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By *oxes OP Man
over a year ago
Southend, Essex |
I would really like and appreciate feedback on this.
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32 Clarence Way, Redcliffe, Bristol, She glanced at the phone to the door back to the paper with anxious purposeful look and a sigh, a sigh of preparing for the number of situation that was or are about to happen. Thrice was the double check, thrice was the number of the house and thrice was the time she had been here yet, she still felt the need to go through pre rehearsed routine. Especially before she is about to see her Psychiatrist. Clara Fleur Parsons had a love hate relationship with her psychiatrist. The Affirmative positives overlapped a hidden fear of her talking alone in a room with him uncomfortable juxta positioned on her left-hand corner and window to freedom to the road outside. In a room that had memories vivid, raw and sexual satisfying and yet tainted and corrupted.
***
32 Clarence Way, Redcliffe Bristol 2009. The Townhouse house and the row it was constituted towered above the rest of the street rumoured to be built by a slave trader in the 17 – 18th century. Bristol's part in the trade was prominent in the 17th and 18th centuries as the city's merchants used their position to gain involvement, but that is history. A Teenage Clara of 17 years stared up from her 4’11 frame up the stairs at the Jet-Black door with rectangle shards of light streaking across its shinny frame. She glassy eyed looked at the door, a sense of anticipation of trepidation, she swallowed hard gulping before ascending to the foreboding door, alone with a sense of excitement of unknowing.
***
“But that is history”. Clara stated as she sat on the grey sofa this time for a change compared to his unimaginative narrow dining table, her knees angled in with her hands sliding past her denim uncomfortably as she looked out of the window of the street peoples legs and feet were panning past eye line as they continued their everyday activities seemingly oblivious to her and the normal details of her experience. She noted one bald gentlemen red light hoody and a shaven beard, massive oldskool headphone and an old I-phone walking down the street impervious to her glare, her feelings, her pain. There were only two people who needed to know one was her old friend the reflection that stared back at her observing her observing him and the other was the psychiatrist Mike whom was only a few years older than she in his early 30’s. she turned around to him awkwardly comfortable, in a highly engineered situation of calm, no sound just background. Her head angling to the left-hand side, her tide long blond hair in knot thing would have rolled down past her shoulder if was loosened and set free. The chinless dark-haired wonder stared back his thumb by his lips, his chiseled features sporting a possible grin which she was unsure of otherwise he was blank of expression. She hated this, it was like he was not human, uncaring no emotions and unreadable yet his brown piercing eyes stared through her to dark green wall behind her not judging/judging her, he repeated what he stated to which was previously faded noise. “What happened” Mike stated coolly again.
***
The party had only just begun yet all bedlam was being let loose in this disused townhouse of a listed nature, yet the minority were or have ruined it for the majority. Young Council House Herbert’s to which Clara was born and bred from their stock from one of Weston’s if not the country’s roughest estates. These individuals all if not some of whom are or were victims of modern societal pressures, intermixing with the posher kids of Clifton and elsewhere. All of who were tying to live some retro 90’s home counties dream with the bringing back of an illegal rave. But in reality, it was Genisis 89 lite. To say all the revellers were yobs and chavs in the stereotypical sense would be discrimination based upon perceived implicit and explicit ‘shameless’ ideas of what constitutes those who live on a council estate. Many of the people who live on these estates aren’t from broken homes nor are they living there through no fault their own. For Richard ‘Riki’ Hart on the other hand to even say that is a fucking underestimate for he is the personification of the chav stereotype.
***
“I met Riki at a family doo”. Clara stated While the dark, yet hansom Dr Mike Smith simply looked on. “He was um is a family friend”. Twisting her head to meet Mikes very expressive eyes almost at contrast to rest of his demeanour.
***
Riki stood there balding blond bloke in his mid/early 20’s portly not beauly with soft features and straight nose, it was weird in a way he looked very similar to her, just triple the size. As he stood in the bricked room, walls naked plasterless by the archway he seemed to light up the room around him. The embryonically dark, with building and film LED lights breaking darkness yellow glow. Clara found the sight of her petit self-surrounded by a large group of men fearful but found something soothing and warming by the darkness. She recognised his friends, Riki Stood there with a one of those frat Red cups. His Blue eyes, those eyes seemingly of an angel but hid a menace in plain sight. Riki was a handy man, a cousin that was not a cousin, who on occasion sold a bit of . He used to drive a supped up 78 Mustang to which he totally annihilated depending on your interpretation of what is aesthetically pleasing, managing ram new pair of rims and body kit to it, he did the same to stollen classic E -type jag to which he did not own but still sold. Riki was not traditionally aesthetically-pleasing, far from it with his gold chain over his blue sweater and dark jeans. He always saw himself as big time in the underworld, in reality he was nothing than a bit park player, a guy so unknown that the ‘rooks’ were unaware of his dealings. Flanking him on all sides were the McAlister’s, Now they are small Irish Diaspora of 3 rd gen Irish Roman Catholics, for they were the ones who were putting this party on. They would come into prominence in 2020 hosting pandemic raves and maintaining drug sales, without having too many middlemen. The Murphy’s, Edwards of McCaffery’s who ever their name was they are all interlinked; had left the area to run It through county lines. Unfortunately, this left a perceived power vacuum, the McAlister’s had found a niche that did not make them too many enemies while allowing them to thrive.
***
Clara looked down the hallway of Mike office where she visualised herself looking into the room which she did all those years ago, alone. It was like a hologram a ghost for she was the ghost in a shell. Clara was always seemingly alone and lonelier as time had gone by and friends and family supposedly went their own ways. The process of her peers had jacked her since her pregnancy and birth of her daughter. The only difference between then and now is that the house she is sitting in is not a ruin, anymore, but a building for professional enterprisers and entrepreneurs, a world she now was very adept in. Noticing the bubbles of the water machine in the corner of the room to which distracted her mental flow. She leaned over to her bag to pull out bottle of water the bag was expensive, it matched her Louboutins, also very expensive. Mike had noticed this and noted the brand too and possibly wondered why she was wearing then with jeans. The shrink, shrunk down comfortably in his chair placed the tablet pen down. Waving his hand like his was clutching the mystic ball of knowledge above the tablet which perched on his folded knees he questioned her. “Tell me more about this [pause] Riki character”.
***
Riki Embraced leaned forward and kissed Clara again Clara kissed him back but with more fervour than before as he lifted her and forced her against the wall, they were framed by mock gothic buttress, against the plain brick wall with tinges of green paint that littered the damaged plaster remnants on the wall. Their positioning was given away by a solitary bulb and occasional flash from a disgruntled live electrical cable, flaring blue light that marked them in a silhouette.
***
Clara sat in contemplating imagining the situation, a nostalgic stab of the knife in her heart, it was painful very. “We don’t have to continue if it displeases you” Mike smith stated as Clara was egged on by his coercive nature and his handsomeness, and general slightly disturbing but gentlemanly manor. “No it’s fine” Clara softly spoke before she sighed “we were plutonic”.
***
Hands running slowly up into his short hair head and down over his thick shoulders and along his strong arms and around his padded back, her hand running over his head. Mean while her right hand gipped like claws with her long white nails attempting to dig in past his jumper to his back as he thrust inside her. She was not the fan of being lifted, but at this point in time she was more worried about being spotted. Any moment their green silhouette would show, she felt his left hand holding her up while his right hand past her chest, she closed her eyes and raised her neck allowing him to take hold.
***
“Does us talking about this situation upset you miss Parsons”. She merely nodded; blank of expression “We do not have talk about this, but only when you are ready” Clara sat their visualising the next moments of the story, the idiot who thought it would be funny to set off the buildings sprinkler system drenching her and Riki cloths to their form, see through it became while his definition showed through. She always had a thing for these World strongest men look kind of gentlemen with a dangerous mentality. “Pain is just how do I put it”, Clara stated as she came out of the trance “Pain is a pathway to pleasure. You know no more fear you know”. |
