The Blind Man

‘My path was dark and now I've fallen, into a hole of no escape. I've fallen from Limbo to Hell, surrounded by fire and I’ve used my last flame of hope to burn the ladder that offered me salvation. This hole is my Hell, and My Hell leaves me cold, alone, with nothing to do except sit and ponder the worth of my life. Who knows I'm here, who even cares. Is there anybody there that can lend me a hand?’ (1, Pemberton, 2010)

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“Christ. Jesus Christ. God Almighty. Who loves you? Jesus does. Don’t listen to Satan. The ‘Devil just won’t win!’ ”

A stall, parked beside a decaying bus shelter, is laden with wristbands, pocket sized bibles and posters quoting, whilst doves fly in sunset filled skies and young children look adoringly up at they’re mothers and fathers. The man behind it is old and decaying like his surroundings and his withered hand is raised in the air like a salute, a soldier in his never ending job of salvation. His eyes are blurred, their whites cuddling up to the pale blue irises that reside uselessly in their sunken sockets. His head swishes back and forth in an attempt to hear those who have passed by, waiting for a Samaritan so talked about in his big book of GOD.

The bus stop is frequently used, traces of human habitation are apparent and the floor is littered, and pockmarked with chewing gum. One lone figure is stood, lent up against the side of the shelter. One leg is bent and the foot pressed on the wall, the other straight and solitary. The person’s clothes are formal, the black suit shiny from the recent onslaught of rain ever so missed by the blind man. The rain seems only meant for her and not even the arrival of the number 42 gives her any kind of happiness. Through the window, as the bus pulls away, the blind man can just be seen; a small halo-like glow formed above his head as the sun peaks through the clouds behind him.

Chapter One

The 7 am alarm burns into my brain like a hot poker probing my mind away from its peaceful slumber. The light is bright through the badly made, cheap curtains that adorn the windows of the upstairs box room of number 63 Ashen Road, and bares down on me as I lay tangled up beneath the bedclothes. I peak out and groan. The realisation of having to get up and go to work this early is not one I enjoy. Reaching out from under the sheets, my hand is welcomed by a horrible chill that makes me shiver all over and I quickly turn off the alarm before retreating back into the warm. My eyes have adjusted now and looking around I catch sight of my roughly laundered work clothes on the back of the desk chair. They are just too far away to reach whilst keeping all limbs in bed and I contemplate the necessary task of how quickly I can retrieve them in the shortest time possible. I guess it will take about 30 seconds. It takes about a minute as I shuffle through my underwear drawer in search of pants. Downstairs the large digital clock beside the microwave shines out a red glow, the eyes of the devil, the time: 7:30. It’s raining outside, the torrential globules of dirty water expel themselves from the dark sky above. God is sad today, I think, smiling to myself, something my Granddad used to say.

The bus of course is late, and standing alone I contemplate why it is that more people seem to be out on the roads in the rain. They can’t all decide that at the moment it starts to rain everyone in the whole world gets into a car to clog up the roads, because there are about the same amount of people walking the streets or at the bus stops. It is a completely bizarre and nonsensical thing to happen. Staring blankly, my mind wanders; there is a badly dressed elderly person on the other side of the road. They unlike everyone else in the vicinity is dry, they have one arm raised to the heavens as if in prayer, and the other reaching out towards me. I cannot see their face as the rain is skimming the air in blurred sheets, but they look ‘man’, skinny but quite possibly ‘man’. Staring furiously through the rain I think I recognise him, the shape of the face, the blank eyes staring, the shoddy clothes. Everything about him, although blurred, is familiar, as if from a memory, or a dream. But before my thought process could deepen the number 42 emerges from the mist.