Visions Of Angels

Second chances are hard to come by

 

            The noise of the door slamming shut behind me should have been the most beautiful sound I’d heard in years, but for some reason it sent a chill down my spine.

            My throat felt dry my palms sweaty. All I possessed was in the plastic bag by my side. I don’t know what I had been expecting, everything had built up to this moment, every waking hour every waking thought and now it was here I just felt numb.

            Part of me had expected people to be waiting for me.

            Somebody.

            Anybody.

            A single car trundle by, I held my breath, it kept going. I tried to make it look as if I wasn’t desperate, my hand running through my receding hair. How things had changed.

 

* * * *

 

            The house was dark. I could see a window was open. The scars on my arms ached like hell as I frantically scratched at them. My hair was matted to my head under my hooded top; a cold sweat covered my body, as I had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

            “In and out. Easy peasy.” I said to myself. Repeating the mantra over and over.

            Who was I trying to kid?

            The window pulled open easily. I let out a small grunt as I pulled myself through the gap and landed on the floor with a thud.

            A stale musty smell filled my nostrils. I blinked several times until my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The room was filled with clutter, loads of tat I could flog easily. An Aladdin’s cave. I’d struck it lucky.

            A shiver ran down my back, I clenched my teeth as another wave of pain and craving washed over me.

            “Get on with it.” The words hissed out of gritted teeth.

            I found a holdall stuffed in the sideboard. Things were getting better. I moved round the room quickly tipping all sorts of stuff into the bag.

            Now if I had a brain I’d have left there and then, but greed and over confidence are a dangerous combination. I walked out into a small hallway, more nick knacks, I’ll have them.

            As I climbed the stairs I must have been too preoccupied to hear the creaking floorboards.

            The old lady looked frail, her dressing gown pulled tightly around her. Her hair snow white and her face covered in lines and wrinkles.

            “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” Her voice sounded surprisingly strong.

            I didn’t know what to say.

            “Get out.” She looked me straight in the eyes.

            She could’ve been my Gran.

            “Get out of my house.”

            I don’t know why I did what I did, but my need was great, every fibre in my body was screaming at me. It felt like my bones were turning to liquid.

            The bag felt heavy as it swung out. My shoulder jarred with the impact. I couldn’t look; I just turned and ran.

 

* * * *

 

            I looked back at the imposing wall of the prison. Strangely it felt like leaving home, a haven, a place of routine, of order. Now I was outside, my senses bombarded the smell of fresh air, the sun warming my back.

            I instinctively scratched the old scars on my arms.

            Where the hell was I going to go, return to the old life or start a new one? Everyone had been full of good advice.

 

* * * *

 

            I pulled at the rough collar of my shirt. It felt baggy and scratchy, a large yellow stripe across my chest. I pushed back on the table and balanced on two legs of the plastic chair. Reminded me a bit of school.

            “Michael.”

            I let the chair drop down with a clatter.

            A large man with a thick beard, flecked with white. He dropped a brown folder onto the table. My existence summed up in a few pieces of paper.

            I mumbled to him.

            “You’re looking well.” He didn’t look up from my file, just automatically going through the formalities.

            “It’s the social life.” I sneered.

            “You’ll be up in front of the parole board soon.” He ignored me.

            I concentrated on his shirt straining to hold his belly, the material stretched to breaking point.

            “My recommendation goes a long way.”

            God he was so full of his own self importance.

            “You’ve got to stay away from your old haunts. We don’t want you falling back into your old habits.” He smiled smugly at his own joke.

            He didn’t really care about me; I was just another number to him, a statistic. I bet he was expecting to see me again.

            I smiled and nodded. Yes sir, no sir. I told him what he wanted to hear.

 

* * * *

 

            At the bus stop people gave me a wide berth. They knew exactly where I’d come from. I could see them watching me out of the corner of their eyes. I wanted to shout at them, scream at the top of my lungs, let all that frustration out of my body. I’m not a bad person.

            I handed over a fist full of change to the driver, who looked at me as if I’d just put s**t in his hand.

            As I sat down I could hear music drifting out of a Walkman, music, another thing that I missed. Never having your own choice. The tune I didn’t recognise, but I let it wrap around me, cover me in its sickly sentiment.

            I closed my eyes and lost myself in the rocking and jarring of the bus, the hum of the engine, the drone of the music, the chatter. All sounds that I’d almost forgotten. The smell of perfume drifted into my nostrils, sweet, flowery and intoxicating. Completely the opposite to the body odour of a burly tattooed thug. I opened my eyes and thought I was in the presence of an angel. Long blonde hair fell over the back of the seat, she laughed with her mate, a sound so beautiful it nearly made me cry. I had to fight the urge to reach out and touch her hair, to feel its silky sheen between my fingers.

            I glanced across the bus and saw an old lady, which made me shiver, filled my head with memories.

 

* * * *

 

            The bald pawnbroker looked through the bag; he knew exactly where the stuff had come from. His beady eyes scanning, his mind quickly doing sums.

            “It’s a load of tat.” Was his judgement.

            “How much?” I couldn’t care less for his opinion.

            “Not much.” He scratched his unshaven chin.

            “How much?” I danced on the spot, the craving almost unbearable.

            “Twenty.” He knew what I was after.

            “Come on it’s worth more than that.” I could feel cold sweat run down my back.

            “It’s tat. I might not even be able to sell it.”

            “Fifty?”

            “You’re having a laugh.” He shook his head, his laugh confirming his superiority.

            “Twenty five?”

            “Twenty.” He pulled the note out of his pocket.

            I snatched it from him without a word. It was enough.

            “Get out of my house.” The words of the old lady echoed in my head as I plunged the syringe into my arm. Her face distorting and disappearing as all feelings of shame, guilt and regret vanished into the void.

            I didn’t even notice when the police burst in, all lost in the fog. First I realised was when I woke up on the cold hard bed, my groans echoing back at me.

My bones ached, my head ached.

My heart?

I couldn’t even feel my heart.

 

* * * *

           

The angel filled my vision, her head turned and I could see her smile. She was the kind of women I had dreamed about during the nights staring up at the bunk above.

Maybe she could be my saviour?

Maybe I could start a new life?

Get off the junk, find love have kids.

What can I say, deep down I’m a romantic. Or maybe I just wish I was, just like that my problems could be solved. Why not.

Angel and her friend stood up and headed to the front of the bus. Before I knew what I was doing I got up and followed them. I watched as she wiggled away from me, my pulse started racing, I clenched the plastic bag tightly in my fist.

Now or never.

“Ladies.” I trotted up behind them and tried to use my best smile.

“F**k off creep.” Angel’s words cut me to the core.

I stopped dead in my tracks; they didn’t even turn to look at me. Is that what I am to people? Not worth the s**t on their shoes. My hand drifted into my pocket and felt the crispness of the last note I own. I could feel the old scars on my arm start to ache. I guess old habits die hard.

Reviews

[The Random Writings Of ..]

You sure do give me a look from a different angle, and I love that about your writing. I feel so horrible for this character, I want him to succeed, for the girls to like him, to not think of him as a creep. I like the thoughts in here about all his past, and will he make it to the future. Great write.
Kates

[Natalie C]

Let me start by saying, I love the flash backs, just gives the piece a more refreshing and real feel to it.
Alistair, you truly are a brilliant writer and I always adore reading your pieces and if I may add, they never disappoint.
You have a amazing talent of pulling your reader into your world, pleasantly forcing them to absorb each and every word.

Great piece, I really enjoyed it!

[Alex]

really nice read ,thank you for sharing .
It would be intersting where his journaey ends ...if he can beat the odds

[Angelheaded Hipster]

I like the flashbacks, and the scene where he killed the old lady was rather well done. No gore to see, left to us to paint the missing picture with our mind....
I'm glad you show him being "haunted" by the old lady....shows that he has a conscious...and I sometimes like that in my anti heroes....
I have always been drawn to your tales...you write smooth....

one question though...tat is slang for??

[1809 Black Plague Decem..]

Damn, Alistair, you really have me going as usual. "F**k off you creep." makes me wonder how he looks, how he comes about, because that you have it hidden from us. "I guess old habits die hard." great ending and forshadowing of his coming actions. ---mishel :P xxoo

[Dan Bullock]

I do like, all I want more though is more descriptiveness intially. That's not a complaint, that's a personal addiction ;-P Thanks for sharing :D

[J. Hampton]

I do love your writes....
Fantastic multiple messages intermingled . I must say....I am not positive whether some of this was his drug induced vision or actual flashback. None the less your messages are clear and poingnant. Perhaps you might use some italics to clarify that.
I have a friend ( a minister ) who does a program that deals with ways to breakdown recidivism.
They do call them " correctional facilities" ....don't they ? ??? As a prisoner is released we say...."they have seved their debt to society"....yet we keep record and they must report it to all potential employers...financial institutions...etc...etc..for years and years
Hanging about the neck like an Albatross

Evryone deserves a 2nd chance.

Blessssssssssssssss

[~D.A. Phoenix~]

I love this. It makes me realize just how judgemental we as a people can be. You know how to tug at my heartstrings plz write more to this. I would love for their to be more