FREE READ: A Series of Drama: A life in scenes

A Series of Drama: A life in scenes

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A series of Drama - A life in scenes, The Tragedy

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The telephone was swirled through the air before being struck with force against John's head. Had it been a modern telephone constructed from light synthetic materials, I've no doubt the result would have not been fatal. But this telephone was of the generation that were solid, heavy and cumbersome with old-fashioned dials accessible only to finger nails or pencils, you know, the sort of telephones seen in old black and white films from the '40's. As one of the few telephones in the vicinity it was frequently in use, though I can never remember it being anything but polished and pristine sitting high on a table in the living room like a statue on its pedestal. Except of course, when it was used to bludgeon John to death. The sound it made as it connected to bone has never left me, or the horror on my grandmother's face as realisation dawned through her drunken stupor at what she had done. They were both drunk. My grandmother and John. Fights were not uncommon. And this, quite simply, was a fight which ended in a tragedy. 

But a tragedy for whom? John? Undoubtedly. A violent death, I suppose, can't be considered anything other than tragic. Yet I have neither grieved his death, nor considered it tragic. That's because John's death never really distressed me. I mean nothing emotional. No tears, no anger, no dramatic cry of 'Why? Why? Why?' Not then, not now. But how can I remain so unemotional knowing what I know? From the perception of a seven-year-old child watching her grandmother strike a fatal blow a certain numbness is expected, but I am no longer a child. I am an adult, thirty-six years old, and my numbness to those events has changed to impassiveness. I am older, wiser, capable of objective thought yet why can't I pinpoint the emotion that would help me to close this chapter in my life. 

Perhaps the tragedy is mine. Witnessing death at an early age and being left with its legacy of images and memories that demand a reaction I cannot give. Memories that in the course of time have not faded to nothing but remain persistent and haunting as the images in the darkness, that despite my best intentions, do succeed in making me wince. 

I have feelings after all.

A Series of Drama- A life in scenes, The Imposter

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The woman who had nursed me through childhood illnesses, both minor and major, who I—certain in the knowledge that she was my mother—had called mother from my earliest memories, had proven to be nothing other than an impostor.

An impostor? Well, that is what I had called her, but what did I know then? Seven years old, confused and afraid.

A death had resulted in this revelation. A death that, in its aftermath, introduced me to a young woman reinstating herself into my life as... my mother. Only then was I told, without explanation, that the woman who had loved and cherished me through those early years and who now faced charges of manslaughter, was in fact my grandmother. No time to grieve, no time to cry. There simply wasn't time or room enough in my new life for either. Out with the old and in with the new! And as quickly as possible.

Sometimes I wonder if my grandmother hadn't committed 'the deed' would my real mother have returned for me out of her own volition rather than through circumstance. Perhaps then, my relationship with my real mother wouldn't have been based on anxiety and fear. Had my grandmother not taken a life my life wouldn't have become what it was. Unhappy and lonely.

Or perhaps it would have. Later on. A truth such as this has a way of always surfacing. But with the benefit of hindsight later, in my case, would have been definitely better. At my tender age I was unable, and unprepared, to cope with death, on top of which being thrust, and being expected to assimilate, into someone else's family. Because to all intents and purposes my new family wasn't mine. And from my mother, my real mother that is, I could expect everything but a loving, warm or understanding home.

Now that I'm older I can appreciate the predicament my mother faced. Hers, too, is a compelling story and to be able to understand, and have reasons for, her attitude towards me has made me, ironically, quite protective of her. It took time and distance for us to grow as close as we have now become and I can't help but regret the lost years between us when we were not mother and daughter. But to give us a chance and for the sake of the mother and daughter relationship we now share, I leave the past where it belongs. In the past. 

A Series of Drama- A life in scenes, The Dream

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It's true. I know it's true yet when I recount my story to others I usually get blank expressions of disbelief or bemused smirks quickly followed by, 'yeah, right.'

But the light had been so real. Tangible blue white light, bright and intense light that permeated my senses with a surprising warmth and softness and though I felt as if I still slept, I was, in fact, wide-awake. A sense of familiarity, too, filled me and I was instantly aware of a presence. A comfortable, soothing presence. I remember wondering if it was my mother who had come into my bedroom but then quickly dismissed the thought when I felt the sheets of my bed been smoothed down and tucked about me. My mother had never done that, yet I was still not afraid. Then the briefest kiss on my cheek and the faintest whisper good-bye. The rest of that night I slept deeply and for the first time in a long while, untroubled. The next morning, not quite convinced it had not been my mother in my room, I asked her if she had entered my room that night. She replied no. And it was at that moment the telephone rang.

My grandmother had been ill for some time, apparently. The fact that we lived in another country seemed reason enough for family members to keep this information from us.

Therefore, it came as quite a shock to learn of her death, on the telephone. We grieved and we were angry. Yet, when my mother told me how she had dreamt of her own mother coming to visit her, bringing her tea and whispering good-bye, we both knew my grandmother had found a way to come to us, to see us that one last time before she died. I think, it was from then on the relationship between my mother and I, which hadn't been great, began to improve.

And yes, I do accredit the change to my grandmother and our dreams.

A Series of Drama- A life in scenes, The Comedy

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What a stupid and neurotic thing to do! Literally climbing the wall to escape him. Him, a young man I knew in sixth-form college and had worshiped from afar. Him, tall, gorgeous in all the right places, intelligent, popular. Me, short, pleasantly plump in all the wrong places, intelligent, nerd. It would have never worked. I knew that, not that I truly wanted it to, but I had to open my big mouth and confess my crush to my friends, didn't I?

Speculation and conjecture is nothing without proof and my friends, for all their best intentions, had found it enormously difficult to keep, what they had referred to as 'public knowledge anyway' to themselves. It had simply defied all the scientific realms of will power and unspoken bonds of trust and loyalty. They told him, or rather confirmed what he'd already suspected (I hadn't been as discreet as I'd thought), and I withered. 

His very knowing he had an admirer in me was enough to devoid me of my wits. Then, having the entire college discover the object of my lust, well...my senses soon followed suit.

My friends had no idea of what to make of me. 

I mean, one minute we were all walking, talking quite amicably-- me, comfortable in the knowledge my crush was nowhere in sight-- and the next I was attempting to scale the wall next to me. The reason. Him. He'd ambushed me, caught me unawares and I'd had no place to go but up.

The wall I had tried to scale belonged to the library. It was an ancient building built much like a Cathedral with buttress piers and high windows. And had one of those windows been open, then I would have gratefully scrambled through. Unfortunately, it was not and I could do nothing other than, seeing the situation, add something even more stupid to the moment. So, I said, "I wonder if that book is in?"

The look on my friends' faces. I shall never forget it. That they didn't desert me at that moment or the moments thereafter is a miracle, although I did notice that I was seemingly the last to learn about parties or happening social events.

When I recall this moment at college, I can't help but cringe and be grateful that I will never see anyone from college ever again. In fact, it was this singular thought that got me through my final two years of college. The embarrassing years.

But, here I am now years later, and it is an older and wiser me. Although, if I am honest it did take a few years to reach the level of confidence I now feel, even if at times it is false bravado. Then, I am reminded I could have been an older version of timid and insecure.

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