Time, it was

The bell started to chime distinctly. Ever so, ever so. Looming. Just ticking over after the news and events of the past two weeks. Molly, she looked sideways, ever wondering at how long it would take. The blisters or the arrest would surely finish her off. The trust, long gone. She destroyed it all on purpose, knowing that with the pain there was no need for more. Purposely creating more pain through all. If Boylan walked away, finally and turned, there would be no more of it. No more pain and dreams. Dreadful dreams. They tossed the night, smashing the carpets against the wet cement in the morning. She only knew that if she spoilt the dreams, they would not come to haunt her time, after time, after time. Boylan hated her, in his cocked hat and with his wry smile. Still, so lovely, after all this time.

She can almost smell the grass, the tiny shots of brandy on the hill. The seed cake once more. She knew if she broke the glass with her words, they could not be shards to sting. Dreadful, so awful. Terrible and dire. Dread and fear. The tiny girl brought home in the police car, her only one daughter. Fear and more fear and only fear. What has he done this time, this time, this time?

A moving away to set you free. An unkindness to be kind. A firewall. A fearful fight to say life is not kind.

Look into the light and keep all three safe. All, all, all. All is lost.

Daring and dipping. What this time? The police knocking on the door. Dripping and desperate. Life is surely not kind. All is.

They Say Beasts Shall Bring Beasts

I refer back to the recent laid back words that foretold of this news. Several months there, I had already written of them coming, August the 2nd of one year past - re-read for knowledge....yes, she was certain to have predicted so and so....it was of no surprise and it did not tip over the flowers. It was a moment of coming...but what took so long? I thought it would have been months, months, months more since. A wound that needs to be fixed could easily be filled with these things. The way that it happened before. Bridging a gap, making it up, bringing dead flowers to a wedding...that kind of thing. Always good to make her smile. Woe is the virility, for it comes to flying up and away for good.

Fickle flies, it was a dirty trick to play on a lover. To fill the bountiful bucket full of it and then let them go. The seeds into the air, just as Howth. How the seeds go, go, go. They all leave you in the end (or in some cases, get given away).

She was the scrap metal opportunity that he never took.

Labels that your mother sewed into your pullover. The black felt-marks all faded now. She thought that you had never made her proud.
The old hooky father, he made you take off your braces and tie up your trousers (with string), just to make the neighbours scoff at you.
The mother-in-law, without the leg, envied the fact that your own mother had been able to get into the veins and rip them out, prawn-black strings filled with blue blood.

So, some time ago, I had written of it, these wriggling things. Long before the thought had even entered the heads of others. She had already prepared herself for the binding of her feet. She had already prepared for the gleeful tickle-hums of the news. She already knew...so long ago. Seen it in the girl's eyes last June. I shall soon be with it, full of it. A sticking plaster, with mucus bubbling, yellow.

And one day, with that thought, she tossed aside the thought...will he give mine away too? Ach, no, she thought, not mine, not mine, not mine. Too precious, my love.

Too precious.