Tormented

 

 

I shuffled along one windy day,

my cane rap-rap-rapping the tarmac floor, with

stooping back and hair in my ears gone grey,

wrinkled skin and sagging jowls and shaking hands.

My old-man smell clogged my hairy nostrils,

but that morning none of it bothered me,

not even a little bit.

 

I made my way to the bus station,

(which smelt much worse than me)

and found it nearly empty, to my relief.

As I walked to a metal bench I heard the

sound of broken sobbing coming from a raw throat.

I stopped and searched and found a girl,

huddled on a chair.  Her eyes were red and

bloodshot, snot hanging from her nose,

strawberry and cream skin and tangled, knotty hair.

 

I went and sat beside her, (caring old fool

I am) placed a fatherly whithered hand

upon her shaking shoulder and said

'My dear, what's wrong?' And this is what she told me.

'He played me for a fool!' her sobs had gone to

hiccups, but now her teeth were bared

and I didn't pity any more, just felt a little

scared. 'He played me!  His bow a shard

of glass and his instument of choice

my poor and bleeding heart!' 

 

Before I'd chance to form a word and push

it from between loosened teeth, she carried on.

'He ripped it from my chest, still beating-

arteries and valves were pumping tar-like blood

all over his long-fingered hands and I screamed!

He put two fingers in and squelched, and tore apart

a chamber wall to find those precious strings!  And there they were-

dripping with blood and sticky clots and he played them-

and played them well, till they were sore,

snapped and broke!

And now my heart won't work any more!'

 

Well, there I sat stunned into silence, with my

stomach turning a fair bit.  I could think of nothing

more to say, so I patted her shoulder and left her

sobbing again on that cold metal bench

and continued on my trip.

 

Some hours later, I hobbled into that same bus station,

laden down with bags, my back bent more than before

and happily thinking of home and a nice warm tea

(maybe with a shot of whisky - for medicinal purposes, of course)

But again, I heard a sobbing.  And again, I stopped, hoping that

it wasn't the same young girl I'd come across earlier.

It was a woman.  'Madam,' I said, 'Is there anything wrong?'

She looked at me with drowning eyes and replied

'My daughter died last night.

She had a broken heart and died in this very chair

without any of her family here'.

 

She started to sob louder than before

and though I'm ashamed to admit it,

I didn't stay to comfort her but went deathly white,

dropped my bags and hobbled away. 

And now, sometimes when the wind dies down

and the rain doesn't fall,

I hear a wretched sobbing sound

that creeps down my heaving chest

and seeps through pulsing, fleshy walls.

 

Reviews

[[untitled]]

This is smooth as silk. I was enamored by the ease of imagery I was able to envision while reading this lovely mini-story. I think the writing is exceptional and description used were poignant. A very good, well-crafted write.

[Eagle Cruagh]

Exceptional writing !

This is an eample of a sad, tormented subject, so very
well written the reader is carried away and finds caring,
thought inspiring classic material .
The reader is inclined to avoid the unhappy incident, but once
involved in this story the reader undergoes a transformation.

This is a classic and should be widely published, no one
can afford to ignore the material in this writing, the material that
it treated with such realism and finesse.

Thank you for an excellent story.

My favorite !

---- Eagle Cruagh

[Kloud_Nine]

loved the imagery in this piece, the flow, the reason, everything fit

[Onyx Sky]

I could see this in a movie, it was very vivid

[Boyd Johnson]

i loved the language. the way you told the story. the old man was a good choice. though dying of a broken heart, is a tune been played before, i loved it no less when i reached the end.

looking forward to reading more.