I take a walk down my street and with a sinking heart and the ever present feeling of disappointment that seems my only friend here, I look around.I spy fallen litter bins and a flurry of activity as the contents race down the street without care. I pause for a moment, watching as they spiral, rising and falling with the wind and I wonder how it would feel to fly away. I look to my left and see the now familiar sight of broken glass,torn newspapers and dirty nappies, piled without thought at the side of the wall. I think about picking them up as I pass but instead I walk on, filled with the knowledge that if I did, there would be another pile there tomorrow to replace it. No cares it seems, as the grass by the roads grows higher every day and the flowers that once bloomed here are choked by the increasing tangle of weeds now carpeting this place.
I hear shouts as I walk, the same tired insults and pleas for attention that are a constant source of noise here. I wonder if anyone else notices the dull, concrete grey that makes up this jungle we call home. Moving unnoticed through the streets, I watch an elderly woman struggle with bags too heavy for her frail hands and I offer to help, spurred on by some desire to make a difference, no matter how small. I recoil at the terror in her eyes, are we all such monsters now that the only reaction I get is fear and suspicion?
I keep walking, my former desire to do a good deed washed away in a sea of despair. The scent here never changes: sour beer, sweat and desperation clinging to every corner. A young mother passes, barely out of her teens and dressed to kill, she looks tired as she tries to tend to the needs of the three young children she has with her. A shout and a slap silences one of them for all of a minute before his wails echo down the street like a car alarm, as annoying as it is repetitive. No one looks or thinks twice, this is the soundtrack for the estate, the song that guides its inhabitant’s home. She pushes onwards, the youngest child dirty but sleeping in its pushchair, holding tightly to the threadbare blanket that barely covers up the bruises that trail across its tiny white legs. No shoes or socks or even trousers, just a blanket to shield it from the wind and the rain that has just started to fall.
A walk past the local shops, takeaway after takeaway lining the street. A pregnant woman hangs out of one of the doorways, puffing on a cigarette, her cut off top barely concealing the weight of her swollen stomach as she drags deeply on the stick of tar she holds in her hand. Does she know what she is doing to the unborn child inside her? Does she care? I turn away, not wanting her to see the look of sadness that crosses my face as she throws down her finished cigarette and reaches into her pocket for another. She leaves the takeaway laden with bags, food enough for all the family. No cookery required here, just a menu and a phone number.
I make a turn and head for home, the light is fading and with growing unease, I quicken my pace so as not to get caught outside after dark. I hear the rumble of motorcycles, the giddy, intoxicated laughter of the local teens, the drink fuelled start of the mating calls that follow and I wonder if there is such a thing as innocence anymore. I pick my way through the carpet of glass and discarded pushchairs, sad reminders of the fact that there is nothing here for me anymore. I find myself staring through a break in the clouds and wonder who watches from the sky, if anyone at all.
I wonder if I’m the only one who dreams of escape or if the strength for such a thing is merely illusion, washed away with the bitter taste of too many beers and not enough love.
A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.
No comments:
Post a Comment