Forgive and Forget

Tim knew kids could be bastards, but Christ- the way the little shit kept turning up, like a fucking jack in the box. Sometimes Tim’d be watching the match and the cunt would pop out from behind the telly, nearly giving him a heart attack and making him spill his Chinese all over the sofa.

Or he’d be desperate for a shit, but couldn’t go because the kid would be sat in the bathroom sink. The other day Tim found him hiding in some rubbish-pale face grinning out of a slit in a black bin bag with coffee grains in his hair and half a chip squashed on his head.

The little fucker.

Honestly, it was too much.

No wonder he drank. And now he’d read in the paper that the kids mum had done herself in.  Jumped off a motorway bridge. Caused an almighty pile up. Bit selfish that really. 

‘Course she’d probably try to blame that on him too. And it’d be just his luck if she starting turning up too. Then there’d be the pair of them giving him evils.

Not his fault. The kid should have been looking where he was going.  Everyone said so.

Try telling that to him though. Little bastard just stares- head all fucked up and at the wrong angle. And he wouldn’t accept an apology. You could scream sorry till you were blue in the face and nothing.

Well enough. He had  a plan. A moments pain and he’d never have to see that little face again. And speak of the devil. There he was, sat across the table. Full of spite.

So do it.

And Christ it hurts. It hurts like fuck but it’s done. And let the tears come. Not ’cause of the pain but the relief, God that relief. Like nothing on earth. And see, the dark isn’t so bad.

It’s a fresh start that’s what it is. Everyone deserves that don’t they? No matter what terrible things they’ve done. Forgive and forget. Wipe the slate clean.

He’ll have to get one of those canes. Learn to see by touch: there, it’s not too bad. Wooden table top-the surface greasy, grains of dirt caught in the grooves. Empty bottle, glass still warm in places. Ash tray. Cup-

A hand. Tiny cold fingers locking onto his. Tight. Like they’re never going to let go.

 

 

 

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Author: benrattle

Copywriter, aspiring screenwriter. Push up nut. Coffee drinker.

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