipped an inch but stayed snug in her arms till she stowed them neatly in the hall closet.
Walls of cottage white spread through the second storey, interrupted only by high gloss doorways to bedrooms, the bathroom, and nursery. Easterly windows invited in warm streams of sunlight that showed flecks of dust in the air, though the flecks were not permitted to rest on any surface in the house. One door was just ajar and deep blue carpet extended inside. Maggie’s braclet-encircled wrist pushed on the edge of the door and revealed a room furnished to precision for a little boy.