If you love something set it free. . .
In The Gutter, freedom comes at a high cost.
In The Gutter, freedom comes at a high cost.
Lydia by Mark McConville
She
throws the ring into the reservoir, crying over lost love, striking a
cigarette, smoking it frantically. She puffs and then exhales, coughing like a
rookie even though she has been smoking for over thirty years. She calls it
thirty years of misery, years upon years of despair and misfortune.
The
subtleness of the stream calms her restlessness, the torrid thoughts are eased,
the overgrowth a comfortable seat. Her eyes are drowsy, a prime example of lack
of sleep and abuse of painkillers. The pills help the niggling pain, but
they’re also addictive. And the addiction is only one flaw in a long list.
Lydia is an alcoholic, sneaking out at night to buy cheap wine, adding fire to a
destructive path.
The
horizon looks eloquent in between the branches of the trees, the British
Countryside looks picturesque this time of year and Lydia observes it, hoping
her world will miraculously rejuvenate.
Lydia
rises up from the soft overgrowth, shakes off the loose grass, and then
walks away from the soothing place which recaptured her youth. Lydia wrestles through the bushes and makes her way to the pavement. She unlocks the
door to her battered, rusted car, and starts the ignition.
Lydia
reaches the destination, a massive superstore full of essentials and alcohol.
She is craving the cheap wine that’s been her true friend for years. The bright
lit sign is a shining beacon for the wrong reasons.
The
automatic doors open and the repetitive music begins to blare. Conversations
begin to unravel, as the colossal shopping hub is busy. Lydia is here for three
things: bleach, a mop, and cheap wine. So she goes her own way, not making eye
contact with anyone.
Lydia
walks down the long aisle full of cleaning products. She grabs a bottle of
bleach and a mop and heads for the alcohol aisle with anticipation bubbling
inside her. The mecca
of alcoholic drinks is a paradise for the addict. Lydia takes two bottles of
her usual wine and heads to the checkout.
She
places the products on the conveyer belt and waits until the store worker scans
the first item.
She begins to feel like she’s being quietly ridiculed and judged.
She tries to refrain from saying anything, but steers her rage at the clerk,
pointing her finger at him. His face turns red and his defences seem weak.
Lydia throws her cash and walks to the exit, leaving the clerk bemused by her
reaction.
Lydia
opens up the door to the beat-up car. Her anger takes time to dissipate. She
looks at her aging face in the mirror, frightened by the reflection, scorning
the deep wrinkles.
She starts
the ignition, wishing it could restart her sorry existence. It can’t, so she
drives off, far away from the uproar that was started in the superstore.
As she
drives on, the rain starts to pour, the tears begin to stream, the anger
reaches fever pitch. By hitting the wheel, she loses control of the car,
missing two oncoming vehicles. Her car skids and smashes into a barrier.
Lydia
opens her eyes to the blinding light coming from a torch. She focuses them on
the prominent badge of a police officer. He looks at her with worry etched on
his face.
He asks
if she’s okay.
Her reply
is a faint yes, then the ambulance appears.
As the
sirens begin to fizzle out, Lydia fears she needs to go to the hospital. But
she can’t, she has so much to do. She needs to go home and clean up a mess. A
significant mess.
The
police officer insists she must go and get checked out. She reluctantly says
yes.
As she
steps onto the ambulance, her heart sinks. She really doesn’t want to go to the
hospital, she doesn’t want to be fussed over.
She just
wants to go home and clean up.
At the
hospital, the nurse, expressionless and empty, stitches Lydia’s cuts as she sits on the generic chair . Lydia’s stomach churns, her mind overdriven by worry
and dread.
The anger
starts to take hold again, rage fizzing up inside her. She can’t see the
mop or the bleach anywhere. She demands that the nurse retrieve her goods.
Thankfully,
the bag is in the next room.
Lydia
signs herself out, bruised and brushed with fear, but hung together.
The doors
open to the outside world. The frost has started to cover everything from the
grass to the pavements. The British Summertime is erratic nowadays.
She walks
away from the hospital in disarray. She refused a lift home, as she didn’t want
anyone to disturb her clean up.
Nervous
Lydia flags down a taxi. She has enough money to get herself home.
The taxi
driver tries to start a conversation, but Lydia is deep in thought. He asks her
how she got the bruises and the cuts. When she doesn’t answer, he stops
talking.
The taxi
arrives at Lydia’s house. She pays him and offers no communication.
The taxi
rushes off as Lydia looks at the house. She hates the sight of it. It’s grey
and lacks vibrancy. But she walks up the driveway, still feeling the aftermath
of the crash.
She puts
her busted hand into her pocket and grabs the door key. It falls onto the
tarmac. By bending down to retrieve it, a sudden pain goes up her back.
Although
the pain is agonising, she places the key into the lock, turns it, and opens
the door.
A putrid smell attacks her nostrils.
A putrid smell attacks her nostrils.
She walks
into the living room.
There
lies the perpetrator of all her woes.
A man who
showed her disdain.
Lydia has
killed a soul.
The devil
has got blood on the cream carpet.
Lydia
looks at his bludgeoned head and the numerous holes stabbed into his chest.
Each
hole is a reminder of the times he hit or mocked her.
The clock strikes
midnight, but Lydia has work to do. She must clean up the mess and then drink
to the night.
She kicks
him again and again, his blood splashing all over her face.
