Tragedy is in the Eye of the Beholder

For two nights now she’d hardly slept. Her vigil of waiting for the sounds that signified the beginning of her nightmare was all-consuming. Tonight, it would happen; she understood this, expected it. Inconsolable, due to the inevitability of her situation, she prayed. She had heard him mentioned; this ‘bloody Jesus’, though His name made little sense to her. She thought prayer to Him was like luck or magic, she wasn’t sure which; their likeness lay in her inability to rely on the veracity of their power. Still, she made it part of her fending ritual. Tonight, was dire, no matter how hard she silently begged for a reprieve, it had never lasted more than twice in a row. One night, quiet. Second night, calm. Three nights, no. Never three nights. Relentless. The damage irrevocably rewiring her humanity.

 The last of the days light seeped out of the small, filthy window. The darkness constricting her now. She lay there trying to sink into the old wooden cot; to become one with the mattress. Almost breathless she lay, so intent upon hearing that first sign of vulgarity. Her empty belly ached. Her mouth was dry. Her heart thumped in her throat.  Her flimsy tattered nightdress stretched over her knees as she curled into her favoured position, foetal, giving her momentary comfort. She waited.

 Light from the station across the street began its own leak in through tiny holes in her rotten curtains making glittering points across the floor of her bare room. To her, they looked beautiful and she had spent countless hours pondering that beauty. How magnificently they sparkled. Her very own red and orange-tinted stars. They gave her something to admire in her darkest moments. Sometimes she held out her hand while avoiding the foul stench atop her and counted how many laid claims to her palm.

So, committed in her quietude, she was shocked by a shrill sound followed by a loud thud erupting from the street below her window. Astonished by this unexpected noise she dared not move as she waited for the dreaded sounds she thought would follow. But they did not. No door slammed open. No drunken stupor storming up the stairs. Minutes passed and still, no one came.  More sounds emanated from the street. There was a new colour coming in through the curtains. It was blue. There really was something happening outside. Curiosity dissolved her fear. She untangled herself from the cot. Apprehensively she crawled over to the dirty window, brushing aside the curtain as she did so. Someone was laying on the ground, face down, not moving. The flashing blue light came from a police car. Other people milled around. With a gasp, she recognised the long brown coat of her father. His long hair now matted with something that shone wet in the night. She sank back to her cot and she wept. They were tears of relief. Later she heard his death described as a tragedy. She felt nothing but joy.