Empath: Final Assignment Week 8

Empath

Imagine yourself in a crowded room.

One man, a good man with a loving wife and two growing children, will go home and tell his wife he’s been fired. A young woman will break up with her boyfriend when he arrives to collect her. A married woman is meeting her lover. A clergyman contemplates the confession he heard earlier today; should he break confidentiality and tell the police? A sports graduate has just learned that he has terminal cancer.

All of it, their pain, fear, disgust, sorrow, desire, greed, guilt, intrudes upon my consciousness. My emotions become nothing and I am so overwhelmed by the enormity of it all that I have to retreat to a place within myself.

It wasn’t always like this. One day, I woke up with another sense. I thought I was going insane; I very nearly did. Perhaps it was inevitable that my circle of friends became quite small, but I grieved each one that I lost. Its hard to remain friends with someone once you understand that their feelings for you don’t match yours for them.

I don’t read their minds. Its not like I’m eavesdropping. Its more like they invade me. I didn’t ask for this!

I found ways to deal. You have to, don’t you? Just like anything put in your path. I don’t go to parties. I shop on Mondays, early, when its quiet. I avoid crowds and don’t use public transport. And I never, ever, tell anyone my secret. I told a friend once. She never trusted me again; said she felt I was listening to her thoughts! I was hurt, but I learned from that. Honesty isn’t always the best policy.

So today, I am walking in the park. Children are playing and I feel the constant thrum of their quick fire existence – little dragonflies, buzzing through the light spring air. I tune in to their darting vibrations and it helps me escape the ticker tape of emotion that streams across my awareness with unrelenting monotony.

Pain. Sorrow. Loneliness. Fear.

The bitter tang of despair intrudes upon the bright colours of childhood and without even knowing it I turn my steps towards a small group of houses at the edge of the park. I find myself, quite beyond my own will, standing outside a quiet cottage. I knock lightly on the door, but there is no answer, so I knock more loudly.

“May I come in?” No-one answers but I am certain that there is someone inside. Its an old fashioned door, with a handle on the outside. Turning it, the door opens.

You should understand I am not driven by curiosity. You might argue that no-one has invited me into this home and I am almost certainly breaking the law. But an urgent sense of need pulls me onward and – powerless to stop it – I walk down a darkened hallway and enter a small sitting room.

A shrunken little figure huddles by a cheerless fire, its ashes long cold. A teacup has spilled upon the threadbare carpet, but only a sad stain bears testament to the presence of a warming brew. Beside it lies an upturned picture frame. But that can wait. I wrap the poor soul in a blanket and quickly build a fire – how easy the task is when you are able!

“Can you tell me your name? Does anyone else live here with you?” But she doesn’t speak, nor does she seem to be aware of me, although she has warmed up a little. I reach out for some spark of response but all I feel is a deep sense of loss. So I sit, holding her hand in mine, bringing her cold fingers back to life.

“My goodness, look at your lovely pictures. Is this you with this handsome young man? Ah, this must be your family. Such fine looking boys, all the way from school to university!” I prattle on mindlessly, speaking her life into the silence of the room, for upon the walls is her story. A wartime bride in a homemade dress, a bouquet of daisies in her hand. Here are the children, two sturdy boys wearing home spun sweaters. They grow like weeds and then they fly away, as boys do. All their precious moments are cameos upon the canvas of her home.

Finally, I reach down beside her chair, and pick up the frame. His hair is white, and so is hers, but they smile into still sparkling eyes. Still young in their hearts. Carefully, I place the precious memento into her frail hand. Her eyes flutter open for a moment and she smiles slightly. The cold indifference that called me here is gone, perhaps the fear is too. I feel something … hope, I think. Yes.

Don’t ask me how I know all this. Like I said, sometimes it’s a burden. But today, it’s a gift. Oh, not for me really, I just carry it until its needed and then I give it away. The medics will probably come soon but I don’t think there’s any hurry. She’s drifting quietly away and quite honestly, I don’t think she’s afraid. I close my eyes too and in my mind, I see a young woman running into the arms of a young serviceman. Her hand is quite cold by the time the ambulance comes, but her lips are curved into a girlish smile.

A Moment’s Grace: Wk 5, Challenging expectations

Admiring himself in the mirror, he turned slightly to view his shimmering torso. He was very tanned, bronzed by the sun and wind. His hair tumbled lazily over his shoulders, golden waves gently lapping at the shores of his glistening biceps. He was very proud of his body, its strength and vigour, although he knew it was unbecoming in his line of work.

Reluctantly, he pulled on a personally tailored shirt. He had a job to do, after all and although his own time was not limited, his client was on something of a tighter schedule.

The Porsche Carrera welcomed him into its lavish leather interior, silver wings glistening slightly in the early evening light. With a press of the Sports Plus button, he roared off down the highway, a hound from hell. He smiled to himself. “I don’t have to travel like this, but its so much better than flying!” He had travelled 3 blocks by the time he stopped laughing at his little joke.

Joshua strode past the hopefuls waiting at the club door, discreetly pressing a large note into the hand of the door attendant. It helped to have money. In the psychedelic hues of the nightclub, he sought out his new client. She looked sadly out of place, sitting in a little booth by herself, hugging a massive cocktail. He sighed. There was little he could do, a nudge in the right direction, a whisper in the ear was all, but perhaps it would help.

“May I sit?”.
“Whatever.” She looked at him impassively, head lolling slightly.
“How many of those have you …?
“What’s it to you?” She gazed at him dully. “Life sucks, y’know? That pig off shagging with my best mate, hospital visits, no money. It’s all shit.”
“Can I help, Joan?”

She hardly noticed that he’d used her name but for a moment she could feel her mother’s arms around her, so warm. Then the moment passed and the futility of her life hit her again.  “What the fuck do you know about anything, anyway!” She rolled the unfamiliar words around her tongue, tasting rebellion. It felt good; she wanted more. Rummaging around in her pocket, she felt for the small package that she’d spent her last cash on. A small pink pill that made everyone happy. Joe and Maryanne had certainly seemed happy, cavorting like wild things in heat. They hadn’t even noticed her. She felt again for the package. She’d paid forty pounds for it, money earmarked for saving. Briefly she wondered what the hell she was doing, then resentment surged through her like bile.

“I’m tired of being the good girl! I’m fed up being there for everyone else! Where are they all when I need them! And where the fuck is that package?”

Slamming her bag onto the table, she turned it upside down; lipsticks, keys and tampons randomly hurled themselves across the floor.

“Joan.” Take a breath. The scent of honey and cinnamon brushed over her and the fog lifted.  She and Joe would never have lasted. They had nothing to talk about and he thought she was a fool to visit her mum every night. But who else would? Who else would brighten that small world for an hour or two, and in her heart, she knew what a little task it was for someone who had given her everything.

“I can still make visiting”. She felt in her pocket once again, but it was quite empty. No matter. She would get a cab to the hospital. Afterwards, she would return to her little apartment and grade papers. Isis would wrap her soft body around her legs and they would curl up on the sofa together. Perhaps she would read a few pages of Jane Eyre. Walking swiftly to the exit, she glanced at the door. Joshua was gyrating like some ageing hippy. He was such a bad dancer, it made her smile.

Hailing a cab, she looked around the darkened neighbourhood, wondering for a moment where the smell of baking had come from.  At the hospital, the nurse was kind. “I was afraid you weren’t coming. I think you should be with her. She took a turn for the worse ..”

She held her mother’s hand. “Thank God I didn’t take that pill.  I don’t know what stopped me.” She didn’t see Joshua, holding her mother’s other hand, gently stroking her brow. Florence smiled slightly in her sleep and he smiled too. He loved his job, even when it was hard. He slipped away at around 2 am. He’d done all he could for Joan and now it was up to her to begin living her life. He thought she would be alright.

The silver Porsche had disappeared, as he knew it would. They always took his toys away when he broke the rules. He didn’t care, this one had been worth saving. There’s no point in being a Guardian Angel if you can’t save someone now and again. He laughed quietly as he lifted his silver wings. “I sure threw some shapes on that dance floor tonight! If you were listening really hard, you may have heard his laughter as he flew away.

Start Writing Fiction Wk 2: Story Idea

“Mrs James said that YOU can’t be a WITCH. She says there’s no such thing and Hollywood made them up!”

Jo glared at me, a reproachful expression on her face. She was good at this. Most things in her tortured young life eventually, sometimes sooner, come back to me. I sighed. I suppose it is my fault, I conceded. I chose my path, abandoning the established order of simply ticking the Church of England box on official documents, and declaring Pagan instead. It was not my brightest move to share this information with my daughter’s school.

“Jojo, I’ve taught you all about my spiritual beliefs, and you know that they include allowing people to draw their own conclusions about religion. You know I’ve been honest with you about my path and that’s all I can say, really. It’s up to you to draw your own conclusions about what you believe. Mrs James has her beliefs and they may be narrow, but that’s how it is.”

I reached out to hug my daughter; truculent though she was, spiked hair, tie undone, skirt rolled up around her waist so many times it made her look like the Michelin man, she was my child to be cherished and loved. She wriggled loose.

“Don’t call me that! I’ve told you, everyone calls me Josephine now. Anyway,” she continued relentlessly, relishing her news, “now I have detention tomorrow!”

She flounced out of the room. Experience told me that I should leave it at that, just for now. But I couldn’t let it be, could I? Oh no, the terrier in me had taken hold and I was getting feisty. First of all, really where did that bible bashing bigot get off telling my daughter what she could and couldn’t believe?

I could hear her sobbing from the landing. The door was locked and Jo was not prepared to let me in yet. My anger had nowhere else to go. Filled with the kind of righteous indignation only the parent of a maligned and misjudged child can be, I took my fight to the head. That’s right. Straight to the top, no messing.

Gareth Parker fixed me with a condescending gaze. We’d had a few run-ins over the years. Well you do, don’t you, by the time all five of your offspring have walked the hallowed halls of the local high?

“This really doesn’t sound like Mrs James” he proclaimed firmly. “She’s one of our more progressive teachers, always prepared to listen to new ideas, quite the change maker really! Let’s bring her in, shall we?” he continued in a reasonable tone. “I think she’s helping some of the less academically favoured children with their assignments. Perhaps Jo was mistaken?”

He did not actually say ‘again’, yet there it was, a tangible thing despite being unuttered. We both knew my daughter. I let the slight go and waited for the paragon to appear. She wafted in, all smiles and Liberty print, the odour of Anais Anais and paella clinging slightly to her cardigan.

“How lovely to meet you Mrs Lewis” she purred, taking a seat next to me.

additions:

In I waded, fervently expressing my absolute right to practice my religion in freedom and my daughter’s right to decide upon her own spiritual path.

“Absolutely” agreed the virtue “Perhaps Josephine would like to join my after-school class, Understanding the changing face of religion? We discuss alternative religions and their place in our society” she offered helpfully. At this point, I admit I nearly crumbled. But I was caught in the red mist.

“Perhaps she would,” I said cuttingly, “once she’s done with the detention you gave her for defending my beliefs!”

She looked at me in some surprise. “Is that what she told you? Mrs Lewis, did you really take to the sky on your broomstick at Halloween? Is it really your intent to turn Ben Nokely into a frog?” She shared a slyly triumphant look with the head. I swear he smirked. Of course, there was more to it. The language she had chosen for her chant was particularly offensive, apparently.

Finally I extricated myself from the cloying geniality of the head’s study; three adults who’ve reached a mutual understanding. The red mist had cleared, leaving in its wake a slight feeling of self contempt. I had bartered my dignity by offering to help on the school fund-raising committee. Perhaps I should dance naked around a bonfire. That would surely raise a few eyebrows at the bake sale.