The Reason I Hate Winter.

It’s just after seven AM, Christmas is around the corner. The sky is dark save a star or two. The moon hides behind clouds but shows his beaming face every once in a while. I’m sat on an icy bench in the cold, white snow, staring out at a frozen lake. I’m wearing a thick coat, a scarf, thermal hat and gloves but still I shake. The cold has little to do with it. It’s coming from inside of me.

The lake, Carter Lake they call it, is a three minute stroll from my parents’ way too big log house. It was decided, not by me, that Christmas would be spent here this year. If I had my way I’d never come here again.

I hate this time of year.

I hate Christmas.

I hate the snow.

I hate the cold.

I hate winter and I hate this lake.

I flex my right hand and feel the dull throb in my wrist. It’s been there for fifteen years waiting for the first day of winter to arrive. When it does, I feel it and it brings my thoughts to here.

To this damn lake.

To fifteen years ago.

When I was young the lake, just like today, would freeze over causing great excitement in the village where we lived. All the local kids would attempt to skate without skates while the adults would place bets on what date the ice would finally thaw and crack.

I’d rarely venture onto the lake with my friends. I never admitted it but the truth is I was scared to. When my friends came calling I’d be ready with the excuse and nobody ever questioned how I ‘caught’ the flu every year.

The clouds drift above me, moving ever so slightly. The moon hides behind them again creating a dark, haunting shadow that lingers on the ice, changing shape.

It was two days after school broke up and three before Christmas day. We were running late for something that I can’t even remember now. Being eight years old I created a fuss, complaining and stomping around. When we were ready to go, I feared we were already late.

“Don’t worry,” my dad said with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

He kissed my mother goodbye on the forehead like he always did and when we were at the bottom of the driveway he scooped me up onto his broad shoulders and walked fast, much faster than if I was on foot. I remember being happy and not caring if we made it or not.

When we got to the lake, a shortcut, I felt no panic. I was with my dad. I never feared the frozen lake when I was with him and we strode across. The times my dad lost his footing, skidding slightly, were met by my giggles of amusement and his deep chortle.

We were three quarters of the way across when the ice broke.

I was flung into the air and landed hard on the ice.  Automatically he threw me to safety. I remember the pain of how I landed and how thick the ice was. The ice was thick! So how did it break?

I saw a broken hole in the ice but not my dad. I rushed to the hole and screamed my lungs out. A dark shape floated towards me. Dad broke the surface gasping for air, he was grabbing for the edge of the hole, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to climb out but slipped down again out of sight. I thrust my arm in and grabbed at his arm and pulled. Pulled with every ounce of strength an eight year old child has trying to lift a soaking wet fourteen stone man.

My right hand was submerged in the freezing water so long that it eventually seized up and my grip was lost. He fell back into the water again and I fell backwards onto the ice. Seconds later he reappeared but only briefly. The frigid temperature was too much and hypothermia must have been kicking in by now. His lips were blue and he was making horrible sounds. Gasping and gagging, spluttering and shaking. Talking but not making sense.

Then, he looked at me. The shaking stopped through sheer strength of his will. He touched my chin with icy fingers and wiped away a tear from my cheek.

“Don’t worry,” my dad said with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

The smile was broken by a coughing fit. He kicked to stay afloat but couldn’t. He sank down. One last time. I thrust my hand into the freezing water fishing around for him but my hand found nothing but mild frostbite. Screaming, crying, I sprinted back across the ice for home.

Within the hour all the emergency services had arrived. I remember thinking it strange that firemen were removing dad from the ice. As a doctor checked me over (concerned about my right hand) I overheard a cop talking about deep grooves, like from a sled, were cut into the ice and I heard an ambulance man telling someone, with a humourless chuckle, to be careful carrying the body in case anything snaps off.

I watched the ambulance leave still holding onto hope that he’d wake up. How often do you hear about people being kept alive in extreme temperatures? Like Han Solo. Carbonite, cryogenics… It’s all Movie talk. Fantasy. Besides, he drowned long before the cold would have set in.

He was gone.

So, I sit here by the lake that took my father but now takes his name looking at the spot where he disappeared pretending that the dull throb in my right wrist is him, tapping me a message. The same message every winter.

“Don’t worry,” my dad would say with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

That’s the reason I hate winter.

Because I miss my dad.

Merry Christmas.

(Miss) Fortune Cookie

Two people wait to be seated at the narrow entrance in the town’s long established and popular Chinese restaurant ‘The Fortune Cookie’.

As they wait politely they take in their surroundings, admiring the bright red walls with decorations of red, green and yellows. Traditional but not typical. Neither are experts on Chinese culture but both take pleasure in the display of dragons and calligraphy.

“It’s busy…” the woman mutters. “I told you we should have booked.” The man sighs and rolls his eyes but verbally, at least, agrees with her.

It is indeed busy. More than three quarters of the tables in the restaurant are occupied by couples or friends or families looking to spend a quiet evening of quality time with quality food together.

Yes, he should have reserved, he simply forgot but there are a handful of seats at the back so he’s sure they’ll be fine.

If they ever get seen to.

He taps his foot as his patience begins to get tested. He looks around for the waiting staff and sees a number of young waitresses of Chinese descent, dressed in traditional garb darting in and around the tables with speed and efficiency. He recognises the owner of the establishment, Mr Wu, dressed as always, in a smart dark suit, talking to a well to do middle aged couple. By his side is his wife, Mrs Wu, tonight dressed resplendently in a flowing red gown with golden stitch. The Wu’s both smile broadly as do the couple they are talking to.

“Apologies for the wait. Welcome to the Fortune Cookie.”

The voice startles them. It’s not a harsh voice, if anything it’s soft. They turn to see Betty with her dark hair in bunches and a thin polite smile that takes all of her inner strength to muster. Her face has only a little make up which causes the black liner around her big, tired and bored eyes stand out all the more.

“Two of you? Do have a reservation?” Betty asks while looking down through the reservation book on the pedestal in front of her.

The woman glances at her husband. “Err… no. No we don’t…”

“Okay, follow me please.”

Betty leads them to a vacant table with a cream coloured table cloth, matching serviettes in the wine glasses and two burning tea light candles. The couple take their seats. Betty hands each of them an oversized laminated menu with helpful photographs of the meal next to the descriptions.

“Can I get you drinks?”

“Just water for now, please.”

“Okey-doke.”

Betty walks to the back of the restaurant ignoring a customer’s raised hand on her way past. Also at the water station, shovelling ice into a jug is Mei, the nineteen year old daughter of the Wu’s, a short, slim girl with a pretty face and thin rectangular spectacles. She smiles cheerfully as Betty approaches and doesn’t lose the smile when Betty does not return it.

Mei Wu, with chopsticks in her hair, asks “How’s it going, Betty?”

Betty leans on the counter next to her. With a sigh she grabs a wad of ice and drops it into a jug. “You know. Usual.”

“Yeah… Oh. Hey. What’re you doing after the shift? Me and Li are going…”

Betty glances across the restaurant at Lei Wu, Mei’s identical twin sister. The only difference being Lei’s rounder glasses. “No, I gotta get back,” she says now filling the jug with tap water. “Ruffalo.” Betty shrugs.

“Oh, right. Of course. Another time?”

“Sure. Another time.”  Betty, jug in hand, walks back to the table.

Mei sighs with a shrug and a shake of her head before delivering her own jug of iced water to another waiting couple.

*

A few hours later Betty walks out of the front door of the restaurant as the lights go off behind her. She’s wrapped up warm against the cold weather wearing a thick coat and a woollen hat. One hand stuffed in a coat pockets the other carrying a bag. Somebody calls out a ‘goodbye’ behind her. She does not turn around. With her head down, she walks the lonely walk home.

*

She opens her apartment door to the grinning, excited face of a small scruffy brown and white dog.

“Hey, Ruffalo” she says. In response, Ruffalo spins around three times then rolls onto his back for the tummy scratch he knows is coming. After obliging him she stamps her feet on the mat to get some feeling into them then slings her coat onto the back of a nearby chair.

The apartment is small, cramped and very bare. All round bland and miserable. Betty drops her keys down on the kitchen table along with the carrier bag and takes a uncomfortable seat next to it. She runs a hand through her hair with a sigh and holds her head for a minute. She’s soon distracted by the sound of a panting dog. She looks down at Ruffalo who rolls onto his back on eye contact. With a smile she gives him a scratch.

She delves into the carrier bag and pulls out a carton of cold, plain noodles which she eats slowly offering Ruffalo one or two which he greedily devours with a lick of his chops. Finished, she pushes the carton away and picks up one of the restaurant’s custom made and renowned fortune cookies. She cracks it in half. Pops one half into her mouth with a crunch tasting the citrus infused within. From the other half she pulls out the fortune. Unrolls it, reading:

‘Keep your face to the sunshine and you will never see shadows.’

She puts the paper into a coffee jar filled with hundreds of other fortunes. Next to that jar are dozens of empty takeaway boxes from the restaurant.

*

Betty lies on her single bed. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She has one hand behind her head and the other resting on the side of her stomach. Ruffalo sleeps at her side with his head using her thigh as a pillow, snoring gently.

*

Betty sits at her kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal while Ruffalo looks up at her hungrily waiting for anything that should drop from her spoon.

*

Betty and Ruffalo walk through the park. Leaves litter the ground and frost dusted onto the grass. Betty wears her thick coat with a scarf. Ruffalo sniffs everything that he can. He also has a little scarf around his neck.

*

Betty sits cross-legged on the sofa with a cup of tea clamped between her knees. She writes in a notebook. Ruffalo is sleeping on a beanbag on the floor in front of her.

*

Betty lights a candle and places it on a shelf in the alcove in the corner of the living room. Next to that candle is a photograph. Betty looks at a grinning image of a younger version of herself standing next to her mother with a gulp. Her head drops. Ruffalo, by her feet, whimpers and rubs his snout at her ankle.

*

Bundled up from the cold, Betty walks to work.

*

Betty walks in through the main entrance of the currently empty of customer’s restaurant. She looks around quickly. No customers but more importantly, no Mr Wu. Her fellow waiting staff are there though, making up the tables for tonight’s service.

Mei waves to her. Betty, with both hands in her coat pocket responds with a forced thin smile.

“Betty,” says a voice from behind her. Betty turns to the voice, taking off her hat as she does so. Mrs Wu, a pleasant looking, slim lady with her hair tied back into a tight pony tail, walks towards her.

“Sorry I’m late, Mrs Wu. I…”

Mrs Wu smiles kindly. “It’s okay. Mr Wu hasn’t noticed but do run along and help Mei and Li set the tables before he does.”

“Thank you, Mrs Wu.”

Betty scuttles away removing her coat as she does so.

*

The restaurant is full of customers. Betty, blowing a loose hair out of her eye, carries a tray of meals to a table occupied by a smartly dressed couple in their mid-fifties. He wears a cream cashmere sweater with a light blue shirt underneath. The lady wears a navy and green dress and a chandelier for a necklace. As Betty places them down she recites the order.

“Enjoy your meal…” she says with a strained smile.

She begins to walk way but the man, staring at his dish as if it was a particularly difficult Sudoku puzzle, speaks up. “Um… Waitress. I don’t think this is right is it? I ordered the special fried rice. This rice doesn’t look too special to me.”

Betty, with a gentle sigh, looks at the rice. “Well, that is the special fried rice. What were you expecting?”

The man clenches his jaw and sits up straighter in his chair. “Don’t take that attitude with me.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “I did not use any kind of attitude, Sir. I simply asked a question.”

The man folds his arms. “We happen to know Mr Wu personally you should know. How do you think he would react to your attitude?”

“The same way he’d react to you bad mouthing his special fried rice?”

“What?” The man says in disbelief.

“Would you like a replacement dish?”

“No,” he says with a weary sigh. “That won’t be necessary. If this is in fact the Special Fried Rice we shall endure.”

“That’s very brave of you.” Betty turns away from the smartly dressed couple before the man can say anything else.

*

Five minutes later… Betty is scribbles an order onto her notepad when she feels a hand on her backside. She looks up horrified to see a middle-aged man at the table looking up at her, licking his lips, eyeing her up and down. He dresses as if he’s come straight from the office, wearing a well worn, high street bought navy suit and grey balding hair. Betty’s eyes move to his female dining companion but she’s studying the menu unable to see what’s going on. Betty slaps the hand away, disgusted.

*

Fifteen minutes later… Betty takes another order, this time a group of eight men in their early twenties all wearing matching white shirts and red and blue striped ties. A local rugby team. They’re boisterous and talkative. They ask her rapid-fire personal and awkward questions, which she does her best to ignore. Somehow she manages to take the order.

*

Twenty minutes later… Betty carries a tray of food over to the table of rugby boys. As she places the food on the table she glances up to see the smartly dressed man talking to Mr Wu.

They look in her direction. Mr Wu frowns. Betty looks away quickly, straight into the staring, beady eyes of the middle-aged pervert. He winks at her.

Betty misses the table with a dish and it falls to the floor with a smash. The rugby boys cheers and laugh. Other people in the restaurant turn to look at the commotion.

Annoyed and embarrassed but mostly annoyed, Betty leans down to pick up the smashed dish and scoop up the spoiled noodles. Doing this her shirt rides up slightly to reveal a thick, dark scar on the side of her back in the shape of an upside down scythe.

“Woah! Look! Check out that scar, boys!” screams one of the lads excitedly.

“Urgh! How am I supposed to eat this now?” says another pointing at his meal.

“Should get a discount!”

They laugh all the more. Betty is furious. She looks around the restaurant and sees faces, many faces looking back at her. Laughing, frowning, shaking their heads. She stands back up. Jaw flexing, anger building. She faces the table of rugby boys and…

“Betty.” Mr Wu says from behind her. “Li will clean that up. We need you in kitchen.”

Betty hesitates. Eyes still on the cruel, smiling faces of the rugby boys.

“Now. Please,” he presses more firmly.

Betty eyes flick momentarily to Mr Wu. She then walks directly to the kitchen ignoring everybody in the restaurant. Mr Wu turns to the table with a smile. “Apologies gentlemen. Your meals will be with you shortly. There will be no discount.”

Betty storms into the kitchen. She paces and exhales loudly. The members of the kitchen cooking team turn and look at her, see that she is either angry or upset and decide it’s safer to go back to cooking.

All except Ken Wu. He approaches Betty slowly. He’s about the same age as her but tall and athletically built. He currently wears a bandana folded into a headband to keep his long hair out of his eyes.

“Hey Betty. What’s up?” he asks with a friendly smile.

“Dropped a dish… Everyone laughs… Feel like screaming… Your Dad…”

Mr Wu enters the kitchen. His eyes locate Betty. His eyes flick to Ken for a moment or two. Ken says something in Chinese with an apologetic shrug. Mr Wu replies, again in Chinese, sternly. Ken sighs and moves away with a soft pat on Betty’s shoulder as he goes back to his station.

Mr Wu approaches her with his hands on his hips. “Betty. Accidents happen but a customer complains of attitude. They are not happy. Please stay in kitchen until they go.”

Betty’s head drops. Mr Wu walks out of the kitchen pausing only to straighten his jacket. As he leaves, Ken comes over again.

“Come on, Bets. You can help me with the fortune cookies.”

*

On Ken’s station are dozens of fresh and packaged fortune cookies. The actual paper fortunes are there too. Ken gives her a quick tutorial.

“…and that’s that. Not too hard. They are much better when they are fresh. Crunchier. Old Wu family recipe.”

“Mm.”

“We’ll serve these ones up fresh tonight.” He indicates to plates of fresh fortune cookies. There are till receipts next to them so they know what table to take them to.

“Two nights running I’ve been on stupid cookie duty. I think I must be the best at making them. Hopefully I’ll do something different tomorrow. Maybe use a wok.” Ken smiles at Betty. She attempts to smile back but fails halfway through. Ken continues his smiling though.

“Well, alright, I’ve shown you what to do. I’ve gotta run a few deliveries. You can take over. You saw. It’s easy. We should have plenty but, well, there’s nothing else to do.”

“Whatever.”

Ken looks at her sadly then puts his apron on the back of the chair and heads out.

Betty starts to create the fortune cookies. She reads them as she goes…

‘You begin to appreciate how important it is to share your personal beliefs.’

‘You are offered the dream of a lifetime. Say yes!’

Betty’s roll her eyes but stops suddenly. Instead, her eyes grow wide. An idea forms. An idea she knows is bad. She thinks about the smartly dressed man, the rugby team and the pervert. She mentally flicks the ‘good’ angel off her shoulder onto the floor.  In her pocket she finds a pen and starts scribbling her own ‘misfortunes’ onto scraps of paper from her notebook. She replaces some of the fortunes on the plates with some of her own creation making them specific to the table numbers on the receipts.

A waiter comes over and takes the ‘misfortune cookies’ off to their tables wordlessly. Betty bites her bottom lip, looking at the ground, maybe at the squished angel shaking it’s head at her.

*

At their table the group of rugby boys crack open their fortune cookies and read their ‘misfortunes.

‘A ‘good size’ is another word for small.’

‘Chewing gum can only do so much. Visit your dentist regularly, Shitbreath.’

‘Breathing in hides your fat gut only slightly.’

‘For humanity’s sake, do not procreate.’

The group look between each other. One or two laugh but most are offended.

*

The female companion of the pervert man opens her cookie. It reads…

‘Your pervert companion likes to grope young girls. Really.’

She angrily confronts him. They argue. She storms out leaving him fuming at the table.

*

The smartly dressed man’s face is bright red with anger. His wife is upset, dramatically holding her head in her hands.

“Mr Wu!” he calls out furiously. “Mr Wu!”

Mr Wu approaches with a concerned smile. The smartly dressed man shows him the ‘misfortune’. It reads…

‘Smart clothes and trophy wife does not make snooty attitude acceptable.’

The Smartly Dressed Man shows him the other one…

‘This man will suck the life out of you. For the love of God, leave him now.’

Mr Wu’s jaws clenches. His face changes to anger. He apologises to the smartly dressed man and storms into the kitchen where he finds Betty sitting in the chair next to the fortunes. He marches over to her. Hands on his hips.

“What have you done?” Mr Wu shouts the words so loudly it makes not just Betty but others in the kitchen jump. “Why you do this to me?”

Betty looks at him but says nothing.

Hearing raised voices Mrs Wu enters the kitchen. She makes her way over with a concerned frown on her face. “What is going on?” She asks quietly.

Mr Wu says nothing, just grinds his teeth. Without taking his eyes off Betty he passes Mrs Wu the ‘misfortunes’ given to him by the smartly dressed man.

Mrs Wu’s forehead creases as she reads them. “I do not think I understand.”

“Watch.” Mr Wu reaches over and grabs one of the freshly made cookies from the counter. He crushes it in his hand and retrieves the ‘misfortune’ within. Without reading it he passes it to his wife. She takes it and upon reading it takes a step backwards, a hand to her chest, taken aback.

“Betty…” Mr Wu begins.

“But…” Betty tries to intercede but Mr Wu continues.

“This is not acceptable behaviour. You cannot work here any longer. Please leave.”

Tears start to well in Betty’s eyes. “But, Mr Wu, please. I’m sorry. I can’t…”

Mr Wu stands firm. “Please leave now.”

Ken comes back into the room now. He watches the commotion unfold confused. “What’s going on?”

Betty walks out of the kitchen quickly, bottom lip shaking. Through the restaurant the customers watch her leave but she doesn’t look at any of them.  Past a concerned Mei and Li but Betty ignores them too.

Betty picks up her coat and hat and leaves the restaurant.

“I don’t think she’s coming back.” Says Li.

*

Betty walks home in the cold. She cries and calls herself names.

*

Once home, Betty slumps down onto the sofa and puts her head in her hands. Ruffalo looks up at her with his head cocked to the side and a lolling tongue. She picks him up and holds him to her chest, hugging him, sobbing.  Ruffalo licks away at her tears.

*

Betty, still wearing the restaurant uniform, looks at herself in a full-length mirror in her bedroom. She takes her hair out of bunches and lets gravity do its thing. Her hair falls to her shoulders. She looks at herself again.  Coldly.

She turns to the side and lifts up her top to look at the large scar on her back. She doesn’t need reminding. Never needs reminding. She just wants to look at it. She twists her body and the scar stretches around her side and stops below her left breast.

She stares at it.

Touches it softly.

Closes her eyes.

Never needs reminding.

*

Betty now wears black pyjamas with a red trim. She stands at the shelf in the alcove of her living room. The candle she lit earlier that day has gone out so she places a new one next to it. She lights the new one without removing the burned out old one. She watches the flame flicker and dance for a few minutes while sobbing gently.

*

Four days later Betty returns to the alcove with another new candle. She places this next to four others on the shelf.

*

Two days later, Betty sits on the sofa with her notebook wearing tracksuit bottoms and an old hooded sweatshirt. She scribbles away with a pencil. Ruffalo sits next to her, keeping her company.

A knock at the door distracts her from her writing. Ruffalo woofs a quiet woof and runs to the door at pace with Betty following just behind telling him to shush. She opens the door to see the folded arms of the suited Mr Wu with Mrs Wu who has wisely worn a thick red coat to combat the cold.

Betty takes a step backwards with her mouth agape.

Mrs Wu is the first to speak. “Hello Betty. May we come in?”

“Er… Sure. I guess.”

Mr and Mrs Wu walk into the front part of the living room. Mr Wu squints his eyes and crinkles his nose. It’s quite dim with late afternoon light coming from a window in the corner and a small lamp on the coffee table in front of the sofa. There’s a slight flicker on the wall coming from the unseen alcove shelf in the corner.

Betty offers them a seat but Mrs Wu shakes her head with a smile. “We will not be long, Betty.” Mrs Wu removes the ‘misfortune’ from her pocket. Betty recognises it and looks to the ground.

“Look, I’m really sorry about that…”

“Never mind for a moment. This is the fortune that was given to me in the kitchen. The one Mr Wu opened.” Mrs Wu holds it out to Betty who hesitates for a moment before taking it. She looks down at it and reads…

‘You really should seek medical advice. That is NOT normal.’

Betty looks lightly ashamed. She puts her hand behind her head and bites her lip. “Mrs Wu…”

“I followed the fortune’s advice, your advice, Betty. I went to the doctors. The very next morning in fact.” Betty puts her hands to her mouth now. “They found… I’d been putting off going to the doctors for a long time. A very long time but I went and they found something.”

“Oh, no! Are you okay?”

“I… I will be, yes. If I had not received this fortune… if it had not prompted me…”

Mr Wu clears his throat. “What you did was wrong for business. Really very wrong for business,” He paces behind the sofa, “but family is more important than business. Therefore we are grateful to you.” Mr Wu looks Betty in the eye. “I am grateful to you.”

Mrs Wu smiles at her husband. “Yes we are. We would like you to come over for dinner with our family. As a thank you.”

“Oh. Um…”

“Do you have plans for this evening?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just…” Betty flaps her arms to draw attention to what she’s wearing.

“If you need to change clothes we don’t mind waiting.”

Mr and Mrs Wu wait in silence for her response. Betty makes the decision. “Okay, I’ll be just a few minutes. That’s all. Um… if Mark Ruffalo starts acting just say ‘bed’. He’ll listen. Usually.”

Betty skips to the bedroom leaving Mr and Mrs Wu waiting in the living room. Mrs Wu removes her coat to reveal a fitted red and green dress. She folds the coat across her lap as she sits on the sofa. Mr Wu remains standing behind the sofa.

Ruffalo stares at them with his tongue out.

“Bed,” says Mr Wu.

Ruffalo just stares at him.

“Bed,” he tries again.

Ruffalo rolls onto his back.

Mr Wu shakes his head and wanders towards the window. On the sofa Mrs Wu curiously picks up the writing journal.  Mr Wu takes in the apartments view of a terraced street filled with small local businesses, charity shops and a Spar. As he turns around his attention is drawn to the flickering candlelight at the alcove. He moves towards it, sees the lit candles and the photograph. He make a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. It’s enough for Mrs Wu to raise her head.

“Look.”

Mrs Wu places the journal back on the table and leaves her coat on the arm of the sofa. She walks over to her husband. He juts his jaw in the direction of the alcove. Her eyes widen and a hand goes to her open mouth.

The alcove has been ‘decorated’ with family photographs and newspaper cuttings of a fatal car accident. Mr Wu points to the photograph by the candle. A family photograph, a younger Betty with a wide joyful grin with her parents and two younger sisters. They look closer at the newspaper clippings. A headline screams ‘Fatal Family Car Collision, One Survives’.

“The date…”

Mrs Wu leans forward to read the date of the newspaper clipping.

“Five years ago.”

“Five years ago, Last week.” Mr Wu corrects her as he nods his understanding. They hear a closing of a door from the bedroom and head back to the main living area.

Betty enters the room wearing smart jeans and a blue and white striped sweater. Her hair dropped down to her shoulders. “I’m ready,” she says with a tight smile.

“Then let’s go,” says Mrs Wu with a smile of her own, sadness behind it.

“I hope you like Chinese food.” Says Mr Wu.

His mouth twitches and for the first time Betty sees the smallest of cracks in his hard exterior. He smirks slightly as he walks out of the apartment. Betty, taken aback, looks over to Mrs Wu who smiles softly and shrugs.

“He’s really quite funny. When you get to know him.”

*

All three sit in silence on the short ride to the Wu house. Mr and Mrs Wu exchange small glances in the front of the car as Betty watches the world go by out of the window in the backseat.

*

Sat around the table, finishing up their meals are the entire Wu family. Mr and Mrs Wu of course along with their children, Ken, Mei and Li with Betty sat at the end of the rectangular six-seat table.

“That was a lovely dinner,” says Betty. “ Thank you very much.”

“Mei? Please.” asks Mr Wu. Mei nods. She fetches a fortune cookie for Betty and places it on a plate in front of her. Betty looks at the cookie and does not know how to react.

“I don’t know…” she says warily.

“Come on,” Ken says with a wide smile. “I made them earlier with my own two hands.” As if there was any misunderstanding Ken holds up both hands to Betty.

She looks around at everyone. They all smile at her. Well, Mr Wu doesn’t but he does nods. With a gulp and a deep sigh Betty cracks the cookie in half and sees the rolled up fortune inside. She tilts it and the fortune falls to her plate. She picks it up but before reading takes one more nervous glance around the table.

She reads…

‘Family cannot ever be replaced but our family care about you greatly. Betty is alone no more.’

Betty’s eyes well up as she looks around the table again.

“I did not mean to, but I saw the photographs and newspaper stories in your apartment. We are all very sorry for your loss.” Says Mr Wu.

Betty’s head drops in sadness. Mei and Li each hold one of Betty’s hands.

“We did not know.” says Mrs Wu.

“None of us did,” says Ken.

“We are friends,” says Mei.

“You already feel like family we know you so long,” says Li.

“You fill the extra seat at our table!” says Ken with a smile.

Mr Wu clears his throat. “Would you please come back and work in the restaurant? We need you. We are one waitress down. Customers wait longer. You coming back is good for business.”

Betty struggles to take everything in. Emotional, she hesitates.

“At least come back until you are famous writer.” adds Mr Wu.

Betty looks at him confused.

“Ah, that’s my fault.” Says Mrs Wu. “I accidentally saw your writing journal.”

“They accidentally do that kind of thing a lot.” Says Mei. Betty laughs slightly.

“No we do not! Well? Betty? Will you come back?” asks Mrs Wu excitedly.

“Of course. If you’ll have me.” Betty says quietly.

Every Wu around the table cheers and clap. All except Mr Wu of course. He sits there with a very slight smile on his face. He nods his approval at Betty who looks at him seriously. She mouths the words ‘thank you’. Slightly embarrassed he nods once more. He leans forward to her. “But please. Do not put these ‘misfortunes’ in the cookies. That is bad for business.”

“Okay. Deal.” Betty says with a frowning smile.

Mr Wu smirks at her. “But maybe just at Halloween. That might be good for business.”

*

The Fortune Cookie restaurant is busy for an evening of good eating. Mr and Mrs Wu exchange small talk with the guests around the tables. Mei and Li serve the food with broad smiles, pencils sticking out of their hair. Two customers enter the restaurant and are met by a smiling Betty.

“Good evening. Welcome to the Fortune Cookie. Table for two?”

END

Blood & Water

My knuckles always hurt after a night like tonight.

I’ve spent the last couple of hours knocking the hell out of some lad that I don’t know. Why? Money of course.

The bus from Cardiff bounces along potholed roads towards my hometown of Pontypridd. Somehow I drift towards sleep until I look down at my brand new silver grey shoes, bought yesterday in the market.

“Ah… Fucking twat!”

Passengers turn and stare but I don’t give a fuck. The looks only last as long as it takes me to meet their eyes with a glare of my own. They quickly turn away and I turn back to my shoes.

Blood. Crimson polka-dots. I made sure not to kick him too. Dammit.

That’s part of the reason my hands hurt so much. I’ve hit people for years but my fists have never adjusted. I try to use my left more than my right because according to the electronic punch bag they set up when the fair arrives in town, it hits harder. I’m actually a right hander so this method leaves my good hand for opening doors or holding a beer.

I hadn’t expected the call tonight. That’s why I’m wearing these damn ruined shoes. I had plans for an evening of drinks with my boys, but when the call comes, I answer.

Money’s money.

I’m sort of in the family business but only by association. By surname. When he was alive, my Dad was an enforcer in Cardiff for a… I dunno… let’s call them a ‘Club’, a club that don’t carry membership cards if you know what I mean. These Cardiff guys say I look a lot like my Dad. Not tall but not short either, stocky and going grey too early. We both spend a lot of evenings hitting people. He seemed to like it fine. Me? Less so.

Money’s money.

Dad died about five years ago, something to do with his kidneys, over the last few years my Uncle Gareth has started calling from time to time to offer me some cash in hand work. He’s still tied in with them, no stroke or power but able to make suggestions that get listened to. He’s pretty keen to get me signed up as a fully-fledged member but I have always refused unlike my cousin David who’s more than happy following in his father’s footsteps. He likes hitting people just fine. Like tonight, we usually work together.

The bus pulls in to the main bus station around eleven in the PM. My blood-blotted shoes hit the uneven cobbles of the pavement and I make my way home.

Ponty, at the best of times, is a scene from a George Romero film. People walk with limps and mouths agape. Wandering, just wandering with no destination in mind. Tonight the staggering masses are younger, teens mostly on an alcohol binge.

I’m born and bred Ponty, so I walk the streets that outsiders often fear, without that fear. I watch abandoned free newspapers dance in a gutter they share with thousands of childhood dreams. Think I can see my dream right there, next to the vomit.

I’m home before midnight and my mother is up, waiting at the kitchen table. I kiss her on the cheek and she grabs my hands as I sit. I wince but try not to show it. She examines my grumpy face and my soon to bruise mitts. “They nearly always deserve it, love. Just depends who you ask. Got blood on your shoe…”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why you should wear black. Your father always did. Hides any mess. Cuppa tea?”

I nod and she gets to work on that. My Mam was also in a ‘Club’ but here in Ponty. Locally they refer to themselves as ‘Taffia’. She’s never told me what she did and I’m grateful for that but I heard she was mean, tough. She met my father as part of a job. That’s all she’s ever said about that too. Even now, two years from her free bus pass she wouldn’t lose too many battles.

She’s right though. Dad always dressed in black.

I drink the tea and we chat for a bit but before I know it I’m in bed and dreaming bad dreams.

*

Two days later and I’m in a local bar with a beer in hand. Phil, a friend from back in the day has returned home for his sister’s birthday tomorrow. Tonight he’s with us though.

We all grew up together, infant school to now. Phil moved away when he was fifteen. We usually see him one night a year but those are pretty good nights. Along with Rhys we were always a trio. When Phil left it became a duo. Rhys is now my closest friend but when Phil’s in town it’s a special night.

As usual the talk is of times past. Girls and fights and school. We were no good at school, more interested in having a laugh than learning. Maybe if I’d listened in maths I wouldn’t have to hit people for money. Then again, maybe I would just hit them at the right angle.

Phil heads to the bar leaving me alone with Rhys. He’s feeling the effects of alcohol the most, as usual. With a slur in his voice he tells me a story.

Apparently, he says, a couple of nights ago some Cardiff lads beat up the son of an important local ‘businessman’. Well, this ‘businessman’ does ‘business’ with Ponty Taffia boss Tommy and asked a ‘favour’. Rhys is making the twelve-mile trip to Cardiff and shake things up.

“Wondering if you’d back me up?” He asks.

My brain searches for an excuse. I shrug and mutter something about an upcoming job for my uncle. He waves that away. “I’ll sort you out some money, like. More than you’ll make in that warehouse.”

Nobody knows what I do for my uncle or who my uncle actually is. If they did this conversation with Rhys would be going kinda different. I mentioned something about a warehouse once and it stuck.

I have no ties to the Taffia in Ponty. Sure, my mother but that was a different time. Whereas my Dad stayed in his Cardiff Club until the day he died, my mother dropped out when I was born. The Cardiff part of my heritage has always been kept quiet. My Dad was always adamant about that. Seemed wise as we lived in Ponty.

Rhys is looking at me with searching, yet glazed, drink-affected, slow blinking eyes. I smile weakly. Non-committal. Rhys has been a ‘friend’ of the Taffia for a while. Not a member but has been recommended by someone who is. I daresay this Cardiff venture will cement the membership. In a way it was inevitable that Rhys would end up working for the Taffia. Like me he has no qualifications but has a moral compass slightly off kilter.

Over the next few hours Rhys must ask about a hundred times. Eventually, I reluctantly agree. He’s gonna go anyway. At least if I’m there… I… I dunno.

*

The next morning I’m dipping burnt toast in a cup of milky, sugary tea. I told Uncle Gareth that I didn’t care about the ‘who’s’ or ‘why’s’ for the beatings (which I now regret) but I’m from Ponty. He knows who I roll with.

My mother wakes from her slumber and joins me at the table. She’s coffee not tea. Black, three sugars. She gives my hand the once over, bruises faded now and smiles.

“Brings back… happy memories. Of your Dad.” She sips her coffee and stares down into it. We don’t talk much about my Dad. Never have.

I decide to talk about my Dad. About conflicts. Cardiff versus Ponty conflicts.

“There was no conflict to him. Your Dad was from Cardiff. His family was from Cardiff. Nobody else mattered.”

“And you?”

“What about me? To him, I was family; therefore, I was as good as Cardiff. Even though he lived here he had no loyalty to Ponty.”

I nod but it doesn’t help much.

“But… If it helps at all… I had to choose once.” She tells me about a girl, a teenager. This kid got ‘abused’ bad by a ‘member’ of the Cardiff Club. Tommy, the leader of the Taffia, got wind of this and ordered action. He didn’t give a shit about the girl but saw an opportunity to attack Cardiff for a legitimate reason. To cut a long story short my mother and another woman was sent to… ‘liase’, with this guy.

She continues her tale. “We got to the club and there he is. Sitting there all cocky. Not a care in the world… but guess who he’s sitting with?” She takes a sip of her coffee and shakes her head. “Your father. He’s sitting with your father. Turns out this guy was your Dad’s cousin.”

“Gees… So what happened? What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” thought maybe I misheard.

“Family was important to your Dad.”

“Okay… but that can’t be the end of it. What about the woman you went with?”

“She… She went… missing. Never seen again.” She bites her lip. Eyes go upwards. “What was her bloody name?”

*

Rhys and I ride the bus the Cardiff in silence. Him thinking about the job ahead, me hoping nothing happens. We got the name of a bar. The Figure Head. Cardiff Club members hang out there. I’ve heard David mention it before. Seems like we got good intel. Damn.

The bus pulls into the bus station opposite the train station and the public transport drones merge. Cardiff is busy tonight but it’s busy most nights. Hundreds of cropped haired, t-shirts too tight, roid-raging fellas out in force with plenty of bottle blonde, high heeled, fake tanned, short skirted lovely ladies for them to breed their future mutants with.

It takes half an hour of wrong turns before we unfortunately find the place. A ‘proper’ pub it is too. No happy hour, no cocktails. You buy pints of beer or shots of whisky. That’s it. We walk in and heads turn. My resemblance to my Dad makes me fear being recognised but I needn’t worry. He was a generation too old for these guys. We both grab a pint when Rhys nudges me in the ribs causing me splutter. He nods over to a small group.

“There was a old fella giving out orders and two younger guy dishing out the beating. One of those was a ginger lad.”

Great. The ginger lad is my cousin David. “Might not be the right guy.”

“See any other gingers in here?”

“Even so…” I tell him we’re outnumbered, it’s too dangerous, that we should come back another time, that it’s my time of the month, any shit to stop this happening tonight. He pushes me away. I stumble backwards into a couple of fine gentlement at the bar, barely keeping my balance but luckily avoiding any drink spillages. I make my apologies and look up in time to see Rhys launch himself over the table, landing on David. They tumble to the ground. Rhys lands two decent punches before I’m dragging him off him.

Fucking idiot.

Rhys breathes heavy, his eyes blazing blue hatred.

David is helped back up to his feet by his mates but he shrugs them off, touches his lip with a knuckle.

Sees blood.

His own blood.

His eyes dart to us and we make eye contact for the first time. His go wide with surprise. Mine plead for calm. I read his lips say ‘what the fuck’. David’s friends look ready to attack but David holds up a hand. “Hang on”. He now focuses on Rhys. Shrugging, “You have my attention.”

“I’m from Ponty, mate. Work it out.”

David looks at me and rubs his chin ponderously. “That much I worked out already, pal. Friend of yours was he?” David starts laughing. “Who the fuck is this clown? And why are you here, Gethin?”

I groan.

I look at Rhys and hold up a finger asking for a minute. His mouth falls open before snapping shut. Jaw clenched. I show him my open palms. “I didn’t know. Had no idea who the guy was. Honest. If I’d known…”

I hear David chuckle, “You think this is the first time you’ve given someone from Ponty a kicking?” Before I can respond to the comment Rhys has started putting two and two together…

“Waitaminute. Last week… you said you were working for your uncle…”

“I… was.”

I can see the cogs working behind his eyes. “The older guy… your uncle… warehouse… Christ….” Rhys just made his sum equal four. Thumb and forefinger go to his eyes. “So, who’s the ginger?”

“My cousin.”

“Uncle, cousins… proper family reunion. Your mother coming?” He shakes his head. “Jesus, Geth. We thought you were Ponty… One of us, like.”

“I am Ponty. I am one of you.”

“Bollocks, butt. You lured me here.”

“I tried to change your bloody mind! Even five minutes ago I was saying we should leave.” I feel the sudden gust of air of the door opening. The momentary breeze feels nice on my red-hot burning face.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I don’t recognise the big fat guy the gruff voice belongs to but I can assume who he is.

He’s ‘The Big Guy.’ He’s got a name, like, but it’s Terry so he happily goes by Big Guy. He runs the ‘club’. I recognise the person next to him though. Good ole Uncle Gareth. He double takes when he sees me.

Mister Frying Pan, meet Mister Fire.

“Gethin?” He says with genuine shock. He takes in the scene in front of him. “What’s all this?”

My mouth opens but no words come out.

Big Guy looks at Gareth but points at me. “You know this twat?” Feels like I have a ball wedged in my throat.

“Yeah, my nephew, Gethin. You know, George’s boy.”

Big Guy examines me and nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, yeah, I can see now. Looks like him. Same eyes, grey hair. Who’s the other guy?”

“Dunno.”

David chirps up. “He’s from Ponty.” He touches his lip again. “Came in, started swearing and busted me one in the chops all because…”

“I can guess the ‘because’,“ Big Guy cuts him off and walks towards us. He looks at me once then focuses on Rhys who’s lost his fire. He looks, not just scared but… sad, disappointed. Big Guy gets close and personal. “Revenge game is it? Looking for justice for your boy? I get that. Understand it. Kinda respect it.” Big Guy moves even closer. ”There’s no justice for you here, sunshine. Not tonight. Not any night.”  He takes a step backwards, smile as crooked as his business ventures.

I walk over, heart pounding and place myself between Rhys and Big Guy. Uncle Gareth asks me to stop but I don’t. I’m next to Rhys looking straight at Big Guy. “Please. My friend is upset. You said yourself that you ‘get that’. He’s had his say and hasn’t done any real damage. Let me take him out of here. Take him home.” I glance sideways at Rhys and his body has straightened.

Big Guy just laughs.

“Bloody Ponty boys. Look around. Full bar. I have a reputation. You,” he points a stubby finger at my chest and I involuntarily gulp. “Your father was best man at three of my weddings. Out of respect for the work he did and his friendship. Get out of here. Go. My mouth falls open. “As for you…” He turns his attention to Rhys.

“Wait. Please. Don’t…”

Big Guy stares at me. Hard, really hard.

Uncle Gareth grabs me firmly by the shoulder. Whispers… “Think about this Gethin. Think about your father. Your family! What would he do?”

I fall silent. I…

Uncle Gareth’s whisper is more like a rasp. “He needs an example.”

I look at Rhys, eyes lost in the headlights. My uncle’s words dance around in my head. I think about school days. I think about what my mother said the other night. About family, about my Dad.

I then realise that I’m walking out of the bar.

On my way out I hear three things.

I hear Rhys calling me names and asking me to come back.

I hear Big Guy tell me to say ‘hello’ to my Mother.

I hear the sounds of a person getting beaten to a pulp.

On the bus home, I cry a bit.

*

My mother is still up when I get home. She’s dressed for bed and finishing up a cup of hot milk.

“All sorted, Love?” She asks.

I shrug and sit down at the kitchen table wearily.

“I… hope you made the right decision,” she puts a hand on my shoulder, “God knows I didn’t.”

I frown at her.

“That poor girl… What was her goddamn name? I still can’t remember.” She sighs. “I’m not your father, Gethin and neither are you.” She kisses me on the cheek and heads to bed. “Night, love.”

It dawns on me that I’ll never see Rhys again.

I wait for my Mother’s  bedroom door to creak closed and I cry a bit more. 

Equally But… Differently

The call came in late last night. Really late. Lucky I was in the office to take it at all but, you know, deadlines to meet. It’s the reporters life.

I’d been in contact with this source for a little while. An email here and there. In the last one I requested a meeting. Nothing forceful. That was about a fortnight ago so imagine my surprise when I got the call. The Source has agreed to meet with me.

Funny, I had always figured it was a guy.

She arranged the meet to happen the following morning on a park bench close to a well known local monument. I assumed she must have seen JFK a few times and thought that’s what sources do. I just hope she doesn’t call herself ‘X’.

The whole operation, if you could call it that, is a bit risky. Not the meet as such. I’d dealt with sources before. Some real scumbags with only ‘what they can get’ in mind. That could be that money or taking down a rival with a news story the police might take an interest in. This meeting was different because it crossed a journalistic line. Not a blurring, I’ve seen the line and leapt as far as I can over it. I could lose my job but that would be the least of my concerns.

I see someone sitting on the bench reading a newspaper. From this distance I can’t tell if there are two eyeholes cut out of it but I can tell it’s a woman. Men don’t wear skirts. Reporters worth their salt notice things like that.

She’s left a gap on the bench and I sit. We talk for a while. She’s a nice lady. Doesn’t ask too many questions and doesn’t want any kind of payment. She says that she understands and figures that she’s doing ‘the right thing.’ I jot the information down on a notepad and thank her. Before I get up she reaches out and touches my hand and looks at me with concern. I force a smile and walk away.

Day turns to night as I sit in my car outside the entrance for the advertising agency. He’s working late. Conscientious.  Hard working. Probably a good employee.

My phone rings. It’s my son. We have plans for later. Just some dinner but we’ve looked forward to it for a while. I cut the conversation short and say my goodbyes when a young man in a smart suit in his mid twenties finally leaves the office. I grab a bag from under the passenger seat and get out of the car.

Years ago, at the funeral, my son asked me if I loved her more than him.  It was just a question. Nothing more in it than that. I put my arm around him and tried to explain. “No, I have always loved you both equally but… differently I suppose.  When you have a daughter… you get so… protective. I would in a heartbeat die for you both but… I’d kill for her.”  He looked at me, thought about it and nodded.

He understands.

I think he understands.

I cross the street and approach the young man, reaching into my bag, taking a firm grip. He sees me coming, he must recognise me. From the trial probably. His eyes widen. My hand comes out of the bag. Knuckles white. I swing away…

I hope he understands.

A Drink Before The Windmill Spins

You step off the bus but feel like you may as well be stepping off a cliff.

Into an abyss.

You look at the town you used to know. That used to know you. Your spine shudders. You can feel the icy gusts of wind but that’s not the cause and you know it.

You do know why, don’t you? You know.

You get depressed real quick. You look down at your beat up shoes.

You think about a drink. You need a drink. A hard drink. A drink might help but you doubt it. Never has before, you muse. It’d have to be one hell of a drink.

You wander the rundown, shuttered up street with shops that were popular in the years before internet and recession. Newpapers dance in the gutter. You pass teenagers that wear hoods and listen to music from their phones, who carry babies and smoke and keep smoking. They ask you to go in the off license and buy them some cider.

You tell them to fuck off. Why should they drink before you do.

You see a bar, a familiar bar and beeline towards it. You don’t drop any change in the de-labelled tin can the homeless guy offers as you pass.

Your nose fills with the stench of stale beer soaked into every wooden surface, the reek of Christmas present aftershave, the distinct stink of drink till death despair.

You take a stool. The burly bearded barkeep asks your poison. You reply quickly.

Something strong. Something now.

With a grunt the barkeep swivels on his heel, turns his back on you and pours something on the back counter. You loosen your tie and drop a note on the bar to cover costs and try to recall the words to that song she used to sing. 

He places a small glass, that looks even smaller in his meaty mitts, in front of you and the brown liquid is poured down your neck before he’ s picked up the payment.

It burns. It burns your throat. It burns your heart.

The burn takes away your breath momentarily as it works its way deep down and settles in your gut. You decide it’s lonely in there all by itself and order another. Down the hatch. It’s good. It’s doing exactly what you want it to do. It’s taking the edge off. You are not there to get drunk. You’re there to take the edge off. It’s a pretty sharp edge. You leave the bar and leave the change with the barkeep. You don’t wait for his joyous reaction.

Your face feels the cold air hit you as hard as the news that brought you back here. Back home. You inhale it.

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

You hide your hands from the cold in your pockets and you walk. You feel the drink starting to affect your head. You ignore it. You see someone that you knew from school. You ignore them. You pass the house that was once a home. You… you ignore it.

You climb the hill that didn’t always feel as steep. You try to fill your lungs. Your head swims as the oxygen fights the alcohol. You walk on. You smile the closest you can to a smile when a dog smiles at you. You walk over paths, grass and gravel until you reach the top of the hill. You pause for only a second or two to look but you don’t need to look. You know the view. It’s the town. The whole town. You think back to when you were a child. To when you were a teenager. To when you were in your twenties… Suffocated by a small town. Condemned by dreams.

You had to leave, you tell yourself. You had to.

You clear your throat and spit on the ground.

Your legs are unsteady as you walk down the opposing side of the hill. A horse tied up in a stable stares at you. You stare back and think about her wanting a pony.

When you arrive at her graveside your body lets go. You fight but cannot control the heave of your chest when you read her name on the marble stone and her eight years of life below it.

You missed her life.

You missed her death. 

Your body shakes. You break. Tears and snot and spittle escape your face. A sleeve can only do so much. On your knees you smell the daffodils that were her favourite. You hear the whirl and crackle of a pink plastic windmill. You crumble and sob your sorry’s and ask why? 

But you know why don’t you? You know.

And that’s why you cry. That’s why you’ll always cry.

You think of excuses. So many excuses. Too many excuses.  Always excuses.

And that’s why you cry. That’s why you’ll always cry. 

The windmill spins on…

His Rubber Spine…

God, it’s cold.

Look. I can see my breath in front of my face. It’s April for Christ’s sake! It’s wet too, that’s normal but this cold… Wish this car had some heating. I’ve tried to get it going three times, nothing. It’s not my regular car so maybe there’s a special secret way to get the heaters blowing but maybes don’t change the fact that I’m cold. I check the time. Been waiting thirteen minutes. Sooner gone from here the better. Get home, where it’s at least a little warmer. I’m dressed appropriately enough in theory. Got on a couple of layers, my makeshift beany hat which helps keep my ears from freezing. Wish I had my gloves though. That would be nice.

I breathe on my hands and rub them together looking through the rain blurred windscreen. The rubbing works for a split second. The cold isn’t the only thing on my mind tonight. It’s not even the main thing. I have five words running over and over.

What am I doing here?

Over and over. Over and over. Can’t get them out of my head.

What am I doing here?

I run my hand over my face and feel the slight static resistance from my two day stubble. Maybe a beard would have kept my face warmer. I sigh and look at the time illuminated on the dashboard. It’s now closer to one than midnight.

What am I doing here?

I check my mirrors even though I’m parked on the side of the road under a streetlight that was smashed yesterday. Checking gives me something to do. Anything to stop me thinking…

What am I doing here?

I slump further down into the seat.

What the fuck am I doing here?

It’s good and valid question and one I’ve been asking more and more. I look at myself in the mirror and see not my eyes but the eyes of my family. I look away with disgust and hit the steering wheel with two open palms. I can feel that my breathing is heavier so I close my eyes and control it. I push my fists into my eyes. When I open my eyes again they are back to looking in the mirror. This time my own eyes look back. I meet the stares.

I’m not a bad guy. I’m not. Really. In fact I’d go as far as to say I’m probably a nice guy. I’ve just made some bad choices. I… Look. I don’t blame my upbringing. My parents didn’t make my decisions for me or anything like that. I did it all. Everything. I’m the one responsible for where I am right now. I could have said no at any time…

I sigh deeply.

I wasn’t always a loser. I went to university and got my Mickey Mouse degree with marks that made people proud. I got a job, I got promotions, got me a girl and thought about marriage.

I’m gritting my teeth now and making sounds that feel like they are rumbling up from deep in my gut. I shake my head for the hundredth time tonight.

But what happens when you lose your job and your degree with the good marks does nothing to help you? Well, you make excuse for a while. You assume that you are over qualified so they are holding that against you, you assume that the job has gone to someone the employer knew, you assume that your application must’ve been lost in the ether because you don’t even receive a rejection.

Eventually you realise the truths. That you can’t pay your utility bills, that you’re gonna have to crawl back to mummy and daddy for a place to stay because the bank are threatening to repossess your house, that your girlfriend has left because you’re a loser and can’t support yourself let alone a potential family. That’s where I find myself. This is my life. I don’t want to do this stuff that I’m doing but what choice have I got? Really? What choice? Welcome to my lowest ebb.

It started one night in the pub. I was unhappy so like a stereotype I started to hit the drink pretty hard. This guy that I knew from school, not a friend or anything but I knew him. An acquaintance I suppose. He dropped a hypothetical question into a conversation and I must have given him an answer that he saw as positive because he took the hypothetical part away and asked again. And again. And again. It didn’t matter how many times I said no he would just ask again. So for the last few months I’ve been doing more and more ‘one off’ jobs. Like running interference. Like causing distractions. Like driving cars.

Thinking back, I’ve always been kinda weak. Things changed a bit when I went to uni. Found me some respect. I guess that carried on into employment but now I’m back to where I was. Back in with the wrong crowd. Back to making bad choices.

When I was a kid… I was bullied at school and forced into stealing some stupid shit. Really silly stuff. First thing I stole was a soap in the shape of an apple. Yeah. Seriously. From a school fete table. A charity one at that. Years later, when I eventually got caught for stealing some Faith No More CD’s, I was alone. They left me to fend for myself. To take the blame.

After the CD incident my Dad said something that kinda sticks with me still. I was whining about how the other boys made me do it and it wasn’t my fault… He didn’t shout at me but shushed me quiet. He said, in a voice so disappointed it turns my stomach to think about it, that I have a rubber spine. That it bends this way and that it’s weak, doesn’t stand straight.

Like having no backbone at all.

I check my mirrors again. If something happens it will happen quickly.

So why am I here now? The money? Is it worth it? Really? Fucked if I know. Like I said… weak. My parents are good people. They’d help me. Take me in again. Until I get back on my feet.

I’m only driving the car.

Only driving the car.

What the fuck am I doing here?

I look at the time again. It’ll be one a.m. soon. Should have been finished by now.

You know what this is? This is like one of those moments that you see in the movies, isn’t it? When the audience is willing the guy to just walk away into the horizon to live happily ever after. Live his life.

Yeah, live his life looking over his shoulder in fear. If I leave it will come back to find me and crucify me. Gut me.

Movies don’t know shit.

I rub my temples to help me concentrate and calm the throbbing in my head. What is does do though, is focus me. Clears my mind. I make a decision. The right decision. Finally. I think…

Fuck it.

I need to go home.

I unbuckle my seat belt and I’m almost out of the car, my fingers are touching the door handle, when the back door opens and two guys in balaclavas are screaming at me to drive, drive, drive.

I pull down my own balaclava that I’d rolled into a hat over my face and start up the car. I thought wearing the balaclava while waiting was a bit suspicious. The engine roars into life but still doesn’t give me any heat. In my rear view my heart sinks when I see the faint blue flashing of the police.

Quick. So damn quick. Too quick.

The blue police lights start to fill the darkness behind us.

Sirens wail.

With a loud screech I take the car from the industrial estate into a residential area. Police are always reluctant to engage in a high-speed chase in populated areas. That’s what they said on ‘Cops With Cameras’ anyway.

Oh, Christ. Jesus Christ! What the fuck am I doing here? Just let me get away. This once. I swear to God I…

I don’t know what happened next.

I know I crashed the car. Maybe it was wetter than I thought.

I know that I’m lucky.

Don’t use your eyes. Look past my scars and the limp that will be mine for life. It’s been about a month since the crash and I acknowledge I still look pretty fuc… (no…) pretty bad. That’s not what I mean. Also, ignore the clothes I now wear courtesy of the judicial system and a somewhat lenient judge who only gave me a couple of years.

I’m alive. More than what the other two can say.

According to the doctors it’s miraculous that I avoided serious injury or death.

Miraculous.

Apparently due to the nature of the crash I should have suffered at the very least a broken back. That’s the norm. Throw in the fact that I hadn’t put my seatbelt back on…

It seems as if my ‘rubber spine’ has given me a second chance.

A miracle..

I think I’ll take it. I kinda made a promise. I swore to God. Before I flew face first through the windscreen. I’m not thrilled about it but I did. Who knows, people talk about finding strength in this sort of stuff. Maybe I can too. What have I got to lose? I have a couple of years to think about it. Think about my past but more importantly, about my future. To find out…

What I am doing here.

A couple of years… good behavior dependent of course.

I look forward to it.