Spoiler
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The Promise
Promise: A declaration assuring that someone will or will not do something; a vow.
What’s the point in making a promise if in the next breath you break it? Like a shattered mirror, splintered, forlorn, nothing. That’s what a broken promise is worth. Nothing. There’s no affection in a broken promise. No hope, no feelings.
You promised me that you would never ever leave me, on that bitter December morning. Your soft voice filled with warmth, your emerald eyes, glistening like an antique ring, jewelled with love and trust, your breath an open fire on my frosty ear. You promised. You promised me. You swore on your life. Look where that got you.
When I was younger, I looked up to you as if you were the highest royalty and loved you as if my heart depended on it. I used to call you “My Perfect Mum,” and I didn’t care what anyone ever said about it. It didn’t matter. It was just me and you. Me and you.
Then things changed. When I went into year three, I noticed things. How my classmate’s mums used to be there at the end of the day, standing in the playground without fail, arms open wide. You didn’t.
How the mums used to make sure their children were warm enough before they left for school on those arctic winter mornings. You didn’t.
How their mums walked them hand in hand to school and kissed them delicately on the forehead before saying, “have a good day darling”. You didn’t.
I began to doubt you. I stopped calling you “My Perfect Mum.” Well, you weren’t, were you? You didn’t do the things all the other mums did. Playing, kissing, hugging, praising, listening. You never did those things for me, well, not that I can remember. But you did try. I knew that. And you did love me. I knew that too. You told me so. You promised me that you loved me and that no one else could change that. You promised me on that bitter December morning that you would never ever leave me. But you did. And now you’re gone and you’re never coming back. How can you?
I was never a “popular” kid at school. I didn’t play football like all the other boys or swap Pokémon cards like they were gold dust. I remember feeling like an outsider, an alien just beamed down to earth, confused. Why wasn’t I like the other boys? I just didn’t fit in. Yet you knew that.
I could see the disappointed look on your face when I came home with yet another bruise or a letter saying that I was being picked on, teased. I could almost see your heart drop. The words spinning silently in your mind, “why do I have a son that doesn’t fit in, who has no friends, who is always teased?” I could feel those words attempting to break free of your mind, to run off of your tongue and tumble from your lips like a stumbling toddler, confused and afraid. I could almost feel them stabbing me, hurting me, as you loomed over me, disappointed. But the words never came.
I hid the letters and the bruises, wanting to please you, wanting you not to feel disappointed in me. I hated to disappoint you; I couldn’t bear it. The feeling of guilt would descend upon me like a dark, menacing cloud engulfing the sun. It made me feel alone and insecure. It felt like everyone I cared for had gone, abandoned me in my little corner of the school playground.
“My corner” I called it. It was the one thing I was proud of. The one thing I felt I owned. The one thing I knew no one would ever take away from me. Who would want it anyway? It was only a dingy old corner at the bottom of the playground. I went there every day, no matter what life threw at me. I would huddle up and sandwich myself between the walls of my corner and cry. Head in my hands and cry.
The hot tears would slide down my face like a drop of hot chocolate running down the edge of a cold mug. It was the only place I could cry. The only place I could let my feelings out. I couldn’t let them out at home because I didn’t want to hurt you. Hurting you would be like sticking razor sharp needles into your soft, delicate skin, each one causing searing pain down your limbs until you moved no more. I couldn’t hurt you. I just couldn’t.
I thought you couldn’t do it to me either, hurt me that is. You promised you wouldn’t. I now realise wouldn’t, doesn’t mean couldn’t, because you could and you did. Nice one Mum. On that bitter December morning, as we waited in your excuse of a car, with the threadbare seats, like ice to sit on. As we waited, you promised me. That was the morning you made that promise to me. I never thought you would break it, but you did.
As we sat there in your car by the level crossroad, I knew something was wrong, I could feel it, but I didn’t want to believe it. We sat waiting for the 117 train to London, watching for the number of carriages, the colour, the age of the engine. Just to see it. For me to record in my train log. You took me to that level crossroad whenever I had got a good report, or a star or a certificate at school. It was my treat, see the trains, count the carriages, watch their marvellous wheels moving in tandem along the slick track. I had so many pages of trains in my log. The feeling I used to get when the air squashed my lungs and my hair danced in the wind like frolicking fairies. It was magical. Truly magical.
But on that bitter December morning I hadn’t had any certificates or stars. I hadn’t had a good report. I knew why we were here but I tried to invent another reason, a more normal one. One that wouldn’t make us seem so mad, so insane. But I knew deep down that there was a different reason for us being here, other than waiting for the 117 to London. I knew there was something else. Something wrong.
Trains. They were my passion, the thing I could hold onto when things were awkward or tense at home, at school, with you. I loved my trains. I always dreamed about owning my miniature railway. The one where the trains would go round and round, without a care in the world. The one where you could speed them up, so they flew like the wind or slow them down so they chugged like a tired cheetah. I’d call my railway “Gleeforth,” the place I escaped too when things got rough. Marta would be the star of the show painted a rich luxurious scarlet with gold lettering and a slick black funnel. Mountains would tower above the railway and there would be forests that engulfed the depths of the forgotten railroad. My escape. My dreamland.
I never thought for one minute we would ever be able to afford it. I was right, we couldn’t. But on my tenth birthday, part of my dreamland came to life. Where you had got the money from I will never know; I don’t really want to either. But you got it. I remembered every detail as I unwrapped the unexpected present.
The “wrapping paper”, an average piece of white A4, all we had, but with your special touch. “Happy Birthday Son,” scrawled all over the paper in your wobbly handwriting in all the colours of the rainbow. The blue and emerald green stood out, proud. The scarlet red and the orange rose from the paper like a fire engulfing the crumpled sheet. The yellow, happy as the sun, and the pink, as sweet as a rose.
As I untied the scrawny piece of string that held the parcel firm, I remember gazing up and staring into your eyes. I saw hope and happiness. Love. A whisp of your auburn hair had escaped the messy bun that was holding the rest of your hair in place. It curled around your face, giving your pale skin some life, some colour.
I remembered the feeling like it was yesterday. My stomach fluttered like a butterfly, just hatched from its chrysalis. As I undid the last of the string, I glimpsed a slick black funnel. My heart skipped a beat as I slid the paper from around the gift. The scarlet paint glistened in the dull light and the elegant black funnel and wheels shone like a star. It was Marta. Happy tears fell from my wide eyes as I gazed into yours, almost as teary as mine. That was the only day I ever remember crying in front of you. If you had ever seen me cry tears of sadness, it would have broken you; I never knew tears of happiness existed before that day...
I thought things were going to change for the better from that day on.
But they didn’t.
They just got worse.
It wasn’t my fault. You never understood that. You always blamed me for things which I hadn’t done. Things I had no control over. There was nothing I could do. Nothing made you happy. I tried to help you, but I was only a little kid. What could I do? I was only ten. Ten years old going on thirty. That’s how you expected me to act. Like a grown up. But I wasn’t a grown up. I was only ten. Ten years old.
I became an adult almost overnight. I had to learn to cook, clean and I tiptoed around you. Terrified that if I put a foot wrong you would scream at me. Roar at me until I begged you for forgiveness, begged you to stop. I was scared of you. You threw cans of baked beans at me and smashed plates, demanding that if they weren’t cleared up I’d never see the light of day again. The fire in your eyes had destroyed the love. It had been burnt. I didn’t know you. I lost you completely. You were meant to be my mother. Some mother.
I don’t like thinking back to that time. I get a pain in my heart. A pain so bad, it feels like a fire ripping through my body, destroying, killing. I can’t stand it. But you need to know. Know how it felt for me. Know how you almost destroyed me. I trusted you. But you threw that right back in my face.
No one else knew what I was going through. The torture you sent me into every day, every night. A living hell. You had driven me to the point where I couldn’t cope anymore. Where I couldn’t function, couldn’t eat or sleep. This thing you had. This illness. It had driven us apart, to the point where we no longer knew each other. We used be like Lilo and Stitch, Shaggy and Scooby, but I no longer knew you. You were lost.
I never understood why you had waited so long to get help. I mean, you were ill and you were getting worse. I never understood that. There were people all around that could have helped you. Doctors, teachers, neighbours. But you were scared. I could see it in your eyes. You were scared of what people would think: the rumours that would go round the estate, my school. But you were sick. And you knew it. Yet you didn’t get help. You just took it out on me.
I remember how angry I felt with you. Why didn’t you get help, for my sake, if not your own? I was scared. Scared of losing you forever. There were so many emotions circling my mind like a roundabout at the fair. Continuously spinning. It was only a matter of time before the cork flew out of the bottle, pouring my feelings all over the floor. Then, I broke. At break time, sandwiched between the walls of my corner, I cracked. Tears ran from my eyes like a torrent of flood water, soaking my blazer. I screamed and cried, kicked and thumped. No one could soothe me; no one could take away the pain that ached in the middle of my heart. The teachers tried to calm me down. Tried to stop the rivers from cascading down my red cheeks but they couldn’t.
It took them hours to calm me down. They rang you but you never answered the phone. I never expected you to. You didn’t answer it nowadays. Just let it ring, on and on. Drown it out by humming or turning the TV volume up. They sat me down in the Quiet Room. The room where you and I had sat at parents evening only six months ago. A smile had descended on your lips when Miss Barnaby read out my target grades. You were happy then. It seemed like such a long time ago. Since you were happy that is. They tried to get me to talk, tell them why I was so upset. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. They rang you again. They wouldn’t let me go home unless you came to get me, swept me up in your arms and begged for forgiveness. Told me you loved me. You never picked it up. You never came.
My heart started to race. Why was I sitting here not saying anything? It was my chance to help you, to help us. But the doubts teetered on the edge of my mind like a man standing on the border of a cliff, waiting to jump. You would be hurt if I told them, betrayed. But I had to tell them. I just had to. And I did. The words tumbled from my lips like a boulder rolling down a precipitous hill. I told them everything. Everything.
I don’t really remember what happened that night. Social workers, doctors, psychiatrists, teachers rushing around, phone calls. But I remember the look in your eye as the doctors took you away. Sorrow. Love. Gratitude. I knew then that you weren’t angry with me. I knew I had done the right thing. It felt like the world had been lifted from my shoulders.
It didn’t matter what happened now. I knew you were going to be okay. I was right. Sort of.
I was put in care. Into a temporary foster family. I didn’t speak. I just wanted to go home. Go home with you. Back to the way it used to be before this all happened. Like Lilo and Stitch, Shaggy and Scooby again. But I knew that wouldn’t happen. Not for a long while anyway.
I was never allowed to see you in the specialist hospital. They said you weren’t “strong enough.” But I knew they didn’t want you to see me. You were the worst person to see me at the moment. I could see it in their eyes. They didn’t trust you, or me. But you were released, three weeks later. My social worker came to see me. He sat me down. Looked into my confused eyes and asked if I would like to see you. He said he could organise visits. But the funny thing was, after everything you had done to me, after how badly you had hurt me, I still wanted to see you. I wanted you to envelop me in your arms and say “I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you so much.”
I don’t know how you felt when that day came. I was scared. So scared. I still loved you but did you love me in the same way? You never told me. You never said how you felt then. But now, looking back. I knew you had a plan. A way in which we could be together forever. A way that we no one could separate us ever again. That, I think, is mother’s love.
The bitter December morning was that day. The day in which we sat in your car and waited for the 117 to London to pass the crossroads. We both pretended nothing was wrong, that it was a normal day out. But it wasn’t. It was far from it.
It all went too quickly for me to remember. One moment you were hugging me, telling me how much you had missed me, that you were so sorry for everything. The next, you were grabbing me by the hand and we were running. Running from the social worker’s office. Running back home. Home, to our flat. You spun me a tale about going to watch the trains, that number 117 to London would be there soon, that we would have to hurry. I doubted every step we took, every word you said. But I still trusted you. And at that moment, four years ago today, you were all I wanted.
On that bitter December morning, sat in your car at the level crossroads, you made the promise. The last promise you would ever make to me. You promised me that you would never ever leave me. The love in your eyes, I thought you meant it, I thought you would never break it. Not after all that had happened. But you did. Again.
I knew there was something you weren’t telling me, something you were hiding. But I didn’t ask, I was afraid. Afraid of the answer. Looking back, I wish I had. If I had, maybe I could have stopped you, stopped you from leaving me, for good. I barely noticed the lights flashing at the barriers, telling us to wait, telling us not to drive through them. The train was coming. I barely noticed them because you were shaking. Shaking and staring. Staring at the tracks in front of us.
I will never know what possessed you to do what you did next. Maybe it was love, maybe it was guilt or maybe spite. You started the ignition of the car. It came to life with a start and you looked me in the eye and told me you loved me. You told me we’d always be together now. That no one could stop us. I will never know what was going through your mind as you drove forward onto the tracks. Nor will I know what was going through the mind of the driver of the 117 to London that was speeding towards us. One thing I did know, was that he would never be able to stop the train. Never in a million years.
I want you to know that I did try. I yanked at your seatbelt and screamed in your ear, but you remained still, motionless. Everything went in slow motion. I tugged at the door handle and leapt from the car. Tears of fear streamed from my terror filled eyes. I ran round to your door and swung it open too, but you wouldn’t come. I held you and pulled you, cried and yelled, begged you to come with me. I told you everything would be fine. We could run away together, start a new life somewhere else, but you just sat there, rigid. My hands were bleeding from tugging at your seatbelt but I didn’t care. I just wanted you. My mum.
I heard the train approach, frantically blowing its horn. I hysterically screamed at you, pleaded you to jump, to run from the car but you didn’t. The train powered on towards us, screaming with its horn. It wouldn’t stop, it couldn’t stop. It just couldn’t. My mind went blank. I was a spare part. There was nothing I could do. I felt the air rush past me as I dived through the atmosphere, away from the train.
You died that day mum, parked your car in front of a train. The passengers on the 117 to London never got there. Four of them died. Seventeen were rushed to hospital. All because of you. Your last selfish act. But do you know what? I don’t care anymore. You left me alone. I will never know what your last thought was. Was it me? I don’t know. I don’t really care either. But do you want to know what mine was mum?
That you broke your promise. Again.
It's not bad for something you wrote while bored in Physics class.
