What's The Worst... Chapter 06

Dorothy had recovered quickly from her turn. She’d explained to Ira in the past that they were like the memories of a dream; fleeting, impossible to grasp and hold onto. She’d also recognised that this was a blessing.

Ira had no doubt that when she was in the trance she was very much at risk. What she saw stressed her mentally and physically. He truly believed that her visions came with such clarity and presence that they could do damage, but the evidence of his eyes showed that the feeling did pass as quickly as Dorothy had claimed.

They both knew that whatever they were, they never came back in her dreams.

Dorothy sat for a little longer, then, looking down at the tea towel in her hands, “I’m done now.”

She looked up into Ira’s eyes; saw the worry in his face, “I’m okay now.”

She straightened out the tea towel and folded it across her lap, smoothing the material from left to right, “It’s passed.”

Ira still waited.

She took a slow, steady, deep breath, “I’d better make a move or I’ll miss the bus.”

Ira sagged a little; her tone was matter-of-fact, it offered no leeway for bargaining or discussion, “The sun’s still shining, the sky’s not fallen in, and I’m still breathing; nothing’s changed.”

And that was that, in less than five minutes the day had gone from pleasantly normal, to terrifying risk of loss, to denial based on simple, selected facts.

Seemingly unbidden, an image of the house on the corner flashed into Ira’s mind, the dark windows, the darker interior, the darkest of hearts. He pushed the image and the chain of thought away; today, nothing had been lost.

“Well my love, you look fine and I’m sure the fresh air will do you good.” He smiled as best he could, “I’m brewing another coffee and dealin’ with that paper.”

He stood and moved back to the sink; the white plate with the dark smear of red around it was still visible below the surface of the dishwater, “And maybe I’ll give these a finishin’”

Dorothy paused a little longer, took another steady breath, stood, and made her way out of the kitchen.

By the time Ira had finished the dishes and stacked them on the drainer he could hear Dorothy coming back down the stairs. When she came into the kitchen she was already wearing her autumn coat, hat and carrying a small shopping bag.

“I’ll see you in a little while; no more than a couple of hours...”

“Ayup, go steady, no jumpin’ on or off the bus when it’s still goin’” his smile was genuinely humorous.

“Oh Ira! My fare dodging days are long passed...”

“Still, watch yourself.”

“I will, but it’s passed, and on a day like today what’s the worst that could happen?” she cocked an eyebrow at him, both a question and a promise of disapproval of any half serious answer.

“You never know dear,” she hated it when he did that, “It might reindeer”

“Bah!” and with that she kissed him on the cheek, turned and headed for the front door, “Love you!”

“Love you!”

The front door opened, slammed shut, and Ira was alone in the house.

Again, he paused for a moment, as if considering options, but there were none on the list. He re-filled the kettle and prepared the coffee whilst it boiled.

The front of the house faced southeast. At this time of day the sun was in the front room rather than the conservatory at the back of the house. Although he preferred the open feel of the conservatory, this late in the year it would still be cold. He decided on the front room as his “reading room of choice” for this morning. Armed with a fresh cup of coffee and the still neatly folded paper he wandered through the house.

By now, Dorothy was probably waiting at the bus stop.

He’d developed a habit of sitting at one particular end of the sofa, driven mainly by Dorothy normally being sat at the other. A few years ago they’d bought a couple of padded foot stools; as usual, one of them was sat just in front of his preferred seat.

His coffee went on the coaster on the small table, his paper alongside it, and he lowered himself into the sofa; he hadn’t yet got to the stage of falling into chairs but figured it was only a matter of time before either his hips or thighs started to let him down.

Ira shook out the paper and thumbed through the first couple of pages looking for a headline to catch his eye...

The story was one of those post-event analysis ones; the ones that look for the signs and portents that marked the path from normal to newsworthy... and as usual it was bad news worthy.

‘The young man was from one of the less salubrious parts of town; not as bad as others, but certainly no Chelsea. His mother, who’d not been outside of the bungalow for a number of years on account of her poor health and disability described him as a quite one, but no trouble, even without a father figure to look up to. She certainly couldn’t understand how things had turned out the way they did...’

But then that’s the rub, the bit we never learn...

We all hear the voices in our heads; the continuous bickering between the various points of view. Some say it’s our conscience, trying to help us live a life in keeping with the morals and values that we choose to hold dear.

It is also possible that these are just the voices of our madness; those voices of madness, that be they god or devil, we rely upon for guidance.

Some would say that there is no difference between these two. They would say that the salient point is whether we hear the voices, or whether we listen to the voices. In this respect then there is no real difference between this madness and that of those who spend their lives medicated, institutionalised, disconnected.

No, the difference is in the individual person. For some, the force of will exercised over the voices is what keeps them in the world. It is this that keeps them a functioning member of society.

They may seem a little odd, maybe unfriendly, but never dangerous.

Yet, as with so many things, there are shades of grey, degrees of control, and it is those that are on or near the very edge of their strength that are in need of watching.

These are the ones that are most in need of the out stretched hand, the occasional caring word.

How often have we heard the post-event interviews of the bystanders, the folks who saw and heard all of the warning signs but never did anything?

“He was a quiet guy, never really spoke to nobody, I’m really surprised that...”

“She said hello every morning, who’d have thought that...”

All of them wondering how it could be that such a thing could have happened in their midst, in their normal little community; wondering how the village, town, city or country could have come to this.

By now the bus had arrived.