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

Brett

When his mother came outside to ask him what he wanted for tea, she quickly asked if he’d stopped telling fibs yet which caused him to walk out of the house.

Something he’d never done before. He would go to his room, but felt he needed to get out. Nobody believed a lying little boy. I mean who would?

As far as he was concerned, nobody cared that he had been chased by a knife-wielding old man. If no-one believed you, then it didn’t happen, even when it did.

As he walked the streets, head down, hands in pockets, he had no real direction of where he was going. It didn’t matter. He wanted to be on his own, or at least away from doubters, which was everyone.

40

How could he convince people it happened? because looking at it from their point of view he could see it.

They came back and said they got lost, so who were people going to believe?

Clearly Brett was some panicky little kid that lost his friends out in the fields and made up some story because well…maybe he’d been playing some video game and it had got into his head. The trouble with adults was they always thought they knew best. Kids were just kids and just did kid stuff, like make up tales about being chased. Maybe he’d been chased by a psycho in a computer game, and panicked when he had got lost, saw a hiker with a walking stick close-by, got his little eight-year old brain confused, and ran back for help.

Except he wasn’t. The vision that kept playing over and over in his mind was eroding at and over-working his brain cells, even at night his sleep had been restless, because there he was, the pensioner with a sharp blade and malicious intent.

He and his friends had been walking along a country lane and a van had pulled up and seven pensioners had got out and surrounded them. Each of them had wielded a weapon. A hammer, a metal pipe, and kitchen knives.

The kids had panicked but were herded towards the van. They had capitulated, terrified, and each entered the vehicle.

Brett had been the last, but one of them said:

‘We only need seven, kill him and let’s go’, and the man nearest him stepped forward to grab Brett, but he stepped back and still panicky, turned and ran, looking back to see the tall, over-weight wrinkly man with white straggly unwashed hair, hostility on his face and a blade that glinted in the sunlight.

This was the image that was on his mind, on repeat. Such is an effect of trauma.

It played on the mind over and over again, until it burned itself out, where it would refuel and resurface, taking over the mind’s eye.

As it was recent, it was still fresh, and the violent old man was a constant in his thoughts, but as he was a tale telling liar according to everyone, there was no compassion. Nobody liked liars. Therefore, no help whatsoever, and yet he was the one with the real trauma.

All his field-trip friends had changed, and talking to each of them at some point in school, all said the same thing. We got lost, and that was that.

41

The fact no-one believed him, and that an old man tried to murder him, was a heavy weight for him to deal with, as it would for an adult, but for a child, caused Brett to walk out into the middle of a road.

There were no vehicles at this point but a biker had to swerve him, and looked back, muttered something unintelligible and carried on riding.

It happened quite frequently. The vision of the man with a knife would flash in his mind, and as he cut across the car-park of a super-market heading nowhere in particular he saw people simply getting on with their lives. Oblivious to what was going on inside his mind. People chattering about their own lot in life.

Have you got a pound for the trolley?

I see the Gorgonzola has come down by two pence?

Cars parking, cars driving away, a snapshot of normal life. Coming to the supermarket to buy things so they could continue their normality. Still however, there was plenty like Brett. What went on inside a person’s mind was their own business, their own place to get away from everything. The place where a person was their true self. Where their real thoughts and opinions resided. No-one paid any attention to the little boy walking across, hunched over as though cold and it was raining. Yet it wasn’t that cold, and it wasn’t raining. Such trauma for a boy his age was more than some adults could cope with, but Brett only had himself, because nobody cared.

He left the confines of the supermarket car-park and walked out along a row of set-back bungalows, and barely noticed the yapping dog bouncing at one of the gates, the kind of dog that yaps at anyone. He thought perhaps he was similar to that dog. If it had been traumatised, most people could do nothing about it. It was just an animal, they could perhaps think. If a rat had been traumatised by a human trying to kill it, would anyone care?

It’s what Brett felt like. That rat, that dog. Nobody gave a fuck because he was a liar, and nobody likes liars. If you’re found to tell porkies, prepare to be ignored.

The weight of the image grew heavier in his mind as he walked, and he crossed over a small railway bridge where he had to stop and hold onto the wall for a moment, noticing his hand was trembling slightly.

He was doing his best not to burst into tears, and continued down with his tunnel-vision, nearly bumping into people and ending up entering a small park he did not recognise.

42

Ahead of the small gateway just beyond a path there was a well-maintained pond with geese and ducks by the waters edge. He knew geese could peck, so stayed at around ten metres away. Some ducks came towards him, thinking he had food.

He stood near the water, and the image kept flashing in his mind’s eye. He was still trembling, but reigned in the tears that wanted to come. Maybe if he wasn’t out in public, and have some stranger asking him what’s the matter? he would collapse, but he stayed a while at the pond, trying not to think of the image, but it was futile. It flashed away so he just accepted it.

He also realised, but not the irony, that he was lost. He didn’t recognise anywhere around him.

So there was that slight fear edging into his mind as well. It diluted the man with the knife for now, but he knew it would be back.

He decided to ‘man up,’ and walked purposefully back the way he had came, not as hunched up, an inch taller, until he felt satisfaction at reaching a place he recognised.

Home was not his destination however, and thought to head for the local arcade, but then remembered Kieran would be there with his friends, so he sighed, and knew Ian lived close-by. A 15-20 minute walk back into the village. He remembered his last meeting with Ian. Something about him being safe, so he was quite apprehensive, but he used to be a good friend, and they would both go out onto a nearby field and practice golf.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s in now and could perhaps want to go over there now and hit a few 8-irons.

He could gain a better understanding of what’s going on in Ian’s mind. So he decided yes, he would call for him, and see if he could salvage his friendship.