Friends In Unlikely Places

…as he walked towards the town centre, he was overwhelmed with the feeling of relief and freedom that came with not having a tight leash around his neck, yet people still looked at him suspiciously. In fact, after a brief glance in his direction they seemed to move out of the way; making his confidence grow and his tail begin to rise and wag. There was no doubt that he was enjoying his power to split the crowd instead of having crowds of bratty children fighting to stroke, poke, jab and ruffle his fur.

I cowered in the shadow of an alleyway nearby, as I watched them scurry away, unaware of the delight I felt at their carelessness. I silently hoped for a hot chocolate and maybe a sandwich crust or two. Disapproving tuts fluttered around me as I dashed to, what I saw as, the gold mine. Yes! There was a lukewarm polystyrene ‘Starbuck’s’ cup right at the top! Eagerly, I picked it up and rattled it to hear the pleasant swash of leftover dregs – I love the fact that disposable cups come with lids nowadays so the last few inches of liquid remain in the container! With a surge of excitement, I yanked off the lid and sure enough there were at least two mouthfuls of warm, chocolate-y goodness lying at the bottom. My freezing cold bones couldn’t wait any longer and I downed the drink remains as quickly as I could. Spluttering at the shock of the harsh taste of caffeine, I grinned to myself, ‘mocha, eh? I got more than I paid for!’ With a final glance around, I took a last rummage in the bin, desperately hoping for a stroke of luck. But there was nothing else, just soggy tissues, empty wrappers and other unrecognisable goods.

The dog continued to trundle along, enjoying his new-found effect on passers-by. He was a stray, a danger, ‘stay out of his way!’ but as the crowd separated around him, they didn’t re-assemble a couple of meters after passing – they left a gap for another figure to walk through, towards the mongrel.

As I walked back to where my possessions were, the general murmur of the public around me was interrupted by the impatient rumble of my stomach. Ignoring this, I gifted people with a smile, perhaps a nod and sometimes a ‘hello’ but got nothing back, so I gave up and transfixed my eyes on the floor, promising myself that they just hadn’t seen me.

With great confidence, the dog tried to stay at the heel of his target, swerving in and out of the constant stream of other people to not lose sight of the man.

The soft sound of panting plodding behind me matched the rhythm to my footsteps. I was being followed! Every now and then I slowed down until the quiet pitter-patter of the perky dog amplified, meaning he had caught up. I turned around to get a proper look, but something caught my eye instead. A mother, walking along with a small child; she couldn’t have been older than about 3. Munching away at a sandwich, she suddenly tripped over and dropped it. Her mother sighed and tossed it into a nearby bin. My stomach outweighed the gentle plea of my dignity; one minute I was stood across the pavement, the next minute I was licking my lips in anticipation of the ‘gourmet’ sandwich in my unsteady hands.

I felt eyes on me. A stranger, an attacker – you could never be too careful! I must NOT hold his gaze; that would be the deadliest of moves. But he continued to sniff around my feet and as soon as my foot left the floor to give the sneaky beggar a warning kick, I caught sight of the mutt’s face. I never could resist a pretty face … Within a flash he had eaten the crusty edge without a morsel of crumbs left behind and I once again fell victim to the deadly temptation of his ravenous eyes.

The man carried on walking, smugly watching confused onlookers. “Why him?” they arrogantly wondered, “what refuge can that tramp give?” as they saw him waiting for the dog to catch up, chanting ‘here doggy! Come here!’ to the space behind him. 

Bystanders continued to watch the pair as they trampled along the cobbles and then met, with great dread, a group of ignorant teens jeering at him, adopting stances that made the man cower back in fear. “Don’t get involved, that dog looks dangerous,” strangers thought, trying to justify their passiveness as they hurried away from the dog, barking in protection; he was the danger, not  the youths, making death threats and humiliating remarks. The deep bellow of the protective dog quickly made the group dissemble without a final threatening word – a first for a man who had battle wounds from too many other encounters.

My dreams were tinted dark. A figure; a hand; a gentle pull on his scruffy tail; these nightmares blurred into one – the vision of waking up lonely.

Ignorant passers-by did not realise how much the man needed to be depended upon, as well as have something to depend on. As they hurriedly walked past him, literally and figuratively looking down on him; they wondered at his story. Cold, dirty and soggy from the splash of absentminded shoppers who traipsed through puddles all-too-enthusiastically, how did it happen? 

As the rainy night blurred into a crisp winter’s day, I wallowed closer into his soft fur. I heard the loud footsteps of a couple trample past, fresh pretzels in hand, making both me and my dog stir in response to the pleasing smell. I moved my arm to give him a gentle pat in reassurance to the promise of food and, at my release, he sprang into action.

With great confidence, the dog tried to stay at the heel of his targets, swerving in and out of the constant stream of other people to not lose sight of the couple.

His focus was clear – food, and nothing more.

Pressure.

I stared at the keypad, trying to remember the correct code that had been drummed into me over and over again. “Twist the dial, type ‘2-0’, flick the sw— no wait,” what was it?

I felt the pressure. The pressure from my peers and everybody around me, dependent on my next move. But more importantly, the pressure from myself. I had to do it. I had a lot of energy at my care, but how was I going to control it? What was that code? I knew that one wrong step would deplete my chances, and a careless action would make the whole contents in that small box, which held no prisoners, explode and burn to a crisp. What a waste that would be.

C’mon! Think! I could drive a tank, operate a gun, navigate across the harsh Afghanistan desert, yet when my comrades needed me most; my mind had hit a wall. “Twist the dial, type ‘2-0’, flick the sw—“

‘YOU JUST TRIED THAT!’ one of my companions yelled, the stress and panic leaking out of his voice like water from a tap. ‘We haven’t got much time left’. In immense dread, I touched one of the buttons and, unbeknown to me, it bleeped and the whole box sprang into action, leaping and whirring as it eventually lit up. My last sense to realise what had happened was my touch. But I soon felt the immense heat radiating through my bones, like a wave of water drenching a sandy beach, seeping into every nook and cranny available and making me aware of it, as if it was just tapping me on the shoulder. Everybody around my flinched in anticipation as a harsh countdown started and I knew this was it.

10, 9, 8—“EVERYBODY GET READY”, 7, 6, 5, 4, —“IT’S GONNA EXPLODE!”, 3, 2, 1

*ping*

The popcorn was ready

A piece of creative writing which includes certain given phrases

NOTE: The phrases which I had to include are in bold

As my pace quickened, my surroundings slowed. Every step, fuelled by the relentless rhythm of my heartbeat, seemed like an eternity. The silence was overpowering yet I could tell someone was there. The shadow of the trees? From the corner of my eyes they were creepy figures. The flap of a bird’s wings? These quickly became the pounce of the enemy. The darkness of the sky? I knew this was the spotlight in which my murder would occur.

Lost, scared and alone, I became two people. A shell and a consciousness. The frightened shell of a girl began to cry but I ignored her tears. Tears smell of vulnerability and vulnerability smells of danger.

Stay confident.

Stay brave.

Stay alive.

People say we only have 5 senses, but at that moment I had 6. He was there, I knew it and I guess, deep down, I knew my fate. I smelt the faint stench of his coffee-tainted breath, and his staccato pant was not even drowned out by the unforgiving harsh Autumn winds. The snap of a branch behind me could not be passed off as an innocent four legged animal, it could only be the aggressive stomp of his heavy boots.

My consciousness knew what to do; it took the fear and twisted it. Reshaped it. Used it. Fear became adrenaline which spurred on my legs to run faster. I whispered for my legs to help me, to speed on, to sense the danger. They had to rise to the challenge; it was their time to be heroes. I needed my legs to get me out of the forest, which would be quickly transformed into a taped-off murder scene by the morning. But they wouldn’t believe me, they didn’t sense the urgency. My adrenaline wasn’t enough for me to rapidly carry myself out of the forest. I tripped at every opportunity, each tumble bringing me closer to the inevitable.

I fought, begged and pleaded. Not only on that night, but on the lead up to it. “Don’t”, “Stop it”, “Go away”, “Leave me alone”. How many times can you say the same thing? I cried … again. Not from the pain, the pain came later on, but from the fact that he had, once more, succeeded. The most painful part was the sound of his laughter; it was the first time I had heard him laugh and this was when both me and him realized, as I lay tripped on the ground, that he had won. I wonder if he laughs at all of his victims.

I’m not sure where I was but I saw it all. I was now separated from my shell, who lay, waiting to be found. My memory appears in flashes.

The dog walker, not knowing that this would change her life forever. How can you forget the image of what lay in front of her in a muddy ditch?

The police, breezing over their emotions as they, naively, tried to piece together what had happened as if they had a chance. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again, don’t get involved. I should know. I got involved.

My father, having to make that transition from the anger over my overstepped curfew to the … well he doesn’t know what he feels. Perhaps he is still angry. Maybe he is just sad. I hope he stays strong.

My mother, crumpled in a heap as she receives the news, and later, (much later) arrives at the harsh reality that I’m never coming home.

…and Him. With no thought other than “so who’s next?”