From the train I see a single elegant chair and table at the edge of the field where it meets the river.  It’s miles in all directions to the nearest towns.  There are lakes in with the green, reflecting the sky as though the Earth is flat and full of holes.

My focus switches from the scenery outside to my reflection as I lean against the window.  The rhythmic clickity-clack is sending me to sleep.  She sits opposite, glaring.  It’s been forty five minutes now.  At first I dismissed her anger, then I laughed it off.  But now I can’t look at those eyes; white china saucers rimmed with thick black eyeliner and pin prick pupils.

The Boy, in one of his rare lucid moments, once told me; God forgets.  God turns a blind eye.  But only She forgives.  And repentence is treated as weakness.  He was picking at the stitches she’d given him, a slash to his neck almost perfectly placed to irritate against collars of his shirts.  The ugly wound strained to burst, weeping a clear liquid from purple flesh.  He passed me a piece of blotter acid – he’d eaten almost a page – and I sank into nightmares of my grandparents like spiders with sixteen legs.

I’d swim in acid to feel her healing embrace.  I look back and I force myself to hold her gaze.  She locks on to my soul.  I count down the stations to go, knowing it will be a long night at home.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

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