Authors Note - please be kind, I'm not a professional writer I do this as a hobby - Leave a vote/comment if you enjoy as every little bit helps
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Chapter5 - The Bud - A Week Of Waiting
Withthe gentle wisp of the winter's wind at my back I make my way downthe crisscross streets. Every house and every abode is dark andlifeless. This is the abandoned southern corner of Vice City's vastexpanse. Distinguishable from the rest of the city only by the lackof light coming from the smoggy windows. It has been such a long timesince I last walked these roads. In some ways it has remained muchthe same as I recall from my childhood. Like the broken glass thathas always dusted the corners of the sidewalk. In other ways it seemslike an all new place. Even the misfortunate who used to beg on theshop doorsteps have deserted this place to the unforgiving decay. Itake my time, treating this as a scenic route down my forgottenmemories. Every step is a new view into what this place has become. Agust forces me to pull the top of my jacket up but I don't let thecold quicken my pace. I truly want to experience all that thisreminiscing can provide. I move to one side avoiding the remains of acouch and then have to step over a pile of what once may have beenclothes that have, over time, melded into one heaped bundle. I thinkagain of times gone past. Which of these places had I spentafternoons playing at ? I continue on as there are other questions Iwant answered and the night is racing on.
Witha sudden pause, my feet stop me. I'm here again. Murrow Street. Thelane that has starred in a rather vivid and disturbing encounter withmy past. The sight of my old house at the end of the cul-de-sac isalmost reason enough for me to turn away.
Ibegin towards it, ignoring all the yelling voices in my head, theircurses falling on deafened ears. Past the other houses with theircrumbling walls. Their once white picket fences now yellowed andsmashed to pieces. What long ago could have been the beautiful urbanyards are dry and dead. Patchy grass covers the rotting earth withbrown dismay. And I smile. To see this place, this street, my house,in such a state as this is it brings a literal tear to my eye. Thishell shaped me to be who I am today. It brought me so much pain. Isincerely doubt you can understand the consequences of what went onhere. If you do, then I applaud you, as you should applaud me. Ireach the house at the end of the road. It faces the exit of thestreet, and every taunting view I had as a child. It temped me withits idealistic notions of freedom. A freedom I could not reach, notas long as Mum and Jeremy needed protecting from the blind drunkswings of my father.
Myheart pounds in my chest as I question my logic in coming here. Thiscould be another in a long list of mistakes that have led me to thispoint. I can't help but let the tears fall from my eyes. I wish tostop them but can't, as the shadowed house beckons me inside. Withmy courage waning I step through a hole in the fence.
Walkinginside the front door a force of wind nearly sweeps me back and for apanicked second it reminds me of the way my father's yell wouldknock me off my feet. But I'm stronger now, not so easily takendown. Inside there is nothing that remains intact. Holes in thefloor, ripped chairs and shards of glass are everywhere.
"Somuch is gone," I say to the dust.
Andthis true. A few things in each room remain. Anything that cannot besalvaged stays to fall apart. I look around further and find littleleft in this place I once called my home. I do find sheets andsleeping bags which suggests that the house once belonged to thehomeless. I leave it all where it is, I'm no thief after all, andsolemnly I turn my attention to the upper floor. I take my timeascending the stairs, wary of every creak that follows my footsteps.Every moment here I think of the time I spent with Mum and Jeremy,and that alone brings a sense of melancholy to the happiness I hadfirst felt when seeing this building in ruins. Their hauntingreflections plead to me at every shimmer of a reflection I pass.
Ipause a second time upon reaching the top of the stairs. I look bothleft and right. A painful indecision stops my progress. I turn leftand follow the wall's weeping papers to find my old room. Purelyfocusing on my destination now, I pay little notice to the crackingboards beneath my feet nor the sickly green moss that infests everynook and cranny. The sounds of the far reaching city centre stillroar for my attention but I have no time for such things. There's aspot in the middle of the hallway that I take a moment to observe infascination.
"Thisis where she fell," I say as I stroke the image of my mother'sfallen body on the floor.
Aftera brief but sincere mourn I move on until I reach my room at last.There's no joy left in this hollow tomb. My room is a sad skeletonof its old self. An empty frame instead of a door, and cobwebs in thecorners block my path. There's a thick sheet of dust everywherehere. All my old toys lay on the floor blanketed in dirt. Soft cuddlybears smile at me through splintered eyes as if to say a hello ofrelief at my return. I don't know what I was hoping to find here,in this room of memories best left to be forgotten. The grin I hadheld onto so tightly when I had arrived sinks to a cry. I take asingle step inside and collapse.
Isee my young self staring through the window to the outside worldwith tears running down his face. Raindrops join him in his sadnessand solitude. For the briefest of seconds it's like he's notalone, its like the skies have sympathised with him and sent the rainas a comforting gesture of reassuring solidarity. There's a flashof white light and when I open my eyes I'm filled with anunquestionable confusion.
Toweringabove me is my father, exactly where my last vision had left off,only this time I'm not watching from a distance like some intrudingghost. I am the younger me cowering in terror as he approaches. Hestays frozen for now, the smirk of victory present on his face.Looking around I hope to find a way to escape. The room itself mayappear cleaner than before but my sorrow has now been replaced with apounding heart and a longing to vanish. Starting at his feet heslowly begins to move again. With each minuscule fraction he inches Ifall further to the ground. I wish so hard to get away or have thecourage to move faster than my shocked body will currently allow. Butin the end there is nothing for me to do but wait for time to catchme up, and accept the inevitable future as it presents itself. Thereis one thought that brings relief though and that is the knowledgethat Jeremy made it away from here. At least he doesn't have tosuffer through another beating.
Father'sa foot closer and with his hand raising he lets out a belted scream.I close my eyes and make a final defiant wish. There's a delay andin that time I think that it may just have worked. Enough panic andenough need for a miracle could have whisked me away and saved mefrom replaying the savagery of my past. It isn't until I feel hisfist across my face that I know for sure that all the wishes I makenow cannot undo what has already happened.
Thepain ripples through my bones and it pushes me hard against the wall.Father releases another yell. Moments later a second, unexpected,punch hits the same spot as the first. The sheer power of the impactthrows me head first to the floor. I stay still. A single twitchcould result in more fists that my fragile body may not be able towithstand. I imagine how he must look. How satisfied has this crueltyleft him ? In my head he's hovering over me like a dark cloud,raining droplets of spit as he laughs demonically at my broken spiritand body.
Iwait for the sound of distancing footsteps before breathing anoticeable amount. With each intake a surge of blistering painspreads through my body. When the time comes, and I'm able to, Isit upright. My eyes open slowly and I'm shocked to find he'sstill standing there at the doorway drunkenly swaying steadily fromside to side. He stares at me with malicious intent. I don't knowwhat I have done to encourage this event but he, at least, seems damnsure that I'm deserving of every shattered nerve.
"Youlittle shit," he slurs with whiskey saturated breath.
"Yourmother and I had it so fucking good before you and your brother camealong. So fucking good."
Heslowly walks back over to me. He leans in close and whispers.
"Whyaww you so afraid, boy ?" He asks.
Pullinghimself back he looks me up and down.
"Icould have been so much more," he continues.
"Icould have been something."
Icough a mouthful of blood that runs down my chin.
"AndI'm gonna make you suffer for doing this to me."
Ashe stands he knees me in the chest which takes what little breath Ihave left, away. He leaves finally with the stench of alcohol not farbehind him. And I cry. I cry for pain, I cry for fear and I cry forguilt. Did I really wrong him so much that he can beat me till theblood runs from me face ? I hadn't realised what an evil thing Ihad done in the minor manor of my existence. I see myself here, now,as a twelve year old child and see at last the burden that was placedon such tiny shoulders. There is no justification to blame thesethings on someone so young.
Allthis philosophy does nothing to help my situation. Laying bruised andbloody on the floor, drifting seamlessly from consciousness tounconsciousness. Waiting for an end I already know won't come.Nothing is worth the fear in me now. Not all the gold in the world.
Ilet fatigue grip me in its talons and my thoughts fall silent.
I'mawoken abruptly by a gentle dabbing on my swollen jaw. The feeling iscooling to my sores. The soothing cold helps ease away the resilientpain. I find myself in the bathroom. Beside me is a bowl of redwater. Every now and again a cloth is dipped and rinsed in it.Gradually it gets darker to the point that the water can't be seenthrough. Mum sits in front of me with her hands softly rubbing awaythe blood from my cuts. It takes her a second to realise I'm aawake but when she does notice she immediately hugs me tight withmotherly affection.
"I'mso sorry," she says with a cracking voice.
"Yourfather's..."
Iwant to finish her sentence. I want to tell her what he is, what sheshould already know, but the words don't leave my lips. It's asif I'm bound to relive this exactly as it happened.
"Getout." I want to tell her.
"... he'sdrunk," is all she can muster up.
There'sso much I want to tell her. Seeing her again with the knowledge Ihave now makes me ache with frustration.
Shedabs at my cheek again.
"Hedoesn't mean to be so harsh."
"Whyare you defending him ?" I say with a weak whimper.
Shelooks at me and tilts her head to one side.
"Sometimesthings don't make a lot of sense. It's in these times that we allrealise what really matters."
Sheflicks a tear from her eye.
"Andwhat really matter to me is this family. I love you. I love yourbrother. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense but I love yourfather as well."
Myemotions take hold and a crying flood begins. I just don'tunderstand how she can forgive him for so much. All the hate andloathing he puts us through. After all that, how can she still lovehim ? I put my small hands on either side of her face and pull myselfcloser to her.
"Buthow ?" I ask.
Shesniffs and shakes her head free from my touch.
"Idon't know. I simply don't know."
Shetakes my hand and kisses it.
"Maybefor now we're all better off together. Or maybe I'm not strongenough to walk away, like I should."
"Mum?" I say clasping her hand in mine.
"It'sso simple..."
Ihope hard to change her mind. I know where this path ends and theidea of watching it happen again fills me with an almost suicidalsadness I can't bear.
"It'sso simple, Mum," I say again.
"Areyou happy ?" I sob.
Shelooks at me puzzled.
"Idon't..." she stutters.
Isqueeze her hand and let the never ending stream of tears continue todrop to the tiled floor.
"Areyou happy ?"
"I'm..."
Ifeel her hand squeeze mine like she's drawing strength from me.
"I'mafraid," she says.
There'sa loud crash that makes us both jump.
"Whatthe hell was that ?"
Shestands up, stroking my hair as she does so.
"Ishould go see what's going on."
Sheleaves me there sat on the bathroom floor, off to care for a man whohas caused her so much despair. I don't know what to call thisfeeling. I don't pity her, it's more a longing to save her fromherself. I hear an echoing scream from downstairs. I use what musclesare still working and pull myself up the wall until I'm standing.Barely able to keep the legs going I use whatever I can to inch mybody closer to the hallway where the commotion appears to be.
AsI get closer the feeling of dread increases. I quicken my feet asfast as I can. Mum's cries continue.
"OhGod !"
Iremember this moment. I remember this exact minute. Every detail,every face.
Iround the corner at the top of the stairs. Just like I recall doing,years before.
Jeremylies at the bottom of the stairs with his limbs cocked in alldifferent directions. Mum sits next to him, shivering in shock.Beside me stands my father. He tries to look tough but I can see itin his eyes, that he too is in disbelief as to what he's done. Hekeeps shaking his head. I stare at him. I stare with a hate I didn'tknow I was capable of. He sees me and unexpectedly he makes nocomment and walks away down the corridor.
Onthe floor below lays Jeremy, his body broken. I make my way down thestairs using the railing to keep my balance. A pool of red slowlymakes its way around him, escaping where it can into the gaps in thewooden boards. I'm about half way down when I realise that Mum'sfrantic yelps have stopped. Instead she now sits in the corner of theroom and shakes.
Ireach him at last. Falling to my knees in front of him, there's aselection of maddening cries I could let out. But only a silence hitsme. The blood reaches me and soaks through my trousers. I don'tmove. Jeremy's eyes gaze outward. I keep hoping they'll focus onme and that he'll suddenly wake up. He doesn't. He's nothingmore now than a deconstructed mound of flesh and bone. What wasJeremy, what made him my funny, wonderful, exciting brother is gone.There's no light in his eyes and so I reach over and shut them. Hecan at least seem at peace. I lean back and let the images of hissmiling face wash over me. I try to forget the bad times he's hadin his short life and take note of the good ones.
"Goodbye,"I whisper to him.
Icrawl over to Mum who sits not far away, cradling herself. I try hardto get her to look at me but somehow she can't. Her face is glazedover as if she's asleep but awake at the same time.
"Mum?"
There'sno response. Not so much as a glance.
"Mum? Mum, please look at me."
Igrab her head and force it around until our faces are touching noseto nose. She looks in my eyes and I into hers but there's nothingthere anymore. It's like she's checked out and there's little Ican do, not when she doesn't even realise I'm here. Pulling herclose to me I cradle her in a way that puts Jeremy out of view. Ilook to him, then to her and force myself to be stronger than eitherof them. I hold back the confusing mix of anger, sadness and shock. Iwill be as hard as stone. If not for my sake then for the sake ofher.
There'sanother white flash and I'm standing, all in black, at a cemetery.To one side of me is Mum. Still and with the same blank expression.
"Shehasn't spoken for since the incident," I recall.
"Notsince Jeremy..."
Finishingthat sentence, even in my head, is too painful a reminder.
Onthe other side stands my father who, as I look at him, turns awayfrom me in deliberate ignorance. All around the grass is wilting andthe trees sink into the parting soil as if they too are trying tobury themselves. A mist of dotted rain begins as we gather around asmall, dark coffin. There's so few people to wish Jeremy goodbye.He was a popular and loved boy by the people who know him but he knewtoo few people to begin with. Only a half dozen or so gather in waitfor the priest who grudgingly makes his way down from the church. Inhis hand he carries a tattered and slightly torn bible. He seems towalk with his eyes closed but he manages not to trip or stumble onthe entirety of his journey. When he reaches us we all prepare withthe adjusting of suits and skirts, as if the way we look will effectthe send off. Once we're settled he begins.
"Inthis time of harsh reality we live in a city, in a world, ofunpredictability. It's when a child is taken that we see thecruelty of the circumstanced we live in."
Heopens his bible and begins to read passages from it's stories.Ifind it near insulting that fairytales from a book are compared tothe truthfulness of our own struggle, but I keep my mouth shut. I maynot be convinced by the word of God but I know that those around metake comfort in the idea that others have struggled like the one'swe've lost.
Thepriest takes a handful of dirt and continues to speak, trying to readthrough the rain that taps the pages. Dad ignores the service with aninfuriating deliberation, choosing instead to stare out into thedistance. As for Mum she is, as expected, unchanged. I nudge hergently with my shoulder but it does little to move her.
"Iknow you're there," I say to her.
Itake hold of her hand, warming it in mine and send her my lovethrough unspoken words.
"Ashesto ashes, dust to dust," concludes the priest.
Hethrows the dirt into the grave.
Fora second I think I see tears rolling down Mum's eyes but as I feelthe mist get heavier I realise it's just droplets of rain slippingdown her face. Whatever's happening in her head, it's keeping herin a state of passive vacancy.
Oneby one the people say their farewells and vanish until just myself,Mum and Dad remain. There's a long pause of thoughtful silence.Eventually Dad takes Mum by the shoulders and begins leading heraway. As he passes me he reaches out with one long claw and grabs myarm. In a sudden, forceful, shift I throw his hand off me. I watchfrom the corner of my eye as he takes Mum towards the car.
"Don'tbe too long," he calls back to me.
Iwait till he's gone before I move.
Thegrave is at the far end of the cemetery, in a corner, beneath theoverhanging branches of a willow tree. I sit next to the newlyplanted coffin, running my hands through the grass trying to find myvoice. A speech I can give to him, my brother, taken before his time.In front of me is the meeting place of two black painted fences, thewillow tree and a few other plants such as a handful of lilies and abush of scarlet roses.
"Ithought you'd gotten out," I begin.
"Whydid you come back to the house ? You should have waited. You knowthat you always need to wait. You always wait..." I wipe the waterfrom my face.
"Youstay there until I come tell you everything is alright. Ha, the onetime you don't do what I say and look what's happened."
Iburst into tears.
"Imiss you Jeremy. I miss you so much. Mum just hasn't been the samesince you left and I'm... I'm struggling."
Iwait as if a response is to come any second.
"Ireplay it in my head sometimes. See if there's anything I couldhave done differently. See if there was a way I could have saved you.But I don't know if I could have."
Leaveswhistle as a soft breeze makes its way to me. A reply from him atlast. The wind grazes me and it's as if he's speaking to me.
"Youtried," it says.
Iwish I could have succeeded.
Reachingover to the rose bush, I pick one off with a snap of its stem.Holding it tightly in my palm the blood trickles down my arm like aleaky pipe.
"Ipromise I'll look after Mum. I'll never forget you Jeremy. AndI'll not forget who did this to you, even if he won't admit it tohimself."
Ilay the rose on top of the loose dirt with it's pure bloomingflower to the sky. Reluctantly I get to my feet.
"Ilove you, brother."
Afinal goodbye as I head to the exit where father stands waiting forme. With one foot on the outside of the cemetery I feel a familiarsensation. I'm taken away in a ball of confusion only to wake onthe floor of the old house as my present self.
Iam myself again, older and in control of my body. Sitting my bodyupright I whisper an apology to Jeremy, wherever his spirit may nowrest. This house still holds a power over me, a grip I had thoughtwould have faded. But in the light of my most recent flashback it'sclear that here there is pain I have willed away for years. I'mashamed to say that Jeremy had become no more than an image and aname, until now. There's nothing I can do now to make it up to him.I can only promise I'll not forget again. For so long I havepretended it never happened, that it was a dream in my head. A story.
Ipick myself up from the floor. The room is as it had been when Iarrived. No father. No mother. And no me slouched against the wall.Just the cobwebs and strings of illusive newspaper that flutter aboutthe room. I'm somewhat weakened as if both my legs have fallenasleep and I haven't the skill to revive them. It's then that Ihear a noise from outside. A bang as a garbage bin stomps thepavement. Glancing out the window I spot a young looking homelessgirl. She can't be older than her late teens. She has bright blondehair, most of which is concealed beneath a knitted beanie. I can seeat least three layers of coats she wears as they converse at hercollar bone.
Iturn away from the window as my want to know more begins to lead meto the hallway. She has caught my interest, this lonesome lookinggirl.
Istumble down the stairs and there's a crack as the wood I lean ongives way. My leg buckles and I smack my head on something as I fall.
WhenI wake the girl is sat next to me at the bottom of the steps. She'sgot the back of her hand on my forehead and looks me over severaltimes.
"Youok ?" She says dabbing at the newly forming bruise on the side ofmy head.
"Canyou see me ?"
Istare at her without a sound.
"I'vegot a place nearby. If you need a minute. Should probably make sureyou haven't got a concussion or something."
Shehelps me up with a grunt and we hobble together out the door.
Shetakes me two houses over to the Miller's old place. Inside is amakeshift bedroom. A rolled out and unzipped sleeping bag makes aduvet on a ripped, springless mattress. Sheets hang wall to wall witha barrier of blankets in the middle as a kind of divider. All thecloths are different colours, some have labels, others have patchworkstitches. Much like the other houses in this part of the city, theMiller's house is in an ongoing state of crumbling. Holes in thewalls are clogged with newspapers, years out of date.
Sheleads me over to the mattress and sits me down before wrapping athick, prickly cloth around me.
"Youlook like you've had a rough evening," she says with a faintsmile.
Istay speechless. She tucks an out of place strand of hair under herbeanie, then heads over to the fireplace on the other side of theroom. It takes several instances of kindling rearranging and manymatches before the fire is at last burning away.
Thegirl stands next to it for a couple of minutes to ensure it doesn'tfizzle out. It isn't until she starts warming her gloved handsagainst it that I know for sure that it will stay lit.
Iroll over to the warmth and leave my numb hands inches from thewildly flickering embers. The flames don't take long to thaw myfingers free. I wiggle them in subdued excitement. I then stroke theaching sore on my head as I look about the room. As I start for theexit, having found nothing of further interest and longing for thesoft pillow of my bed, I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"Wellyou look well enough. Moving around alright ? Don't feel dizzy ?"She asks.
Ishake my head and once more thrust for the front door. Again I'mstopped by the tapping of a hand on my shoulder.
"Youdon't have to leave just yet do you ?"
Iturn to face her. She avoids my eyes and instead stares at my shoes.
"Itcan get a bit lonely on this side of town sometimes. Most of thesehouses are empty now. Gets too cold out here, even for the bums. I'dbe really grateful for the company. If only for a short while."
Ireturn to the mattress.
"Ihaven't got much but I can make you a cup of coffee if you'd like?"
There'sa quick exchange of nods and she rushes off to the fire to place alarge pot of water onto a grate in the heat. She grabs two small tincans and puts a teaspoon of coffee grounds in each.
"Youdon't talk much huh ?"
Shebrings over the steaming cans and hands me one.
"That'salright. Sometimes it's better to listen anyway."
"Myname is Vicky by the way. In case you were wondering."
Igive her my name as a gesture between us.
"Wellit's good to meet you. Even if it's under these strangecircumstances. You know, finding you knocked out at the bottom of aflight of stairs."
Shetakes a sip from her can.
"Whatwhere you doing there anyway ?" She then asks.
"Iused to live there. A long time ago."
Vickylooks at me oddly as if I'd said something strange.
"I'verecently been reminded of my past and I thought coming here, seeingthe house I grew up in, might resolve a few things," I say.
"Didit ?"
"Notlike I would have hoped. Just brought back a lot of things thatshould have stayed there."
Icontinue to share quite a bit with this girl. Vicky seems all toohappy to sit and listen to what I'm willing to say. I may not tellher everything but it's more than I've told anyone else. I guessothers don't have the patience to delve into someone else's lifeand stop worrying about their own.
"You'vehad a tough life," she says as I finish.
"Iguess you can say that. I like to think that everything I've beenthrough, every broken bone, every tear that welled up in my eyes, hasmade me stronger. They all band together. All of these experiences.And they make me who I am."
"That'sa good way to look at it. You're a strong person, stronger than meat least. I ran away from my past and you're here to confront it."
Shepulls at her unravelling woollen jumper.
"Myworld fell apart the minute I decided to get away from my old life."
Shecontinues to gesture to things around the room as if to prove apoint.
"Atleast I'm living my life my way, now," she says.
Mycan is nearly empty and the night gets later by the minute. I take afinal swig of bitter, gritty coffee and stand.
Vickygrabs me by the hand and pulls me down.
"Pleasedon't go," she says.
"Ican't stay forever," I reply.
Whileit's true that she had attracted my attention it seems now thatshe's too young to show me what I truly want to see.
"Staya little longer. For me ? Please ?"
Iagree but feel a familiar itch of curiosity in my body. I beat itdown with the conclusion that she is simply too youthful and sweet toshow me her soul the way I desire. She's been kind to me andkindness will not be reciprocated with my curious behaviour.
Istrike up conversation to pull my mind away from such thoughts.
"Howlong have you lived here for ?" I ask.
"Notlong, about a year."
"Vicky,how old are you ?"
"I'mtwenty, nearly twenty one. Why ?"
Sheis so innocently adolescent.
"Whydid you leave home ? Did you run away ?"
Vickynods before answering.
"Yes."
Atear forms and escapes her.
"Whathappened ?" My questioning continues.
"Mymother died when I was little and since then I lived with my father,alone. Everything seemed fine for me. I'd go to school, do myhomework. I had friends."
Sheputs down her can on the floor and re-tucks her hair into the beanieagain.
"Butsomething changed. My father was different. I don't know when ithappened but once it did, everything just got worse. He would comehome after a long day and he would be furious. I don't even knowwhat he was mad about. Whatever it was it was enough to give him thestrength to smack me around like I was nothing more than a worthlessdoll."
"Hewas a drunk then ?" I say.
"Iwish he was," she quickly answers.
"Atleast then I could have pretended it wasn't really him. At leastthen I could have imagined him inside there somewhere. I could havepretended that he still loved me, that I was still his little girl."
Sheturns away from me slightly, hiding her face and the unavoidable rainthat surely drips down her face.
"No,he wasn't a drunk. God help me I wish he was though. At least thenI'd have an answer as to why he did it to me."
Shetakes a breath.
"See? We're a lot alike, you and me," she whispers.
"Itappears we are," I tell her.
Ilook at her but don't see myself at her age. I don't see the strongperson I had spent my life trying to be. Instead I see a youngerversion of my mother, quaking at the very presence of my father.Vicky sits next to me shivering either from the cold or therecollection of her father.
"It'snot like you had it better," she suddenly exclaims.
She'sright of course but there's a glimmer of pity in her voice thatstrikes a chord in me and for a moment I'm speechless as I scrambleto find my words.
"Don'tever pity me or yourself Vicky."
Sheseems surprised at my retort. I let her absorb my startling andrather sharp response before continuing.
"Wedon't need pity. We need strength."
"Somepeople aren't born strong," she argues.
"Thenyou make yourself live strong or die weak. That's the choice.Strength or death."
"Isthis really how the world works ?" She cautiously asks.
"No,"I say.
"Thisis how this city works. But ask yourself, how many people do you seeleave Vice ?"
Sheshakes her head.
"Idon't know."
"None,or next to none. You arrive here, maybe from somewhere else,somewhere greener, nicer, happier. And you're stuck here. Peopledon't leave Vice. You arrive or you're born here and then it's all a game of survival."
"That'snot the way to live life though. Being afraid all the time. I gotaway so I could live my life without the fear."
Ourvoices begin to raise.
"Youhave missed the point Vicky. The point is to overcome the terror, notto run away from it."
"That'sa life I don't want to live," she says.
There'sa moment where neither of us is sure whether we're insulting theother. The room grows tense.
Shereminds me so much of my mother. Afraid. Passive. Unwilling to fight.The image of her emotionless white face at the cemetery is broughtforward. I compare it to Vicky's as we stare at one another and itfills me with absolution.
I'vehad a glimpse, a taster of her fear but I feel as though there's somuch more she can show me.
Shelets out a small, timid laugh.
"Ha.Look at us, such a grown up conversation," she chirps.
"Indeedit is," I agree.
Whenat first I spoke to this girl she seemed only a child, ready at anysecond to pull an angelic looking porcelain doll from beneath herjacket and cradle herself. But now I see her similarity to my mother.I see her struggle and my longing for answers is brought to a peak.
"Whatare you afraid of Vicky ?" I ask her.
Shegives me a sideways glance and with wide eyes she answers.
"Idon't know," she says.