Idle time + bottle of beer + something stronger than beer + Pink Floyd in background + flash of inspiration = this really short story
Comments and feedback are most welcome. It's kind of an abstract monologue, so not much will be spoken. I hope I get it right.
Hat-tip to Reader's Digest and my editor NaokoSmith.
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It was a cold, blustery day when Victoria Jones finally breathed her last. She was strong, stronger than all of us. But even the strongest are no match for a speeding SUV. She fought gamely for as long as her body would allow. Then one day, the doctor called me to her bedside and told me there was no hope. There was a recently enacted piece of legislation I could use to put her out of her brain-dead suffering. It was like a cry of help from the still body lying comatose on the bed.
She was asking me to let go.
Letting go is always the hardest thing to do, but when Vicky asked me to let go, it wasn't really a choice. I could never refuse her.
So I let go. I have not been the same person since.
My therapist tells me that writing about it will help. So here it is -- my little attempt at telling you about my elder sister, Vicky.
"I love you, Vicky Jones."
Have you ever felt so close to someone that you became a part of them and they became a part of you? Have you loved someone so much that every bit of you would yearn to touch her? Have you ever wanted someone to lay by your side so bad that it hurt you to see someone else there?
I have felt all those feelings. As far back as I can remember, I was deeply and profoundly in love. I was in love with my sister, Vicky. She was a full decade elder to me. Our father was mostly out of the picture and our mother was hardly around. That left Vicky and me to ourselves.
Vicky was my mother, father and elder sister in one. She bathed me, fed me, changed my diapers and even read bedtime stories to me. She came to console me every night when thunder woke me up. She saved up money babysitting and doing odd chores and always spent it buying something for me. Vicky never bought something for herself.
Vicky had the body of a woman and the face of an angel from as far back as I recall. She seemed to grow overnight into a stunning beauty. It didn't make any difference to me. I was in love with her from way before that.
My therapist tells me I am still in the Oedipal stage of my psychological growth. It means that I love my mother-figure or care giver. It means I still love Vicky.
I don't know why I pay this guy so much. I could have told you that myself. Here, let me say it again.
"I love you, Vicky Jones."
My father eventually ran away with the local barmaid. It wasn't too much of a loss. My mother got over her loss by getting under her factory worker boyfriend. He was a rough, burly man who perpetually reeked of booze. The walls in our squalid little place were not nearly thick enough to block the sounds of him and my mother going at it.
Trust me when I say, the sounds were much less pleasant than you think they were.
This man, his name was Gordon, was not a very nice person to know. He was prone to violent outbursts. Every night he would come back, too drunk to walk in a straight line. Vicky and I stayed out of his way for the most part.
One night, he barged straight into the little room where Vicky and I stayed. The crash of the door opening woke her up. Today had been a particularly rough day as Gordon had finally fallen too far out of favour with his foreman, who took great pleasure in firing him. The public humiliation made him push up his bar tab considerably and he came back in a foul mood, ready to burst on the first available target.
Fortunately, his six year old step-son seemed to be on hand to scratch that particular itch. Or so he thought. He staggered towards my cowering form, his bloodshot red eyes boring into me.
He had barely taken three steps in my direction before Vicky stood in the way, her arms spread out defiantly. He was going to have to go through her to get to her baby brother. He blinked and looked at her with the same bloodshot glare. It failed to faze her one bit.
Vicky was not much bigger than me. In front of him, she was a tiny little ragdoll he could fling in any direction. Yet, there was a conviction in her stance. Gordon ran his eyes up and down her slender frame for a long while, drunkenly sizing her up. After a short while, inexplicably, he turned around and walked away.
I didn't quite know why he did that, but every bit of me wanted to thank Vicky. She was my protector. All I wanted to say was.
"I love you, Vicky Jones."
Vicky was a woman of amazing foresight. Even at the tender age of sixteen, she realized that our days in that hell-hole were numbered. There was a distinct chance Mom would kick us out soon enough based on what her paramour said to her regarding that night's events. Even otherwise, the look he gave Vicky was probably a precursor to something much worse.
I could never have discerned all that from a look, but she could.
So we ran away the next evening. Rather, she threw whatever she could get her hands on into a little suitcase, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the bus stop. We boarded the first bus to somewhere. The destination was of secondary importance.
Once aboard, she surprised me again by fishing out a roll of bills from inside her jacket. Our mother and Gordon were hardly the brightest sparks when it came to saving up, but they did maintain a little drug fund to support their habit. Every week, they would buy a few varieties from a small time dealer down the alley and pay him off before the next batch.
I can't imagine him having been thrilled at the late payment.
Vicky knew where the hidden cash would be and managed to take it with her. It was not much, but it was a start. I remember putting my head on her lap as she stroked my neck and told me my favourite lullaby as the bus made its way somewhere.
