Screaming Child

One

The sound of a wine glass falling from the bedside table and rolling across the floor woke me up. Hopefully the glass was empty. I turned onto my side, opening my eyes just to close them again. The light seeping through the gaps in the black velvet curtains was enough to trigger my hangover. Another heavy night on the booze. It was becoming quite a habit, drinking in the evenings. Not drinking to forget. Drinking because I liked the feeling of being drunk. Or that’s what I repeatedly told myself anyway. The consequences the next day weren’t always pleasant, though.

Feeling either brave or stupid, or both, I pushed back the warm, black duvet, sat up so my body was surrounded by the cool air of the bedroom and turned so my legs were hanging off the bed. I did this all with my eyes closed, of course, to avoid the fraction of light that had managed to push its way past the velvet curtains from making my already pounding headache any worse. Then I slid off the edge of the bed onto the floor that was littered with various articles of discarded clothing, creating a soft thud as I landed on my bum. On my hands and knees, I crawled around the floor like a blind person, one arm outstretched, feeling for the glass that I’d knocked over in my sleep.

“What on earth are you doing, Kitten?” said a sleepy voice from the other side of the room.

“I knocked a glass over.” I replied, crawling slowly around the bedroom, searching hopelessly for the wineglass.

“So you’re looking for it with your eyes closed? How exactly is that supposed to work?” I could hear him smirking through the tone of his voice; slightly sarcastic, but not quite.

“I’m using all senses, darling.”

“It’s not because you drank too much last night and now you have a hangover, then?” He knew he was right in his assumption. He knew me better than I knew myself at times. Scrap that; he knew me better than I knew myself, period.

“Shut up.” And I hated it when he was right. It had become much less than a rare occurrence that he was right about my drinking too much, but I didn’t like to admit it. Certainly not out loud. At last, I found the missing wine glass. I sat up on my knees, and opened my eyes slightly, squinting at it, probably looking like some kind of deranged meercat at the same time.

“It’s not broken, Kitten.” The delicious voice from the other side of the room said. Ignoring his comment, I allowed my fingers to feel down the smooth stem of the glass and around the drinking part of the glass in turn. He appeared to be right.

“I know… I was just checking.” I turned around so I could see him, still squinting, partly from the pain of my headache and partly because my eyes weren’t used to the light, the little that there was. The black duvet covered most of his body so only the paleness of his shoulders and face could be seen. He’d propped himself up on one arm, probably for a better view of my incredibly stupid pose.  Waves of black hair spilled over his shoulders, a few strands falling in front of his soulless blue eyes. I say ‘soulless’, but that was just a façade, just the exterior he put on. In reality, he was a very loving, caring person. But only towards those who he thought deserved it. To everyone else, he was a heartless beast that didn’t give a s**t about anyone but himself. I understood that. I had grown to become the same.

I crawled my way back through the discarded clothes on the floor to the bed, placed the wineglass gently back on the bedside table and climbed back into the warmth. A pair of arms welcomed me, cool hands slid around my waist to hold my body against his. I was drawn further into the bed by his arms, his chin rested on my shoulder and he whispered in Gaelic to me. I hadn’t a clue as to what he was saying, but I was lead to believe that it was sweet nothings. 

My head began to swirl and the world turned black as I drifted off into a haze of dreams, where suddenly I was four again…

 

I’m running up the concrete path to the rusting black doors of the flat me and my mother are just moving into. ‘Come here, baby!’ my mother calls to me from inside the dank lobby. My little feet patter across the yellowing lino to the stairs and I reach up to hold the grubby black hand rail to help me climb the stair. Each step seems mammoth to my small legs, and I seems to take me forever to climb them. ‘I’m coming, mummy!’ I call up to her. She’s standing at the top of the stairs, her knees bent and arms outstretched; she is ready to pick me up and carry me to see my new bedroom that she and her friend have painted especially for me. As I reach the final few steps, a silhouetted figure appears behind her. I stare hard at the figure, trying to work it out, and as my eyes adjust to the unfamiliar darkness, I recognise it to be mummy’s boyfriend, Andy. I hesitate a few steps from the top; I know he doesn’t like me but he’s been helping mummy put all our things into the flat. He can’t be that bad, or I don’t think he is, at least.

I look up at him, he looks angry. Naively, I carry on climbing the stairs.

‘I’m nearly to the top, mummy!’

But mummy’s gone now. She’s gone back into the flat with Andy. I go to follow them inside but the door shuts in my face and I’m left standing in front of our glossy red door. ‘Mummy!’ I call as tears fill my eyes. I shout for her again, but no one opens the door. I stand there with tears running down my cheeks, banging my little fist on the cold red door.

I can hear voices coming from inside. They aren’t happy voices.

‘Why the f**k is that kid here?!’ I can hear him shout.

‘She’s only a child!’ My mother yells back.

‘I thought she was supposed to be at her father’s! We can’t do anything whilst that brat is here!’ The first voice says.

I turn around and go to walk back down the stairs so I can sit on the patch of grass outside the block of flats and play with some daisies, but the door swings back open and bashes against the already crumbling wall. I look round and see Andy stood in the door way, his fists are clenched and he looks mad. I begin to tremble with fear as he takes a step towards me. His cheeks are red with fury and he has a deranged look in his eyes. I back into the wall and cry harder. As he gets closer I scream. I scream loud, trying to get someone’s attention, but no one comes to help me.

 

‘Wake up, Kitten’ a soft voice whispered in my ear. His cool hands were on my shoulders, his thumbs stroked my skin. I was still screaming in terror when I woke up; I didn’t recognise the face next to me, I was still in a sleepy daze, half fuelled by all the alcohol I consumed the night before, half because of the nightmare.

‘Shhhhhh. Calm down’ He whispered to me. His voice was lulling, it made me sleepy again, despite the fact that I didn’t want to go back to that nightmare.

I calmed down a little and allowed him to wrap his arms around me. Being in his arms made me feel secure; he was the only person that could make me feel that way. He seemed to be the only person that could reassure me that everything was alright, even though deep down I knew it never would be. Sure, there would be moments where I’d feel a glimmer of hope, but that was all it ever was. Just a glimmer. Just me trying to fool myself that I’m fine and everything would be okay.

I had learnt from my childhood that, actually, nothing would be okay. Nothing ever went how you thought it was supposed to, no matter what you did.