Christmas festivities aren’t always festive. Drunks on the street abuse and are arrested. Kids in the park drinking cheap cider feeling neglected. But for me, this backstreet behaviour is the best bit.
See I’ve always been an onlooker to these fun and games. Not to be mistook for a drunk wielding chain. But on the 24th of December 2004 that changed. I turned into a brute that could not be tamed.
Leaving the pub feeling merrily tipsy. And out of nowhere a punch flew in and hit me. I was left spinning and seeing stars, the next blow felt like the force of a car. But I had now decided that this had gone too far so I fought back and kicked him hard. A scream followed, very high and shrill leaving me with the feeling of a killer who’s killed. I hit hard home again. Attempting to inflict maximum pain. Then everything stopped, I seemed to float out of myself. Looking down below I thought man you need help. There she lay, helplessly curled like a baby’s first days. The consequences dawned on me, no party, no drink, no fun, no play. The next few years, just wished away. The next few years, in a cell, every day.
See what really happened wast most bizarre. And it turns out nobody hit me, not even a car. The first blow was a lamp post, sending me to the tarmac. The second was my head as it connected with a hard crack. Then Mary came along, asking if I was okay but my first thought was damn I need to equal the pain. Now I look back with terrible shame as Mary waits in hospital in hope of a new brain.
Tomorrow is my release date, but I don’t think I can walk? While I go free, Mary’s life’s become warped. The kids don’t know, they think I went abroad, and I can’t go back to the constant ‘dad I’m bored’. So I choose the only thing that’s left. Out of the cards I pick an early death, my brain can be used to support the rise of her chest. But then will she be me? After all a body’s just a shell, the brain is what defines personality. Soon it won’t matter, sitting on the edge about to be unevenly splattered. All I can hear is the pitter and the patter of the rain. The last sound I hear is the whoosh of a train.