Complicated

I felt faint. I could not believe what I was hearing. I wanted to die. The news was unbelievable.

The alarming school bell rang meaning the end of another tedious and exhausting day of school. I made my way home taking all the possible shortcuts. As I was a few yards away, I heard a crowd’s chattering and a familiar voice like my dad’s. I started walking faster.

I squeezed my way through the crowd. I noticed a body lying on the floor covered with a white, blood stained sheet. I started shouting at my dad not noticing his handcuffed hands.

“What’s happening?” I screamed
“Nothing it is just a misunderstanding dear” He answered hesitatingly
“What Is?”

I was then taken aside by two police men. They told me everything.

“Your mum is…… dead” said the tall one

The word “dead” echoed in my head. I could not believe what I was hearing. My poor beloved mum’s soul was under the sheet. My dad murdered her. I dared not to lift the sheet. But then I did and gave her a soft kiss on her cheek.

She was taken to hospital by an ambulance, and as for my dad, he was taken to the police station for further investigations. How could he? I will never forgive him.

I was left all on my own. No one to look after me. I was taken in to social care until my aunt comes.

“We have informed your aunt Betty of what has happened.” Said the social worker.

“She had a shock and so she needs to recover so she will come to get you after a few days.”


It was obvious that I will never be able to live with my dad. He is a murderer. I will never forget and forgive what he done to her, however I never thought that the day will come and he will murder her.

After a few days the social worker told me to get ready. She said my relative Betty will be coming to get me to live with her. Then I remembered. Aunt Betty! She was the woman that I hated in the whole universe. It was absolutely impossible for me to live with her. She is a cruel cold hearted woman. She used to think that I was very much spoilt that’s why I never got any Christmas or birthday present from her. She also said once that I had no manners and was an absolute disgrace to the family. Living with an aunt like that is complicated.

She lives in northern England and I live in the east. I was always happy to think that she was far way and that I will never see her again.
The car parked right outside her bungalow. My hands started shaking with fear. As I came out of the car she gave me a “you will regret it” face. I entered the house and then she showed me my room. She was gentle with me at that moment since the social worker was there. However when the social worker left, she started picking on me. It was like I was living in hell. She would say that it was my fault that my dad killed my mum and that when I grow I will be like him. A murderer.

“It is in your blood” she said one day.

My life started to be complicated. I started to wet the bed from fear and nightmares of my mum. That led to more complications since she would get the chance to pick on me. I had to leave my school from east England and go to a dump near hers. School and home lives were hell.

The thought of me never seeing my mum ever again was heartbreaking, but the thought of living with Aunt Betty all my life was like rain without clouds same as me without my mum.

My Life Is Always Going To Stay Complicated.

Complicated

I lean over the sink and throw up.
I feel seriously sick, but I don't care. My suffering is mediocre compared to the weak girl in the living room.
As soon as I think of her I want to cry.
She's been through too much for someone her age. She's only sixteen - still a teenager. Yet already, she's bed - ridden. She doesn't speak anymore. She doesn't eat, hardly ever drinks. She doesn't do anything. Because she can't.
And why?
Six years ago, she was stuck down by some mysterious disease. What disease, I don't know. No one knows, not even the doctors. She was in hospital for three years, but it was impossible to find a cure. Or even diagnose her with an illness.
So they gave up on her. The hospital staff gave up on her. They said they had 'other important' matters to pursue.
Yeah, right.
They secretly thought that she was an odd child, struck down with some mutant disease who'd probably die anyways. They saw no point in her. To them, she was just a nuisance, taking up a bed when others needed it. So she was kicked out.
Bastards.
How could anyone be so heartless?
I couldn't let her stay so helpless. In a desperate attempt to help her in some way - despite the shit the staff at the hospital had given me - I looked around for a private doctor. Sure, it'd blow my savings, but what the hell, what does that matter?
I wish I hadn't.
Dr. Lance. Just the name makes me angry.
He tried ever so hard to be friendly at first, smiling whenever he saw her, getting her to call him by his first name - Jacob - rather than 'Doctor,' giving her sweets.
He told her she'd get better.
She didn't get better.
He gave up on her.
To him, she was going to die, and that was that. No questions asked, lesson over.
He still visits, yet now, he's like a relative of hers, instead of a doctor. He brings sweets, he talks to her, he tries to make her laugh.
Idiot. I hate him.
Assholes, all of them - the nurses, the doctors, the surgeons.
They just care about how they'd appear to other people. People see them and go "Whoa! You're a doctor!" and immediately assume that they're the children of God or something. I'll admit, that's what I thought at first as well. I've learnt since then. They're good-for-nothing spawns of Satan - that's what I believe.
I thought doctors were supposed to help people?
Don't they care for what I think?
No. Forget that. Don't they care about her? The child who's health is rapidly deteriorating, racing towards death?
My baby. My only baby, spiralling towards her death.
She's sixteen. Sixteen. She should be out, dating boys and breaking my curfew rules, just like every other teenage girl in the world.
Not lying at home, every single day, frozen to the couch in the living room. I can't even remember the last time she saw the outside world.
I've watched her fade; watched her face, now a pale sketch of what was once a vibrant, detailed painting, twist in pain, heard her cries in the middle of the night, felt her fragile frame underneath her blankets.
She doesn't deserve this. No one does.
I sigh deeply as I come back to the present. I reach for a glass of water to wash my mouth out, which still tastes of vomit.
I reach for another glass for her, hoping she'll drink something today.
My hand passes her tablets. I freeze for a minute.
'Just four of those could put her out of her misery,' I think.
No. Why did I just think that. What sort of a mother would think that?
But.
No.
She's dying anyways. Slowly and painfully. What sort of freak would just leave her in pain? Why not put her out of her suffering?
No.
She'll go to heaven. I know she will. She's done no wrong. How could she have done?
I shudder.
Why is life such a bitch? I wonder. Full of hurt and complications. What happened to living happily ever after?
I think of the girl in the room next over.
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm reaching for the tablets. I fill the glass with water, then stare at the little white box for a while, feeling as if I'd been sucked into a tornado of emotions.
Who knew they had so much power?
A tear oozes out from beneath my eyelids as I push four tablets out of the casing. I drop them into the water and watch them dissolve, releasing a string of tiny bubbles that soon disappear.
The water looks so innocent now.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, then pick up the glass.
Slowly, I walk into the living room.

Complicated

Nineteen years. You’d think it would all be over by now. But it’s not. I don’t know if it’s me or whether someone else is to blame. Why does it still control my mind? After all these years. After all I’ve achieved. I keep going back.
Mum’s no better. Bless her, she does her best but she’s out of her depth. Just don’t tell her that. Even after…
Anyway, I am writing this not as a justification for my actions but as a way for you, who never understood me or maybe misunderstood me to be able to get to know me a bit better. Not that you’re to blame.
So, here goes.
At the tender age of seven I had to do a lot of growing up. It was only me, my mum, and my little brother, who was a baby at the time. Being wrapped up in cotton wool for seven years I was a bit of soft side, but this was all about to change. I was going to go through possibly one of the most intense learning experiences I had ever undergone in my short, “privileged” life-Mum’s words. Bless her.
I now had to be a second mum. I wasn’t told that was my responsibility which made it worse when I wasn’t recognised. I would want to help but I’d be shunned since “the baby had to come first”. I had to be a strong little girl and I was forbidden from crying. Crying would result in a long lecture of abuse and a disappointed look from my mum. All at the age of seven.
Nineteen years on. I don’t seem to ever let these thoughts go. Is there something wrong with me? I don’t know.
The “privileged” life before I hit seven was….well I guess I’ll have to let you decide for yourself. A violent father was the key ingredient for how those seven years planned out. Full of abuse. Physical and emotional. All of us were targets. Bad days. And on good days. For him that was. Not us. I don’t remember having a good day. At home.
I would go to school and consider telling someone. I was calling for help but I guess you have to tell a teacher not look at her in a certain way. And I was a happy child at school. I didn’t leave the tiniest hint of anything going wrong at home. Same with my other relatives. I was isolated from them all. Mums doing. Bless her.
I guess it’s all changed now. With all these child protection thingys. Well I’m all up for it. Don’t think mum was too happy when she found out about the no smacking rule. Not that it has any effect on her. Bless her; she’s oblivious to it all.
I’m not going to go into detail about every aspect of my life to you. What’s the point? There’s no way we could make it work. It’s all ruined. My dreams of a better future. Gone. I guess you weren’t my one way ticket to a better life after all. I am sorry that I didn’t tell you all of this before. Do you think it would have made a difference? You may read this and find out that I’m much more complicated than you though I was before. I guess there’s nothing we can do about it now.
One more thing. I’m sorry I caused this to happen. I know you tried really hard to understand me but I just can’t open up. You are the only man I’ve ever loved and who loved me. Being with you was the highlight of my life. Might as well go on a high before it goes downhill. Please don’t feel bad about what I’m about to do. It’s definitely not you, it’s me.
Just a couple of last requests. Don’t show this to Mum. Don’t tell any of this to Mum. Any of it. It would break her little heart. Bless her.

Complicated

Slowing down every time she glances around, he continues to trail her petite figure down the pedestrian infested street, transfixed on her silky strands of chestnut hair gliding in the wind. For months, he’s dreamt of being at the wheel of the knife that accelerates into her heart; for years, he’s loved her.
Now, he has the courage to end it.
The photo of them sits by his bedside. He remembers her whispers of “Catch me, catch me,” the invitations of playful innocence ricocheting off forest trees and royal skies. That summer, she had delivered back his heart mutilated and dried of love, sewn together to produce the handiwork of a blind woman. No matter how hard he has tried to relieve the pain that counteracts every attempt to think of her, his trials only culminate with more pain.
Her goodbye was said with eyes that felt sorry for this epitome of queer. A fusion of disgust, sympathy and guilt radiated from that farewell hug, a cold warmth that he’ll never forget. Since then he has tried to cope, but her figure still dances over him when he sleeps, mocking him with the impossibility of ever being able to embrace her again. Never a day passes when he doesn’t wish that he were one of those men she greets with her grandeur, that he had the luscious pleasure of bathing his eyes in such radiance.
What a star.
As the forecasted rain begins to drown his clothes in a weight lighter than sound, he smiles, thanking God for his assistance in obstructing him from her view. However many times he has tried to cleanse his soul, the holy water from God’s basin cannot wash away the emptiness that subdues him. The pattering rain dances off the ground, glowing in the evening gloom. The rain dances off of her back, too, skidding off her irresistible aura.

She retains the role of the only one that he wants, the only friend he needs. What he needs is to moisturise his fingers with her life source, rub them into the folds of his dry skin. He is the south to her north, only she didn’t want to admit it.

The rain falls heavier now, a beat to his song of lust. Very soon, she will reach the quiet road on which she turns and finally feels at ease. He feels his hands turn to wax in his coat pockets, melting at the rush of heat that echoes through his veins.
Her pace quickens, and so does his. Her wet black jeans suffocate her refined legs as she strains her muscles to get home. He licks his wet lips, blaspheming without words as he does so.
Devoid of a warning, she stops. Slowly, she turns around, her face alert of something out of place on this autumn evening. He turns quickly to the shop window beside him, staring into a conveniently placed lingerie shop as though intrigued by the intricate displays of cheap love, lace and silk. Straining his eyes, he stares to his left as far as his sockets will allow. She takes a few steps forward, seeking help from daylight to guide her towards the threat she senses nearby. He scratches his head and peers deeper into the window, almost touching the glass which has yet to be introduced to a friend called soap. Patting his coat in search for his purse, he motions his feet in the direction of the shop entrance, swaying her conceptions. She moves off quickly after, determined to reach home. Unsure of whether or not she recognised him, he waits thirty seconds before turning back onto the pavement to follow her again.

As she collides with oncoming pedestrians in a flurry, he laughs to himself. Washed with rainwater and battling fear, she is desperate to clamour her way to warmth and reassurance. She turns at the junction into her road, a quiet, slim, neglected street. He too, turns, now only a few metres behind her. He can smell her, and she begins to jog away from his near grasp.
“Heels don’t make good running shoes, do they?” He says.
Reaching her, he grabs her arm. Terrified eyes stare back at him, the same eyes that had suffocated him with her pity. She is too stunned to speak, too paralysed to move, unable to pull free from his kiss. She feels the warmth on her jumper, the stickiness of fluid in between his body and hers. He feels her lips tremble under his and pulls away, staring at where lipstick meets blood.

Dropping to the ground, she grasps the hole where a draught can be felt from her insides. Blood empties out onto the street, contaminating her bag and her clothes with the cream he could never place a price on. He bends down, rubbing it into his hands, enjoying the texture of death as the rain washes it off only for him to re-moisturise his hands again. He wants to say goodbye, to say how sorry he is, but all he can see is her smile, now mocking him with the impossibility of ever having her alive. He hadn’t known that she was his sister until that summer, he hadn’t known. Even as he reaches for the knife and stabs her once last time, he hates the fact that they both know.
He fixed it, and now only one of them will have to.

Complicated

“We are fighting to maintain peace! Think wisely, my dear countrymen, think wisely. Do you wish to give your country away to people who have previously had transactions with the terrorists? The terrorists who vowed to kill you. The terrorists who wanted your land.

Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, SA was no ordinary Army General. He was scandalous, his whole existence I’m sure is scandalous!”

I was in deep sleep when I heard a glass break. I opened an eye to look at my dad’s reddened face. He was yelling at my mom who was listening calmly, she seemed to be more worried about the broken glass than about my dad’s banter. It took me a while to realise that my dad was yelling to my mom instead of yelling at her.

‘This is outrageous!’ he yelled. ‘How could they say something like this?!’

‘What’s outrageous?’ I sat up to have a better view of my dad, and when I did, I noticed the broken glass and right next to it was a news paper soaked in coffee which read “The SA scandal” in big bold letters.

‘What’s the matter dad?’ I asked, now knowing the source of the problem.

‘PA has told such lies about General Siripala Amarapala! How could they?! He won the war for us! He could have easily spent another two years doing nothing, but he stepped down refusing all the promised wealth. He is now running for president only to give our country the change it really needs!’My dad has always been a ANP (Active National Party), fanatic, a party which is now represented by Former General Siripala Amarapala for the presidential elections.

‘Nah, this whole issue… I don’t think it will have any impact on peoples’ minds, and anyways SA can rebut the statement in today’s campaign’.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought at first, but you see son, if the GA do manage to convince the people, then I don’t think SA will be able to change anything.’

‘Hmm... .’

“‘Good morning, you are with Sirasa TV News 1^st. We have just received another election result.’

‘In the Ampara district, President Eshan Hettiaracci has secured a majority of eighty five percent of the votes while Former General Siripala Amamrapala has secured just fifteen percent of the votes.’

‘Stay tuned for more election updates, this is News 1^st, Pollanca TV.’”

‘Hello?’

‘Hey mom, how’s dad?’

‘Oh, so you heard the news… Well, he’s taking it better than I expected.’

‘Cool, I’ll be home around at four ok? I’m off…’

‘Wait!’

‘Huh?’

‘What exactly do you know about the results so far?’

‘I know that Siripala has lost… and… I think that’s about it.’

‘Hmm.. ok, there is more to it. I’ll tell you the rest later ok? Be safe!’

Click!

What else could possibly go wrong? GA (General Alliance), wins the elections and continues to ruin the country. That’s what was predicted, but considering the amount of inaccurate predictions given so far, I don’t think I should be relying on them anymore.

I was in an overly packed bus, passengers were nearly spilling out of the foot board while the bus conductor squeezed through the narrow gaps between people issuing tickets and yelling the names of all the stops at the top of his voice. The radio was turned on. It played a soft, slow voice singing to a relatively loud backing track; a weird combination even for native music.

The music stopped abruptly and was replaced by a rhythmic, monotonous voice.

“Good evening, this is 24.9,Gamey FM. We’ve just had breaking news. Former General Siripala Amarapala is currently surrounded by armed troops at the Inter Continental Hotel. I repeat…”

It was my stop to get off. While walking home I pondered on the events so far. At first it had seemed very simple; the current president, Eshan Hettiaracci will win the elections because he was the only politician able to take the credit for ending a twenty-five year long war. Then tides changed as the Army General announced his resignation and his entry into politics. His popularity began to soar and was eventually predicted to become the next president. However, President Hettiaracci managed to win another term as president using blatant rigging. The votes were counted by the army and all troops were brain-washed in order to erase any form of loyalty towards the former general. The election commissioner was under house arrest and his verdict on the election wasn’t aired live for the first time in history.

Just as I was about to reach the door, my happy-go-lucky brother materialised besides me.

‘Hello my beautiful little… whatever,’ he yelled in my ear.

I screamed. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’

‘Mom’s not at home.’

‘Really?’ She hadn’t told me.

‘Yeah, didn’t you get the text?’

Just then my iphone bleeped.

‘That must be the text’, I said as I tapped the screen in order to get the light on. As the light came on, a message was made visible. “You no longer have Internet Connections” it read.

‘Hey! I got that message too’, my brother sounded relieved. He probably thought that it was a problem with the signals, but I knew better.

The events that that have occurred so far seems to me like a big, entangled ball of thread. It looks strong from the outside, but as you remove the outer layer you see a complicated mess acting as the core to strengthen the outside.

I stepped inside the house only to let out a deafening scream! There lying on the floor was my dad. He was beneath a shattered chandelier, his blood soaking the carpet. He had a thick noose around his neck which was connected to the chandelier. No! How could he do this to himself!?

Complicated

Complications after complications. One problem leads on to another. You can’t cope any longer. You can’t take anymore. Many times you have heard the phrase ‘life’s a bitch’ well, the bitch strikes again.

You thought you could handle it. You were wrong. You thought conning a gangster wasn’t a big deal. You were wrong. But thinking you could get away with it. Big mistake.

There will constantly be a pair of eyes watching your every move. You can run but you can’t hide. You will always be seen. You can’t trust anyone; so called `friends’ will stab you in the back, and will desert you so that the enemies can contort the dagger your friend left.

But you didn’t think of that, did you? You thought you were never going to get caught, well now open your eyes, around each and every street corner there is a thug watching, waiting, hunting for its prey, you. You will never be able to escape this nightmare, there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You are trapped. And there is only one thing you can do about it. Surrender. Give up. Die.

There is a certain line between danger and death, what side are you going to step to? Choose carefully, there will be no turning back. Choose danger and live a life of constantly looking behind your back. Constantly on the run. Constantly fearing for your life. Constantly feeling a horrendous chill down your back. Get close to anyone, and they will be wiped from your life. Forever.

But time is running out and you will have to make your move. The world is turning against you, piece by piece. You are lost in life’s games. It isn’t too late.

They will find you. They will rip your guts out. They turn you black and blue. You will never see the sunrise again. Your eyes deep blue portray an immense amount of panic.

The banging of the door is battering your ears. Your time is about to end. The last of your critical seconds are disappearing, fast, taking your life with it. Tick. So what is your decision? Tock.

It’s too late. You are too slow. The banging at the door has stopped, but are you still safe?

You’re not. The door comes crashing down. Men that are taller than lampposts come buzzing through the door. Your mind has turned blank. You move your lips but no sound is coming out. The bigger man of the herd asks you the question you have heard ten times already, ‘Did you think you could get away with it?’ He smiles. His dark grim eyes widen. He raises his gun. You know what he is about to do. Your heart starts to beat faster. Tears of sweat trickle down your long face. Your hands are on vibration mode. There is nothing you can do. Nothing you can say. You’re surrounded by ugly bold faces. You take a breath. He aims. He shoots.

Now you’re lying on the cold laminated floor, standing over your limp body is the man that shot you. You can’t move. Your speech is slurred. You can’t feel anything. He shoots again. This time pain attacks.

Your sight turns from black to white to red to white and back to black….

Your senses have faded. Absolutely vanished.

You are dead.

Complicated

If my childhood could be bottled and brewed, leather and lace would be the leaves in my tea, and the malt in my beer. If my childhood could be worn, lace and leather would be the fragrance of my finest eau de toilette. Leather and lace have the incredible ability to turn the hands of time, squeeze life’s oranges to a pulp and concentrate youth’s best bits into a glass or two of juice. Every sip is a capsule from the past - do you remember slipping on sun dried socks on washed feet, or sniffing cherry blossom shoe polish on shiny leather shoes. The taste of burnt sugar and banana flavoured medicine. I certainly do. As the years roll by, time starts to become the mind’s worst enemy. Memories burn away slowly from around the edges, until all that’s left is a camera without film; a photograph without a negative. Here I sit, writing by lamplight, as the Orient Express journeys through day and night and sunshine and showers. My journey from limbo to enlightenment will be a much harder feat than the one I am battling to overcome right now. Travel sickness and insomnia all have cures. Heartbreak doesn’t. Once the china pot is broken, no glue can fully mend the cracks from the fall. The pieces can, of course, be stuck together, but beauty is a state of the irreversible. Once it is lost, it will never return. It makes you wonder about the mercies you are spared every once in a while are really mercies at all. One day, age will bless you with a new – born wisdom, and you will realise that their reason for existing is only to inflict pain you would never have suffered if life hadn’t been so generous.

Our carriage window is open; the evening air is infused with meadowsweet and the bitter notes of burning coal. The smell is strangely therapeutic and every sharp intake of breath quells the nausea burrowing deep down in my stomach. I walk to the open window and poke my head out just enough to let the wind caress my face. Its slender fingers massage my cheeks and iron out the stress lines too many sleepless nights had scrawled underneath my eyes and forehead. Minutes are eaten away, yet the sand in the hourglass has surpassed the pull of gravity. Another of life’s short – lived mercies. A chain of pictures run past my eyes, not one identical to the other. Each one whispers a thousand different words to me. The sky is less complicated, and has only one question to ask. I however demand many answers to which the sky is forever silenced to expose. I just stand, watch and wonder, while I let the inevitable play out in front of me. I would consider this to be one of my greatest achievements if it was anyone other than Mother Nature drawing the curtains for the night. The splashes of orange in the sky begin to fade. A sea of black engulfs them. Midnight is arriving. I hail its welcome by slipping on a cardigan over my silk nightdress. Despite this extra layer, the raw winds cause a surge of goose bumps to blossom on my arms and neck. I slowly pull down the window, trying hard not to make a noise that could wake Benjamin. It would be against my last wishes to die in the presence of the living. I stare at his eyes. I can’t see his soul, but I can read his mind. Benjamin hasn’t yet said his first word. Words are worth little. His eyelids are glued together, almost as if he is making a wish. Some might call me selfish as I smother his face with my pillow. I would call it entitling my baby to what he deserves – and that is freedom. Mothers are meant to protect their children. One sip of liqueur from the goblet will only kindle a dislike towards the plentiful jug of innocence. I open the carriage door, pick my dead son up and hold him in my arms. Together. That is how we belong. Heaven. That is where.

Leather and lace. They were never meant to be this complicated.