3 December 2014

He was running through the village. The January dusk seemed to close in on him as he tried to reach home. But to no avail. It didn't matter which way he turned, every time the school would just appear around the next corner, and before he knew it he was back in that class-room. The one he'd refused to go back to ever since.

He turned around and ran down the corridor, trying to seek refuge in the teachers' lounge. But when he opened the door, he was right back where he started. And he was there, he could feel it, creeping in the background. Invisible. But there. The other one was there as well, the one he'd trusted would help him, but who instead…

He felt trapped and cried out for the only one who could really safe him.

The crying shouts could be heard all the way downstairs to the kitchen where Myra was busy preparing tea. She switched off the gas and dropped the frying pan full of food into the sink before running upstairs.

"I'm right here!" She said soothingly as she lay down next to her son on his bed and took him into her arms. "I'm right here, son." The tears started welling up in her eyes but she paid them no attention and allowed them to flow freely as she tried to calm John Paul down. "Nothing's gonna hurt you now. No-one's gonna harm you, sweet baby."

When would this stop, she thought to herself, when would he finally be at peace after what happened?

This wasn't the first time she'd had to drop everything she was doing to see to her son since she'd returned home after waking up one morning with the certainty that she was desperately needed there. Without giving it a second thought, or contacting John Paul or Jim, she'd packed her bags and bought a ticket on the first flight back. What met her at home was a broken family and she vowed never to leave them ever again, whatever the cost. In fact, the McQueens were in such a state of mess that none of them had really managed to be surprised or angry at her for being alive and well in Spain all this time.

She'd thought the nights would be the hardest for her son, but it turned out to be the late afternoons, when he'd come home from work, dead tired, and would just fall asleep, no matter how he tried not to. The only times he didn't were when he'd go to the pub with friends or family … well, who was she kidding, it were really only Nancy and his sisters and herself that he'd meet … after work that he wouldn't fall asleep and have these dreams of what happened that day.

But she knew that however bad the dreams were, the idea of her son getting drunk every day just to escape his horrors was even worse. At least she could hope that with her help he'd eventually get his life back.

So throwing some food in the bin was a small price to pay for her son's comfort, she thought to herself as she felt his body relaxing in her arms and his breathing getting less agitated.

This past year had been difficult at work. Most days were hectic, especially after so many staff had been fired because of the continued financial crisis in Ireland. The few remaining people had to add the job load of at least two other people to their own and they were few and far between the days he could leave the office before 6 or 7pm. He feared the stress had started taking its toll sometime after the New Year. The late afternoons were the worst. Most days he could hardly concentrate during that time of day. Every time his phone rang felt like a cry for help, but every call was just as mundane as the previous one. He'd get cramps in the stomach and started to fear he was getting an ulcer. He'd even seen a doctor, but nothing could be found.

But it shouldn't happen today. I'm on holiday, he thought to himself as he sought refuge in the toilet. There should be nothing to stress me out. Then how come I'm feeling like this? Why do I feel the need to do something? That I'm needed?

He splashed some water in his face to cool down.

As he looked up he saw a familiar face in the mirror – one that belonged to the voice he'd heard the day before. Her expression was somehow vague; she was smiling, yet not smiling, kind of like the Mona Lisa.

"Yes," she whispered, "you are."

All of a sudden the dreaded class-room had evaporated and he was standing in his own room. But it was different. It was like it used to look like, with the Brokeback Mountain poster hanging on the wall. And he felt safe. In his arms.