With the launch of my latest non-fiction book on the horizon, together with my recent debut as a motivational speaker, I realised my fiction writing had ground to a halt as I concentrated on my non-fiction projects.
Broken by Shelley Wilson
Broken by Shelley Wilson
People don’t mean to pass me by, they all lead such busy lives and just don’t notice what’s right under their noses. I don’t mind, not anymore. It did bother me at first, I had been brought up to care, be polite and keep smiling, ‘a smile costs nothing’ my mum would say, so I’d smile, care and watch my p’s and q’s. Dad had other ideas and would often stagger home from the ‘Dog and Duck’ and happily wipe the smile from my face.
Mrs Robbins, at number 53, always made a reference to mum’s bright eyes and cheery smile, ‘lovely family’ she would say, ‘you must be so proud.’ Mum would nod, ruffle my hair and smile.
Everything had changed in the blink of an eye. The power cut hadn’t been mum’s fault, the entire street was a black out. Mrs Robbins even popped round to borrow some candles. Dad didn’t care though, his dinner wasn’t ready and he was hungry; drunk and hungry.
Mum didn’t see it coming; it was so dark you see. The calming smile she used, to soothe Dad’s tantrums, was frozen on her face as she hit the floor. The power came back on just as Dad dropped the carving knife into the sink, ‘she’s still bloody smiling’ he had grumbled.
Screaming seemed like a fairly natural thing to do under the circumstances but Dad didn’t like that either. The beer bottle, still cold from the fridge, missed my head but I hadn’t escaped the explosion of green glass and ice cold liquid as it hit the wall behind me. I had fallen to my knees, clutching my head, my hands shaking with fear. The searing pain as he grabbed a fistful of hair managed to stifle my screams. Writhing and struggling against his big, calloused hands, he had dragged me down the worn out hall carpet towards the back door, mum’s motionless body lay on the kitchen floor, her lifeless eyes following my departure.
The yard was dark, nearby a dog barked ferociously into the night.
I had felt every concrete step crush the air out of me as Dad dragged me on to the dirt. The pain in my head intensified as his grip tightened, he swung me up against the crumbling wooden fence. His work boots were still covered in mud from the building site and I caught the taste of rock salt as it smashed into my face. He had kicked me relentlessly until my little body had broken.
My cheeks were wet with blood and tears as he hauled me across to the old wooden gate. The dirty alley beyond the gate led to the high street. Mum liked being so handy for the shops, it made her smile.
He had tried to lift me up and throw me in the industrial wheelie bin outside ‘Joe’s Take Out’ but he had been too drunk and uncoordinated. Instead he stuffed me underneath it and covered me with rotting leaves and fish and chip papers.
I’ve been here a day or two now, I can’t move my body, it’s so cold; I can’t speak and I can only see out of one eye. I’m missing mum, missing her warm smile. I heard the ambulance come for her and I heard Mrs Robbins tell the postman ‘no-one’s seen her husband or her little girl you know, terrible ordeal and such a lovely woman, always smiling.’
People don’t see me under here, hidden from sight amongst the rubbish, it upset me at first, but I’m okay now, I know I’m going to see mum soon. They’ll all see me soon enough, it’s bin day tomorrow and then they’ll see me, then they’ll notice and won’t be able to pass me by anymore.
I'd love to hear what you thought of 'Broken', as a motivational blogger and author of wellbeing and uplifting books I often like to explore the darker side with my fiction.
© Shelley Wilson 2014