When I woke up that morning I had hopes and aspirations that my dream would have been true. That maybe I would have been rescued and managed to escape, leaving my prison far behind; a distant memory. I might spend my days laughing and frolicking in fields, instead of slaving away in the yard. Alas it was, as I knew deep down, never to be.
It was dark outside still but the crowing of the cockerel had awoken me, just as it always did. There would be time to wash and dress before a rushed crust of bread and then it would be daylight.
I hated daylight. It brought the yard to life. It woke the overseers and meant that it was time to work. Daylight was work. If that flaming orb was high enough in the sky to see your hand in front of your own face you had to work.
I washed quickly with the cold water I had brought to my room the night before. I say room only because I had three solid walls and only one was solid metal bars, so it wasn't as bad as the cells that some of the others had to make do with. At least here I had some privacy. I could do my business behind the curtain without anyone seeing. I could wash without exposing myself to the neighbours in the quarters on either side of my own as well.
There was no lock on the section of the bars that swung like a door. This was not a prison necessarily. We had all come here of our own free will. But oh how it had changed with time...
I dressed in the one outfit I had. It was as basic as could be and since I only had one garment to wear I had washed it so many times in a bucket of cold water that the material had started to become nearly transparent in places. There simply was no room for waste though and so I wore it. I had no choice.
I made my way to the kitchen. I was the first one there as always. It hadn't always been this way, but I had learned that being first was important. I didn't think there was a chance in hell that I'd ever be the last one here again. Oh I had certainly learned my lesson that day.
Grabbing a large handful of crusty bread I walked to the corner of the room and took a seat. I ate alone. I didn’t speak to anyone else if I could help it. I had learned my lesson about that too. I had learned it very well.
Once I had finished I went to the wall at the far side of the room from where the bread waited for the others. I selected a sturdy vest and arm length gloves from the assortment that hung there. Being first meant that I would most certainly get a matching pair that wasn’t completely unserviceable. It was imperative to have good gloves in this line of work. You soon regretted it if you didn’t.
The others were beginning to arrive. They came in small groups of twos and threes mostly. I used to come in a group as well, but that was a long time ago. I had been new then, like they were now. My experience had hardened me. It had broken me. I didn’t laugh like they laughed. I didn’t care any longer about how neatly the bow had been tied at the back of my vest. All that mattered was that it stayed tied. I had learned that and someday they would too.
I watched the floor near the door to the yard as still more of them came. Their incessant chattering and laughing made me feel sick to my stomach and gave me a throbbing headache. I ground my teeth together. Soon they would learn.
The moment finally came. I could see the sunlight slowly stream onto the earthen floor through the crack at the bottom of the door. I was time. I got up and walked to the door, taking a moment to look at the others. The ones that had been here for awhile saw me and made a mad dash for the gloves and vests. Inevitably there wouldn’t be enough to go around. Some would have to make do with the scraps. Some would have two gloves intended for the same hand. They would curse this day. And there were always a few that would have no gloves at all.
Opening the door I let the sun beat against me for a moment before I exited the kitchen. I could hear the frantic scramble reach a crescendo behind me now. I confidently walked out to the yard, leaving the chaos behind me.
I selected a yoke from the pile near the door. It comprised of a long wooden bar with two buckets on either side. When I first arrived here it was one bucket that was carried by hand. The yokes came later with smaller buckets on each side. The bucket size had increased twice since I had been here though. They knew we could carry more. Not enough of us were wiped out with each gradual increase but now with buckets this size we moved much more slowly. It was painful work. Not a day went by there I didn’t question if I’d be able to survive one more load, but I always survived. That was the problem.
Loading the yoke onto my back I made my way to my first stop.
I got to the river bank just as the sun was rising. It looked like it was going to be a real scorcher of a day. As I set my rod and tackle on the sandy bank of the river I took a moment to watch the sun rising over the trees on the other side.
Darryl would have really appreciated this one. The midnight blue fading gently lighter and lighter down the sky as it changed to a warm orange and vibrant yellow just above the tree tops. He always appreciated the sun rises.
“It sure is gonna be a scorcher today”. I was talking to him like he was still here with me. I knew it was a bit of a crazy thing for a man in his sixties to be doing, and I knew if I kept it up that those nice men in their white coats at the institute would probably be seeing to me as opposed to me being here on the bank of the river seeing to drowning a few worms.
Darryl had been my fishing buddy since we were knee high. His dad had owned the local general store on the corner of Warnock and Vine and saw to it that we had our Fisher Price rods with big blue Donald Duck bobbers from the age of about six.
That was over fifty years that we’d been coming here. It was our Sunday morning tradition and I could count the number of missed Sundays on the fingers of one hand. Between the two of us we were responsible for worm genocide. There are roughly Fifty-two Sundays in a year. Fifty-two, times fifty years, times a dozen worms each, was a hell of a dent in the local worm population.
“Dammit Darryl, why’d you have to go an’ die on me ya bastard?” I muttered as I drove the hook through the thick band about a fifth of the way down the squirming nightcrawler. It lengthened itself in response and wrapped its slimy body around the side of my hand.
This talking to myself simply wouldn’t do long term. I only did it here though, and there was no one else around at sunrise on a Sunday morning at this time of the year. I knew that very well. Sure, the dog walkers, the joggers, the young mothers wheeling their babies in front of them; they would all be here eventually, but not at five in the morning. They didn’t come out until about nine; later if the weather was bad. I had at least four more hours to talk to Darryl as much as I liked despite all signs pointing to a glorious day, and there wasn’t a thing to worry about until then.
I attached a small lead weight to the line and cast out, giving it all I had. “Ha! I’d like to see ya beat that Darryl!” I said it a little too loud. A startled crow took off from the tree closest to me and sheepishly I sat down and positioned a bobber halfway up the rod so I could see any hits from interested fish.
I let my mind wander back to the last time Darryl and I had been able to come here together. It had been a rainy miserable day a couple of months ago. It was the complete opposite sort of day to this one. That day we arrived and I had a blister the size of a grapefruit on the underside of my foot from where my wet socks had insisted on rubbing against my boot.
I hadn’t slept well the night before. I was worrying about money again. Ever since the missus passed away and pension rate went down, down, down it was always money. I was late with the rent because the damn car needed new brakes. I was late on the electric bill because the rent needed paid. I had been sitting and going over the figures in my head as the blister on my foot throbbed and the ice cold rain ran down the back of my neck.
Old Darryl, he didn’t have any worries like that. He was well off. His dad had left him a decent chunk of change that he’d made from selling that old general store before he passed away. Darryl hadn’t married either so he’d only ever needed to look after himself.
He inherited his parent’s house and was able to sell his own place so he was always well to do. “And you couldn’t even chip in for beer, not to mention how often I had to drive us here on fumes.”
Some ducks that had made their way over to see if I had any bread to offer them turned their tails at the last outburst. Embarrassed, I realised then that a few hours must have passed while I was daydreaming about the good old days. Oh those good old days with my fishing buddy Darryl. “The cheap bastard...” This time I said it much quieter as the first jogger of the day came past.
I hadn’t had a single bite and upon checking my watch I found that the jogger was right on time. It was nine O’clock. I had been daydreaming for four hours.
Well my worm was most likely long drowned by now so I set to work with removing the bobber that was going to let me know if the fish had been interested. I threw it back into my tackle box and then set to work on winding it’s corpse in so I could re-bait the hook and try again. Maybe floating the next one since nothing on the bottom seemed interested in sampling the worm today.
I kept a good momentum as I brought my line back in. “Gotta keep the pace Darryl so you don’t drag on the bottom and get yourself a... Aww god damn it!”A snag! The line was merely three feet out in front of me. The murky water kept me from being able to see what I’d managed to catch it on but pull as I might it was definitely stuck.
I had a horrible moment of realization then. I hadn’t stocked up the tackle box in a long time, money being as tight as it was. A glimpse into the tackle box confirmed my fears. The long cardboard slip wrapped in clear plastic was empty. No more size eight hooks. No more hooks at all for that matter.
If I cut the line or snapped it I’d have eleven worms to set free today. It was only nine in the morning but I didn’t even have the change to get a new pack, not to mention the gas to get all the way out to the bait shop. “I don’t suppose your tight ass has any to spare either, does it now Darryl?”
The woman walking her poodle past at that moment started jogging after a quizzical look in my direction. Yes, it’s just me sitting here on a riverbank utterly alone and cursing my deceased friend Darryl for not letting me have a goddamn hook for free; nothing to see here folks, now move along.
I started unlacing my boots. I was going to get that line freed. My Sunday of fishing was not going to get away that easily.
Cuffing my jeans up to my knees I got a good look at the still pinkish flesh where the big old blister had been that last time Darryl and I had been here. Months had passed but that sucker was no ordinary blister and its mark on my skin; still on my skin... It spoke volumes about how much pain I had been in on that miserable day.
I waded into the water. “Wowee! Is it cold!” I held the rod in my right hand while my left arm went out to keep me balanced. I sunk a little in the mucky bleakness of the river. One step and my ankles were submerged. Two steps and I was mid calf in muddy filthy water. The third step managed to wet the jeans that I had rolled up to my knees.
Now that I had a different angle to pull from I tried again by giving the rod a slow and calculated pull straight upwards. There was give but it felt like I was caught on something heavy. For a moment the idea of the monster catfish that Darryl and I used to joke about swam through my imagination and nearly scared me out of the water. It could be a giant slow moving fish couldn’t it? Of Course not! Get a hold of yourself!
I was still sinking a bit as my weight shifted and I needed to keep one arm out so that I could avoid falling in. I needed to reach in though and have a feel around. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
Transferring the rod to my left I bent cautiously forward and used my right to break the surface. “Can’t believe you wouldn’t even lend me a god damn hook Darryl.” Due to the slope of the bank I had to reach a bit deeper than I was currently standing in. My shirt was starting to get wet around the sleeve of my t-shirt.
I followed the line with my fingers. Down, down, down it went for what felt like forever. Finally I pricked my finger on the sharp end of the hook and it took a lot of effort to not just pull my hand straight back out again. “See what you made me do Darryl. You tight son of a bitch.”
There was some sort of cloth on the hook and try as I might with one hand, the barb of the hook simply refused to exit the material.
“What the hell would cloth be doing in the damn river anyway Darryl?” I grabbed on tight to it, forgetting the hook and trying to simply lift the material up enough that I might be able to see it. “If I could see the god damn thing I might be able to get it out singlehandedly!” I explained to him as I strained against the incredible weight of whatever was holding the cloth there.
It was moving slightly when I pulled it. It seemed to weigh a ton though and the progress was slow. Sweat broke out on my brow and I strained harder.
“You couldn’t even give a friend a hand, could you Darryl? You lazy sack of shit.”
He was a lazy sack of shit. That bastard had to go and catch my god damn fish while I did all of the hard work. “It was mine you shit.”
Even with that big blister on my foot I was the one that had to run back to the car when he wanted the radio and another six pack. I went and got it too. “Because I was a good friend! Unlike you!” I was shouting now and didn’t care any longer who heard as I kept pulling and straining to move the big heavy cloth thing high enough up that I could just see it.
“I asked you to just watch my line for me!” The sweat was rolling off of my forehead now and dripping down my nose and into the river. My shirt was soaked and it wasn’t the river water that had soaked it.
I pulled again and I could finally see the cloth, ever so slightly. I dropped the rod and grabbed hold with both hands. I gave a tremendous yank and there below the surface of the water I looked into the white milky depths of Darryl’s rotting face.
“You could have called me! I was only just over there in the parking lot Darryl!” I screamed into the water at him. “It was my god damn fish!” I couldn’t help myself and I swung at him where he lay still submerged in the water. I splashed and flailed.
“Give me back my hook you fucking dog! Give me back my fucking hook!” People were starting to gather at the riverbank where I had been sitting.
“You deserved it! It was my fish and I knew I was going to catch it that day. I told you I had a good feeling! Didn’t I Darryl? Tell them!” I gesticulated wildly at my growing audience. “But you had to have your fucking radio! You wouldn’t shut up about that fucking thing. Well I gave you the fucking radio. Didn’t I Darryl? I gave you the fucking radio right upside your fucking head after I came back and there you are with MY rod and MY FISH!”
I was only vaguely aware of the woman’s scream as I pulled back one more time and Darryl’s face finally broke the surface of the water. “Give me back my fucking hook Darryl!” I fought with the place that it was stuck in his jacket sleeve. I managed to get it free finally! At long last I had managed to take it back from him.
Two police officers were on either side of me, helping to get me back on shore. I held onto the hook. “It was my god damn fish Darryl.”
He opened the door as I fumbled for my keys. Spraying me with spit as he launched into a tirade of abuse through clenched teeth. He had grabbed hold of my arm and was pulling me through the doorway before my eyes could even adjust from the darkness of the night to the bright naked bulb that lit up the entrance way to the house.
He knew he was hurting me. That's why he was holding on so tightly. The tips of his fingers were already bruising the pale flesh on the inner side of my arm and I could feel him squeezing the bones almost rhythmically, testing them and trying to calculate how much more force he would need to shatter them.
I half expected this. I had a bad feeling that he would be back tonight. It hadn't stopped me from going out to the local and having a couple of drinks with friends. They used to be our friends, however no one could tolerate being around him once he'd had a few drinks. No one but me that was.
He had disappeared three days ago. He was disappearing a lot more often recently and I silently hoped and prayed that he had moved on. I wanted him to be with someone else. Someone that he felt a need to impress. Someone that he could try to woo with the exquisite charm that he was capable of.
He had charmed me. It was six months ago; just six short months. He told me I was his whole world. I was the most amazing person he had ever met. He loved me. He was telling me so from the second time I had gone out with him.
The relationship had progressed at lightning speed. We met in a bar after work one day and ended up spending several hours just talking and being completely enthralled by each other. We seemed like a perfect match. We had so much in common, and he was so sweet; brimming with compliments and being so genuine.
I had been helpless against his charm. I fell for all of it; well, I assume I fell for it. I honestly can't be sure that he didn't mean it because despite everything changing I still feel that he couldn't have been so convincing otherwise. Things just changed one day, and I'm not even sure what day it was or what I did that was so wrong for this to be the result.
He had forced me into the kitchen and twisted my arm, bringing me nearly to my knees in pain. I sat down hard and clumsily on one of the kitchen chairs, nearly falling out of it and onto the floor; only he had me by the arm and wouldn't allow me to fall.
I looked up into his eyes. The eyes that I used to stare into on sunny days and get butterflies in my stomach from the happiness that they would bring me when they were so focused on my own. So kind then and yet so black and cold now. He was focusing on my eyes and all I felt in my stomach was a knot of dread and fear. How far would he go this time? Was there any point in trying to calm him down or would it just make things worse, like last time?
"Where the fuck where you?" He growled it and the acrid fumes on his breath stung my eyes. Oh, he had definitely had more than a few drinks over the course of the day. That unnatural smell of his stomach acid could only mean that he had most likely been drinking since yesterday if not the day before.
He let go of my arm and grabbed my shoulders, digging his fingers into the spaces between my collar bones as hard as he could to cause optimum discomfort. He shook me violently forward and backward, snapping my hair back with the last violent shove.
I could see how hard he was struggling to focus his eyes as he looked down into my own. His pupils were dilating and his head swayed as the corners of his mouth grew slack. That was always when I really knew I was in trouble, if that frown that looked more like all of the muscles in his face had given up than an indicator that he was sad made an appearance, chances were that it was too late to even think about sobering him up or calming him down.
As though he'd suddenly woken up in the middle of this, he let go of my shoulders and turned to walk to the sink. I sat there and waited, saying nothing. Hoping he would forget what he had said last. Hoping he'd forget he was angry at all and just offer to go to bed with me instead. That would be an unpleasant walk in the park in comparison to the alternative.
He took a glass from the cabinet and ran cold water into it. He necked it and refilled the glass, this time bringing it to the table with him and setting it in front of me.
He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and offered me one. I took it and couldn't help but feel like I was on a firing line as I held it in my lips while he lit his lighter and brought it close enough for me to take that initial drag. I even pictured wearing a blindfold and closed my eyes as I waited for the imaginary bullet that would end it all.
When I opened my eyes again he was looking away from me, watching the smoke curling slowly upwards from the cigarette he held in his right hand. I looked down again hoping that a combination of not making eye contact, combined with not making a sound, just might be the answer to this puzzle.
We sat like that in silence. My cigarette had burned down to the filter but I was so afraid to move that I just held it.
I listened as he pushed his chair back and the knot in my stomach tightened but I didn't move. I may be pathetic for taking this but I was going to maintain my dignity. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me shed a single tear.
As I stared at the floor I watched the toes of his boots stop in front of me. I didn't move. His hand found my chin and firmly but gently lifted my face to meet his. I was waging war with a massive lump in my throat that threatened to let the levy break and the tears flow freely, but I was determined and swallowed as hard as I could.
Time has passed. Ideas have been neglected and have therefore rotted on the vine of my brain and though they are still there, they are but shriveled rasins of ideas now. Luckily I have more, but it does feel almost like a death when you know that you've lost the momentum of an original and brand new, fresh baked idea. I am in mourning at present.
There is no good excuse for my absence and as no one has read this blog that I have told no one about (unless there is someone out there that has been reading it just as quietly as I have been writing it) I don't suppose I owe anyone an apology other than myself for not having taken the time to cultivate the fruit of my brains into a fine wine of entertaining reading for another person at another time... Or an ever so slightly more convincing reason to be apologising to myself for having let myself down so very much, could just be that I have potentially lost the plot (pun intended).
In the near future I am going to be making yet another drastic change to my life and it is going to enable me to speand a lot more time doing the thing that I honestly love to do. This blog is merely practice of that activity and fortunately no one is looking to see just how badly I can do when I put my mind to trying something new, doing it in a hurry, and then not bothering to edit it afterwards regardless of how irritating I find some of my own errors in grammar and prose.
This is also a momentum building tool to me. I write here in the buildup to writing something bigger, badder, and better (that I actually bother to edit afterwards despite my hatred of editing). It makes the longer and more detailed stories feel like coasting downhill. This is the uphill part. The hard part that makes me sweat and I do honestly celebrate at the end of each one... well the stories that is, the commentary like this is the easiest part of all, sorry if that confused you.
I realise that it's because this blog COULD, in theory at least, be seen by eyes other than my own. This leaves me unsettled. These are my words and my thoughts and my ideas and who said anyone else was allowed to know them? Well you see - therein lies the rub. I need to get used to being read. I need to get used to not hoarding every single line I write for my own self satisfied indulgence and viewing pleasure alone. I need to realise that I will be a very starving, very cold, and very poor artist in the near future if I don't set out to perform for others.
That was the whole idea behind this blog and regardless of if anyone is currently reading; it's helping me to know that you random strangers could be reading it. You could tell me I am doing a terrible job. You could point and jeer at my mistakes, my cheap and piss poor (at times) stories that don't quite reach their potential or intended purpose.
It's okay though and I'll tell you why. Even if I write something I know is really bad, I still at least wrote it and beat procrastination. Then I also annalyze why it's bad. What made it bad. What would I need to change to make it good...
So there you have it. Even though you, oh random stranger, YOU! could be reading my work and saying to yourself that it's the most awful thing you've read in your life... Well, I have the advantage there because in my mind I've already identified what I needed to fix, to change, to edit, and I've got my own secret stash in my head that I share with no one... because that is where the money is. And if this is going to be my craft, my livelihood... I am going to need to keep the best stuff for myself and can't share it for free. However you are more than welcome to pick it up in your local book store once I am published and I will of course be eternally in your debt because not only am I going to make you support me in exchange for telling you a story, but I'm also going to be using you, even the idea of you if not the real thing, to enable myself to do this.
Dear reader, I am thinking of you when I write. I am petrified of you. Please be gentle if you do exist...
