A story...
Silent Scream
He walks quickly, his eyes fixed determinedly on the ground. A businessman sheltering from the rain in a nearby shop looks at him curiously. He looks up briefly, and the businessman catches a glimpse of those brilliant green eyes, eerily glazed, dull, dead for eyes of such a colour. The businessman goes back to the news article about share prices. The hope fades and he looks dejectedly away. His clothes are old, dirty, fraying, his trainers squelch uncomfortably through the puddles. Shivering, he looks around desperately for a friendly face, craving comfort - needing comfort. He walks into a crowded McDonalds and looks around pleadingly. No one will look him in the eye. Too occupied with their own lives to worry about some sodden stranger. He sits at a table, shivering. The scar on his cheek stands out sharply against his pale skin, like it always does when he’s cold. One of the staff comes and quietly asks him to leave. He gets up and walks out, back into the cold, back into the rain. He walks for a long time, until his legs are too numb to move. The only light now is the unfriendly orange glow of the street lights, The only sounds, cars speeding through the puddles, drenching him further. The only person, him. Slipping into the nearest alleyway, he collapses and lets out a small moan, his frozen fingers fumbling in his pocket for the knife he always carries around. Finding it, he grips the handle, holds it up to the light, and runs the blade along his arm. He gasps as his hot blood thaws his cold skin, gathering the strength for this. Slashes one wrist, then the other. Hopes no one will find him, now, when the longing that has plagued him all this time has finally gone.
He opens his eyes wearily. Oh please no. Not again. Please don’t let me still be alive. Please. He rolls over, moans, and buries his head in the scratchy hospital pillow. He hears someone come in. The person comes over to him and he hears a tray being laid down on a table. He sits up. Hunger is gnawing dully at his stomach.
‘Someone up there must like you. You’re lucky to be alive.’ The nurse says. That’s what she thinks. He takes the tray and starts eating. The nurse moves onto the next patient. Finishing the meal, he leaves the tray neatly on the small bedside table, and starts to pick at the bandages around his wrists. The nurse comes back. ‘So, are you OK?’ she asks. He nods. ‘Any problems?’ He shakes his head. ‘You should be OK. You can go now.’ He nods his head fervently. ‘Your clothes are in that bag there.’ He takes the bag, and smiles his thanks. ‘There’s a toilet over there, you can change there.’ He nods and goes into the toilet. He locks the door and searches through the bag of clothes feverishly, looking for his knife. It isn’t there. He must have dropped it after slitting his wrists. He slumps against the wall and moans. A knock on the door wakes him from his depression.
‘Hurry up, I need the toilet!’ someone says indignantly. He tries to make a little noise in his throat to show he has understood, but it comes out as a whimper. Stupid voice. He peels off the hospital pyjamas and changes into his own clothes. Folding the pyjamas into a neat square, he tucks them under his arm and unlocks the door. The person pushes past him and urinates straight into the toilet, taking no notice of him. He quietly walks across the ward, leaves the pyjamas folded neatly on the bed, and checks out. He will have to go back. He has nowhere else to go. He shakes his head, as if clearing his mind, trying to forget. He will have to go back. He stands by the roadside, trying to hitch a ride. After what seems like ages to him, a van pulls up by him.
‘Where d’you want to go?’ the driver asks. He thrusts his hand into his pocket and feels a little rush of happiness, just a small one, enough to keep him going for now. They haven’t taken it. He unfolds the piece of paper and hands it to the van driver. The driver scans it quickly. ‘Oh, I’m going over that way too. Jump in.’ He happily clambers up into the front of the van.
Jumping off the van, he gives a nod, a grin, and a thumbs-up to show his thanks. The driver grins.
‘No problem, mate.’ He waves goodbye and wanders the streets he knows so well, walking quickly to his destination. Someone asks him if he is OK. He nods. Clutching the key around his neck, he unlocks the door to the block of flats. He goes in, runs eagerly upstairs, and unlocks the door. It hasn’t changed much, just messier. He was never good at keeping stuff clean. He looks around the messy flat and starts to tidy it up. He hesitantly looks at the bookcase and reaches up, carefully sliding a leatherbound photo album off the shelf. He looks through it, remembering the good times, and trying hard to forget the bad. There were good times. He has to make himself believe that, if nothing else. Even if there weren’t… no. If there weren’t good times, this is a fresh start anyway, perhaps things will be better. The sound of a key in the door is a welcome escape. He jumps up, and rushes to greet whoever has come in. He looks at the person in the doorway, and hopes fervently things are different now.
‘Hi.’ He signs happily.
‘You came back.’ The other person says, quietly.
‘Yes.’ He signs, faltering, slightly unsure.
‘Why? Why did you come back? I told you there’s no place for you here, no place at all.’ ‘There is a place. You swore there would always be a place here for me. You swore.’ He signs angrily. Confused, he looks accusingly at the other person.
‘I took that promise back a long time ago, You know that. You know what I said I would do if you came back. I will not break that promise.’ He feels the metal bar across his back, hears the familiar crack of metal meeting bone, feels the pain, and he screams, a muted scream, a silent scream. A piece of duct tape is roughly stuck over his mouth, another over his nose. Dropping to the floor, he tries to shield himself from the unrelenting blows, tries desperately to breathe, too scared to try and remove the tape. The memories of when he did try are still fresh in his mind, still wracked with pain. He closes his eyes, wishing this all to be a dream, a nightmare, but not real, please God, not real. Goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway… Pain explodes in the back of his head and he opens his eyes to see, through blurred vision, broken glass surrounding him, the floor stained with blood. His blood. The same blood that is rushing to his head, pounding in his brain, screaming for oxygen. The metal bar comes down on his back once again. He feels someone hacking at him with a blunt knife. The need to breathe overcomes his fear. When he tries to take the tape off his mouth, the dull blade partially severs his left arm. His mind screaming for release, his arm hanging useless and half-severed by his side, he tries again to take off the tape and the knife comes down on his right elbow, severing the lower part of his arm. He looks in horror at his severed arm hanging off the tape and tries desperately to shake it off. His arm sways grotesquely, then falls to the ground, ripping the duct tape off his mouth. He gulps in air greedily, then feels the tape over his mouth again, feels the metal bar across his back with renewed anger, renewed strength. His spine snaps and he screams again, another silent scream, the duct tape stopping his mouth from opening, tries pathetically to shield himself with the bleeding stump of his arm. No… no… I thought the longing was over. I thought the pain was over. Another thought comes into his mind. A better thought. Of the other way his eternal longing could end. I am finally dying. I am finally dying. I am finally dying. I am fina-
The metal bar cracks his head open. His broken, bleeding body is dragged out of the flat.
But some things do last forever. Some things never die…
He walks quickly, his eyes fixed determinedly on the ground. A businessman sheltering from the rain in a nearby shop looks at him curiously. He looks up briefly, and the businessman catches a glimpse of those brilliant green eyes, eerily glazed, dull, dead for eyes of such a colour. The businessman goes back to the news article about share prices. The hope fades and he looks dejectedly away. His clothes are old, dirty, fraying, his trainers squelch uncomfortably through the puddles. Shivering, he looks around desperately for a friendly face, craving comfort - needing comfort. He walks into a crowded McDonalds and looks around pleadingly. No one will look him in the eye. Too occupied with their own lives to worry about some sodden stranger. He sits at a table, shivering. The scar on his cheek stands out sharply against his pale skin, like it always does when he’s cold. One of the staff comes and quietly asks him to leave. He gets up and walks out, back into the cold, back into the rain. He walks for a long time, until his legs are too numb to move. The only light now is the unfriendly orange glow of the street lights, The only sounds, cars speeding through the puddles, drenching him further. The only person, him. Slipping into the nearest alleyway, he collapses and lets out a small moan, his frozen fingers fumbling in his pocket for the knife he always carries around. Finding it, he grips the handle, holds it up to the light, and runs the blade along his arm. He gasps as his hot blood thaws his cold skin, gathering the strength for this. Slashes one wrist, then the other. Hopes no one will find him, now, when the longing that has plagued him all this time has finally gone.
He opens his eyes wearily. Oh please no. Not again. Please don’t let me still be alive. Please. He rolls over, moans, and buries his head in the scratchy hospital pillow. He hears someone come in. The person comes over to him and he hears a tray being laid down on a table. He sits up. Hunger is gnawing dully at his stomach.
‘Someone up there must like you. You’re lucky to be alive.’ The nurse says. That’s what she thinks. He takes the tray and starts eating. The nurse moves onto the next patient. Finishing the meal, he leaves the tray neatly on the small bedside table, and starts to pick at the bandages around his wrists. The nurse comes back. ‘So, are you OK?’ she asks. He nods. ‘Any problems?’ He shakes his head. ‘You should be OK. You can go now.’ He nods his head fervently. ‘Your clothes are in that bag there.’ He takes the bag, and smiles his thanks. ‘There’s a toilet over there, you can change there.’ He nods and goes into the toilet. He locks the door and searches through the bag of clothes feverishly, looking for his knife. It isn’t there. He must have dropped it after slitting his wrists. He slumps against the wall and moans. A knock on the door wakes him from his depression.
‘Hurry up, I need the toilet!’ someone says indignantly. He tries to make a little noise in his throat to show he has understood, but it comes out as a whimper. Stupid voice. He peels off the hospital pyjamas and changes into his own clothes. Folding the pyjamas into a neat square, he tucks them under his arm and unlocks the door. The person pushes past him and urinates straight into the toilet, taking no notice of him. He quietly walks across the ward, leaves the pyjamas folded neatly on the bed, and checks out. He will have to go back. He has nowhere else to go. He shakes his head, as if clearing his mind, trying to forget. He will have to go back. He stands by the roadside, trying to hitch a ride. After what seems like ages to him, a van pulls up by him.
‘Where d’you want to go?’ the driver asks. He thrusts his hand into his pocket and feels a little rush of happiness, just a small one, enough to keep him going for now. They haven’t taken it. He unfolds the piece of paper and hands it to the van driver. The driver scans it quickly. ‘Oh, I’m going over that way too. Jump in.’ He happily clambers up into the front of the van.
Jumping off the van, he gives a nod, a grin, and a thumbs-up to show his thanks. The driver grins.
‘No problem, mate.’ He waves goodbye and wanders the streets he knows so well, walking quickly to his destination. Someone asks him if he is OK. He nods. Clutching the key around his neck, he unlocks the door to the block of flats. He goes in, runs eagerly upstairs, and unlocks the door. It hasn’t changed much, just messier. He was never good at keeping stuff clean. He looks around the messy flat and starts to tidy it up. He hesitantly looks at the bookcase and reaches up, carefully sliding a leatherbound photo album off the shelf. He looks through it, remembering the good times, and trying hard to forget the bad. There were good times. He has to make himself believe that, if nothing else. Even if there weren’t… no. If there weren’t good times, this is a fresh start anyway, perhaps things will be better. The sound of a key in the door is a welcome escape. He jumps up, and rushes to greet whoever has come in. He looks at the person in the doorway, and hopes fervently things are different now.
‘Hi.’ He signs happily.
‘You came back.’ The other person says, quietly.
‘Yes.’ He signs, faltering, slightly unsure.
‘Why? Why did you come back? I told you there’s no place for you here, no place at all.’ ‘There is a place. You swore there would always be a place here for me. You swore.’ He signs angrily. Confused, he looks accusingly at the other person.
‘I took that promise back a long time ago, You know that. You know what I said I would do if you came back. I will not break that promise.’ He feels the metal bar across his back, hears the familiar crack of metal meeting bone, feels the pain, and he screams, a muted scream, a silent scream. A piece of duct tape is roughly stuck over his mouth, another over his nose. Dropping to the floor, he tries to shield himself from the unrelenting blows, tries desperately to breathe, too scared to try and remove the tape. The memories of when he did try are still fresh in his mind, still wracked with pain. He closes his eyes, wishing this all to be a dream, a nightmare, but not real, please God, not real. Goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway… Pain explodes in the back of his head and he opens his eyes to see, through blurred vision, broken glass surrounding him, the floor stained with blood. His blood. The same blood that is rushing to his head, pounding in his brain, screaming for oxygen. The metal bar comes down on his back once again. He feels someone hacking at him with a blunt knife. The need to breathe overcomes his fear. When he tries to take the tape off his mouth, the dull blade partially severs his left arm. His mind screaming for release, his arm hanging useless and half-severed by his side, he tries again to take off the tape and the knife comes down on his right elbow, severing the lower part of his arm. He looks in horror at his severed arm hanging off the tape and tries desperately to shake it off. His arm sways grotesquely, then falls to the ground, ripping the duct tape off his mouth. He gulps in air greedily, then feels the tape over his mouth again, feels the metal bar across his back with renewed anger, renewed strength. His spine snaps and he screams again, another silent scream, the duct tape stopping his mouth from opening, tries pathetically to shield himself with the bleeding stump of his arm. No… no… I thought the longing was over. I thought the pain was over. Another thought comes into his mind. A better thought. Of the other way his eternal longing could end. I am finally dying. I am finally dying. I am finally dying. I am fina-
The metal bar cracks his head open. His broken, bleeding body is dragged out of the flat.
But some things do last forever. Some things never die…