Lost Lives

He lay seemingly motionless, hidden beneath his home of dirty old coats and discarded newspapers, a once brilliant, vibrant mind busy playing out a life that had once been his. He looked into the beautiful blue eyes of his beloved daughter and the happy smiling face of his two year old son as they lay laughing on the blow up mattress, kicking and splashing their feet. He could feel his lips smiling as his heart remembered that wonderful moment. Suddenly the blue eyes moved closer to his face and he could feel cold lips kissing his. “No!” his heart cried out.

Christmas had been fast approaching and he remembered that his wife had given him the task of buying a Nintendo Wii as a family present. He had, as usual, left the shopping to the last minute and had panicked when he realised that Woolworths and Argos were sold out. What would he say to his wife? Single handedly she had already bought and prepared a feast for the five thousand, decorated the house so that it sparkled and twinkled like a Winter Wonderland for the children and had bought and wrapped all the family’s presents, including his. He had sat at his computer terminal at work, desperately searching the internet in the vain hope of trying to locate a Nintendo Wii. It was the office Christmas party and he was already late. He knew the thought of his children’s disappointed faces should be the incentive to keep him searching but in truth he couldn’t bear the thought if his wife’s reproachful looks and the “One thing, that’s all you had to do…” comment!

The God’s had been shining on him that night and he had miraculously stumbled across a German website selling genuine Nintendo Wii’s at a reasonable price. He had jubilantly keyed in his details and headed for the Christmas Party downstairs in the office bar. The party had been in full swing by the time he arrived and he had welcomed the air of abandonment and revelry, determined to enjoy himself. Three times he ignored the phone ringing persistently in his pocket. Three times he thought, why should his one night of freedom be spoilt? Whatever and whoever it was could wait!

At sometime after 3.00am he had stumbled through his front door, his ears still ringing from the music that had blared out, defying any possible chance of conversation. The house was in darkness and he cursed his wife for being so selfish as to not have left a light on for him. He had wandered into the kitchen hoping to find some remnants of supper, he was hungry and had not eaten since lunchtime. He opened the fridge and leant against the fridge door. He welcomed the cool air as it hit his sweaty, drunk face. He reached in and pulled out a packet of swiss cheese which he proceeded to break off in large chunks and munch on whilst he contemplated what he would eat next. Nothing inspired him and he had closed the door grumpily deciding that his wife was not even capable of shopping properly.

Before long the urge to sit down had overwhelmed him and he had flopped down in a chair at the end of the kitchen table. It was only then that he had noticed the piece of scrap paper propped up against the toast rack, still there from breakfast he noted to himself. He reached forward and grabbed the paper trying hard to read the blurred words in front of him. He rubbed his eyes in the hope that his vision would suddenly clear. At last he was able to read his daughter’s name and the word ‘party’. ‘What do I need to know about a party?” he had muttered. His children were always going to parties, endless birthday parties of children he had never met or even heard of. These days they had a better social life than he and his wife did.

He had been about to throw the bit of paper angrily into the bin when something in the dark recesses of his mind had spotted something more, something which made his heart start to thump loudly and his skin to become cold and clammy. Phoned and phoned - going to the Alexandria – Meg’s been hit - call me.

Shaking and panic stricken he had fumbled about in his pocket for his mobile phone, the same phone he had switched off and ignored whilst he had been enjoying ‘his night of freedom’. He hated that phone right now – if he hadn’t of had one then he would have been able to hold his hands up and deny any wrong doing and he wouldn’t be feeling the hideous, overwhelming guilt he felt now. Oh, please, God let her be okay, please he had kept thinking to himself as he dialled his wife’s number. His ears were still ringing and he wished that his head would clear. Finally his wife had answered, “Where the hell have you been?” she said, “I tried you three times but you wouldn’t answer. Oh God, Neil, it’s awful. You have to get here straight away.”

The roads had been empty that morning as the taxi sped to the hospital. He had arrived just after 4.30am and run in through the hospital doors. A night porter on the reception desk had told him where to go and he had made his way along the labyrinth of corridors. At last he had found the ward where Meg had been taken and rushed to the nurse on duty. He had found himself whispering, despite his panic and the urgency to see Meg, in response to the ward’s dimly lit and silent state. The nurse had consulted with a colleague and Neil had been taken along the corridor to a set of sealed doors bearing the sign “No Unauthorised Personnel”.

“Where are we going?” Neil had asked the nurse. “Your daughter’s condition deteriorated, she needed to be moved to intensive care,” she had replied. At that moment Neil had tried to picture his daughter’s face but it wouldn’t come and he had panicked, utter desperation tearing through his mind and body. He had to see her he had to see her face. That moment of panic, the feeling in his body at that precise moment would never leave him and his memory would hold on to it whether he wanted it to or not.

As he stepped into the small, white room his wife had turned to look at him. She had walked over and flung her arms around his neck crying hopelessly into his chest. His little girl was lying in the bed, tubes hanging from her nose and mouth whilst a monitor beeped beside her, her red party dress folded neatly in a plastic bag at the foot of her bed. “She’s not breathing on her own,” his wife had said, “They said they’re going to monitor her for the next two hours and then make a decision. Oh God, Neil, don’t let them take my baby girl, don’t let them take her. Please make it be all right.”

But he hadn’t been able to make it all right and their beautiful, precious daughter had died that morning at 7.42am.

The days and weeks that followed had drifted one into the other. He had found it difficult to play and be with his son, resenting the laughter that spilled from his chubby little face. He wanted to hear his daughter’s laughter, he wanted to play with her. Gradually the pain of each day got too much and he took to staying in bed staring silently at the far wall of their bedroom. His wife had got on with what needed to be done in her usual stoic nature, tending to their son, making funeral arrangements and sorting out all the legal matters that arise when a child dies.

The more she did the more he grew to hate her: her ability to get up each day; her ability to play with their son and give him the love he couldn’t give him; her ability to talk to others about what had happened and mostly; her ability to forgive him for not being there.

After a year things collapsed around him in a fairly predictable order, first his wife left him taking their now three year old son with her, he lost his job and finally his house. Even as the last piece of furniture had been carried out of the house he had not uttered a single word. Nothing seemed able to challenge the pain he had felt as he had held his daughter in his arms and kissed her for the last time.

On the streets he had found things to dull the pain for periods of time: people who didn’t need to know about him or why he was there along with a daily supply of strong, cheap alcohol. Here he felt a sense of freedom, particularly from those he had loved and failed.

Now every night as his body, gloriously numbed by the alcohol coursing through his veins, resumes its place on the park bench his memory will not allow him to be free. At first it is kind replaying for him the wonderful, happy memories of times shared with his family lulling him into a blissful utopia of happiness and joy. And then, the nightmare begins releasing its toxin like a venomous snake, plunging him once more into his pain and loss. He is running along the hospital corridor desperately trying to make his legs go faster but his muscles are stiff and heavy as if trying to hold him back. His heart is racing with the frustration of not being able to get to his daughter. Suddenly, he finds himself in the room where Meg is lying; rushing in he holds her tightly in his arms. She is dressed in her red party dress, smiling softly up at him with her beautiful blue eyes. She reaches up, puts her arms around his neck and kisses him but instead of the warmth and softness of a child’s kiss, icy cold lips sting his. He jumps back in shock and she is gone. He tries and tries to see her pretty face but his memory refuses and he awakes, fretful and sweating, a heap of baggage and bones hidden beneath the pile of dirty old coats and discarded newspapers.