Black soul rose by John Jones... - HTML preview

Dorothy

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Going home for a child at the end of the day was something they usually looked forward to. Although hunger may have something to do with that. ‘Dorothy’

was one of six children, thin with long pig-tails. Her mother one of those people who always had children around. Of the six there were three fathers. Never married, and now living with Finley, aka. Peanut, a false ‘hippy’ with dreadlocks who smoked roll-ups and ingratiated himself into the house.

Effectively moving in without being asked, but not questioned either, and without much by way of affection for the children who were not his.

Three of them did not live in the large, bland end-terrace house. Two had grown up and moved out to ‘uni’. One lived nearby, Max. Darren, the fourth child lived in the house, but played out most of the time. Dorothy was the fifth, and six-year-old Silvie the youngest. The family could be said to be dysfunctional, but not in an anti-social way, although sometimes that was the case. They were almost approaching noisy neighbour level, and the police had only ever been called on them once because the whole family was there. The three fathers, friends, and music playing from the bedroom. There were no hostilities, and they were celebrating nothing, but it was a rare moment when they all came together.

Silvie was a shy child, and their mother, Corinna, was never really one for focusing much upon her offspring. She tried to juggle motherhood and going out with her friends, meeting men, enjoying herself. Things that were usually put to one side once a baby was born. She tried, and mostly succeeded in juggling, which meant none of her children received much by way of attention.

They all received the ‘basic’ level. Looked after, raised, but not much else. No father figures, just men that stuck around for a while to erase the stranger element of themselves. Then they were gone, replaced by another stranger to show them no affection. Not my kids. Couldn’t give a fuck.

Sylvie was the family wallflower, shy, kept to herself, more so after having mastoiditis when she was four which wasn’t picked up because of her mothers careless attitude and not understanding especially when she started experiencing hearing loss. Eventually she got treatment, had the operation to remove the mastoid bone, had a cochlear implant fitted, but could now only hear at 60

percent, so that, together with her shyness meant she was kind of inside her own little bubble, with her only friends being at school, none around where she lived, so her dolls became her friends. Her brother gave her attention though. Not wanted attention. More simply picking on her, being the big brother who pulled her hair, shouted at her implant, made a mess of her toys, put her pet rabbit into next doors garden, and generally upset her at times, making her cry.

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The Dorothy of old wasn’t too much better, although, like all the other children, had to make her own entertainment, which sometimes included picking on Sylvie, who, like a lot of youngsters of a similar age were simply targets, unable to reply, unable to fight back, but Dorothy of old felt a deep affection for her sister, and so did all the other children. If an outside threat came upon her, they would all unite in protection.

However, there was no outside threat pointing at her, so the family basically neglected her. She was the shy kid with hearing problems, therefore retreated into her little world of toys, dollys and plastic unicorns. Nobody really cared too much, her shyness an anxiety personality disorder, picked up by no-one.

Dorothy watched her on her side of the room, playing with dolls in the dollhouse, oblivious to her sister, who went back downstairs and into the living room, to find her mother’s new boyfriend Peanut lounging on the sofa, hands behind his head, watching television, a reality show.

He glanced at Dorothy, then back at the TV.

There was knock on the front door and he got up and went to answer it. There were voices, and then people similar to him came in and through, out into the back-yard. There were four of them, and two had boxes of beer bottles. One of them nodded an acknowledgement at Dorothy, and they all ended up outside, talking and laughing, soon to be joined by Dorothy’s ‘mother’, Corinna.

Open-house then, she thought, come on in strangers. Like a drug dealers house.

Addicts coming to and fro at all hours. Hippy guys mates. No wonder Sylvie retreats into her little world, rather than have strange men in the house all the time. Bunch of scruffy dropouts with hardly a brain-cell to go around, she thought, looking at them through the patio windows.

Her mother stood up in the yard and gestured to Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” she called, “bring us the lighter from top o’ the telly”. She did, and brought it out to Corinna who lit a roll-up cigarette.

“Dorothy,” said one of Peanut’s friends, “that’s an ah’ll granny name,”

“Oi’ you cheeky git,” said Corinna.

“Thank-you,” said Dorothy, “I fully agree my lazy hippy friend”. He laughed, but then stopped.

“Wha..?”

Dorothy gestured to her mother’s cigarette.

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“Can I have a go on that?”

“What, this?” she said, looking at it and taking a drag. “What happened to my little girl? Ever since you got lost on those hills you’ve become an even bigger rascal”. It was clear her mother didn’t care, and only just managed to notice a change in her behaviour because it was so significant.

“What happened to your little girl?” said Dorothy, “her soul was replaced by an old man and she’s now in the afterlife”. They all burst out laughing, emphasized slightly by the alcohol already taking effect on some of them.

“Possessed by an old man,” one of them said, laughing again. “Nice one kid”.

Her mother took another drag and handed across the cigarette. Dorothy took it.

There was no more laughing, or drinking, while they watched the eight-year old take a drag, expecting a coughing fit, instead, only seeing a look of satisfaction on her face, who then handed it back. Her mother looked wide-eyed at the others.

“Oh my…” she said.

“Well it was lovely to meet the society of thick, lazy drop-outs. I’ll leave you to your meeting fellas,” Dorothy said.

“Oi, cheeky little bitch,” said one of Peanuts friends. Corinna laughed,

“She’s right though,” but then realised no-one else was laughing, and they seemed to find it genuinely offensive.

“Alright you little bint, go on fuck off,” Corinna said, changing tack. So Dorothy slowly walked into the back room, and the talking and laughing started again.

She walked upstairs and found Sylvie still playing with her toys.

“If I’m gonna be a fucking kid…” she muttered, and sat down with Sylvie.

“Okay,” she said, “what are we playing?”.

Five minutes later however, the front door opened and slammed. Heavy feet on stairs, heavy breathing. The eleven-year old brother Darren came rushing in and stopped, red-faced.

He had a hand in his jacket pocket.

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Which he then took out, to reveal a small Colt.38 revolver handgun which he pointed midway between Sylvie and Dorothy.

“Stick ‘em up bitches”.

“Fuck!” shouted Dorothy and cowered back in supplication. “What the fuck!”.

Sylvie however, didn’t do anything, because in her small bubble, guns did not feature. She had never seen one before, therefore could not recognise danger.

Like a mouse that gets too near a snake because its little brain doesn’t understand, Sylvie just looked at him, her face expressionless.

He pointed the gun at Dorothy.

“Time to die,” he said, smiling.

Then pulled the trigger.