TORN PROLOGUE (2) REVISED
by 
Joella
|
Posted: Sunday, April 11, 2010 Word Count: 762 Summary: The prologue is essential to the story. It shows Ben's depressed mood due to a harrowing event and the story is about the journey that brings him full circle to this hollow point in his life. |
‘Life is a tapestry: every thread a journey, every stitch a footstep woven by memories, gilded by fortune and torn by tragedy.’
Ivor Field - Passchendaele 1917
TORN PROLOGUE
In the darkest hour before dawn, I lay haunted by malicious words that could not be true. Emotionally fragile, mourning a recent loss, I’d been trying to move on; trying to do the right thing: make peace with myself and live for my son. It wasn’t easy, but William had brought me back from the brink and with him, there was hope for the future.
With the sunrise came a new day, it should have brought a new world, but all that remain was the memory of yesterday: the agony of the moment my son was taken.
My mind trawled over recent events, tried to find a more positive perspective, but the will wasn’t there. I couldn’t stay here. My mother meant well, but I had an overwhelming desire to return home. Clambering out of bed, I stood to gaze into the night's sky. It had always been a great source of inspiration and comfort. But my eyes note only the darkness. It was black... Everything was black. Turning away, I pulled on some clothes, slipped into trainers and prepared to leave. I scribbled a note to say I was sorry, placed the folded paper on a pillow and crept out the back door. Borrowing the bicycle propped against the garage wall, I sped home, along narrow country lanes, navigating by moonlight.
Unlocking the front door, with tired tentative steps, I climbed the stairs to William’s room. His door was ajar and I stood wanting, but not wanting to enter. Desperate to fulfil a need, I crossed the threshold. It was chilling to witness that nothing had changed, when everything was different. Knelt by his bed, I smoothed his covers and lifted his favourite teddy. Holding it close, I longed to feel my son in my arms. To remember how only last night, I safely tucked him up in bed, kissed, tickled, told him I loved him, brought a lump to my throat. Eyes clouded as I recalled the moment he linked his arms around my neck to whisper,
“Night, night Daddy. Love you.”
Leaving his door open, carrying his memory with me, I crossed the landing to the rooms of two people, never more loved.
I was five when I came to live on my grandpa's farm. Tragedy brought us together, we became an intrinsic thread in each other's life and much of who I am is owed to his words and wisdom. William never knew my grandpa, but he’d loved his uncle ‘Doddy,’ in whose room I now stood. He too was missing from my life and every day without him was an agony beyond words.
Entering my own room as images formed in ever expanding light, struck a melancholy chord. They were everywhere, all those treasured, stored up memories: a cornucopia of daydreams, broken and empty. Tired and weak, folding onto the chair beside the window, I felt the weight of the room collapse round me like an iron lung. A gentle breeze fluttered blue sun bleached curtains and I sensed a presence I was desperate to embrace. ‘Breathe.’ It came again, that all too familiar whisper and though I knew I must fight for my son, the biggest battle now was with myself.
Exhausted, I went down stairs to grab a beer from the fridge. In the bathroom cabinet, bottled drugs of no further use to the people for whom they were prescribed, offered the comfort I craved.
Back in the kitchen, emptying drawers in search of a bottle opener, the large brown envelope that came to hand, piqued my curiosity. The enclosed document: ‘Barnstone Manor School Report 1974’, had me slugging down handfuls of pills. Thumbing trough, every page proved a potent reminder that this was it. This was the beginning of the desperate journey that brought me to this hollow point in my life. Weary, I rubbed my eyes and yawned: the cocktail was working. Picking up the class photograph for closer scrutiny, churned my stomach. Faces. Here they were again: the girl of my dreams; the true love of my life; beside the bastards who tried to destroy me. It instantly came to mind, all those lessons I’d been taught but never learned; all that bad blood spilled in defence of honour. Collapsing to sprawl face down upon the table, my mind conjured images, memories rewound, the years fell away and my life began to unravel...
Ivor Field - Passchendaele 1917
TORN PROLOGUE
In the darkest hour before dawn, I lay haunted by malicious words that could not be true. Emotionally fragile, mourning a recent loss, I’d been trying to move on; trying to do the right thing: make peace with myself and live for my son. It wasn’t easy, but William had brought me back from the brink and with him, there was hope for the future.
With the sunrise came a new day, it should have brought a new world, but all that remain was the memory of yesterday: the agony of the moment my son was taken.
My mind trawled over recent events, tried to find a more positive perspective, but the will wasn’t there. I couldn’t stay here. My mother meant well, but I had an overwhelming desire to return home. Clambering out of bed, I stood to gaze into the night's sky. It had always been a great source of inspiration and comfort. But my eyes note only the darkness. It was black... Everything was black. Turning away, I pulled on some clothes, slipped into trainers and prepared to leave. I scribbled a note to say I was sorry, placed the folded paper on a pillow and crept out the back door. Borrowing the bicycle propped against the garage wall, I sped home, along narrow country lanes, navigating by moonlight.
Unlocking the front door, with tired tentative steps, I climbed the stairs to William’s room. His door was ajar and I stood wanting, but not wanting to enter. Desperate to fulfil a need, I crossed the threshold. It was chilling to witness that nothing had changed, when everything was different. Knelt by his bed, I smoothed his covers and lifted his favourite teddy. Holding it close, I longed to feel my son in my arms. To remember how only last night, I safely tucked him up in bed, kissed, tickled, told him I loved him, brought a lump to my throat. Eyes clouded as I recalled the moment he linked his arms around my neck to whisper,
“Night, night Daddy. Love you.”
Leaving his door open, carrying his memory with me, I crossed the landing to the rooms of two people, never more loved.
I was five when I came to live on my grandpa's farm. Tragedy brought us together, we became an intrinsic thread in each other's life and much of who I am is owed to his words and wisdom. William never knew my grandpa, but he’d loved his uncle ‘Doddy,’ in whose room I now stood. He too was missing from my life and every day without him was an agony beyond words.
Entering my own room as images formed in ever expanding light, struck a melancholy chord. They were everywhere, all those treasured, stored up memories: a cornucopia of daydreams, broken and empty. Tired and weak, folding onto the chair beside the window, I felt the weight of the room collapse round me like an iron lung. A gentle breeze fluttered blue sun bleached curtains and I sensed a presence I was desperate to embrace. ‘Breathe.’ It came again, that all too familiar whisper and though I knew I must fight for my son, the biggest battle now was with myself.
Exhausted, I went down stairs to grab a beer from the fridge. In the bathroom cabinet, bottled drugs of no further use to the people for whom they were prescribed, offered the comfort I craved.
Back in the kitchen, emptying drawers in search of a bottle opener, the large brown envelope that came to hand, piqued my curiosity. The enclosed document: ‘Barnstone Manor School Report 1974’, had me slugging down handfuls of pills. Thumbing trough, every page proved a potent reminder that this was it. This was the beginning of the desperate journey that brought me to this hollow point in my life. Weary, I rubbed my eyes and yawned: the cocktail was working. Picking up the class photograph for closer scrutiny, churned my stomach. Faces. Here they were again: the girl of my dreams; the true love of my life; beside the bastards who tried to destroy me. It instantly came to mind, all those lessons I’d been taught but never learned; all that bad blood spilled in defence of honour. Collapsing to sprawl face down upon the table, my mind conjured images, memories rewound, the years fell away and my life began to unravel...