Turn Right(Beccy Rimmer) (Note that the author wrote this story when she was 17 years old.)


Choices.

Funny things aren’t they?

I’m walking down a path. After a while I get to a point where the path splits into two. Do I turn down the left path or the right one?

It doesn’t really matter, does it?



Chapter 1

The man positions the pound coin firmly in his pocket. Coming to the conclusion that he doesn’t need additional money, he deposits his wallet on the kitchen table.

He traipses down the stairs and out of the door.

He stands there for a moment rubbing his eyes and adjusting to the light and buzz of the city street. The piercing car alarms and rickety growling of cars are like a soothing orchestral masterpiece to his ears, compared to the ranting abuse he receives at home.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and reluctantly trudges to the shop with his head down. He walks almost stooping to the ground, as if he has created a barrier around his whole body and personality, shutting the world out.

Clusters of strangers swarm the pavement. Mothers, fathers, boys, girls, grandparents, lovers, enemies, businessmen, happy men, unhappy men, homeless men, men with missions, men with plans, men with guitars, men with prams, men with family, friends, jobs, lives, time, futures, hope, love.

A rushing force that isn’t as frustrating and mediocre to him as it is to the others forcing themselves through the crowd. He looks up discretely at their hopeful faces and the variety and excitement is secretly amazing to him, and his eyes widen at how the traffic of people flows like electricity through a wire. His eyes return to the floor and he wishes he had a more diverse lifestyle to look forward to every day.

Entering the shop he quickly glances at his faint reflection in the window. The bags under his eyes are black and saggy, like deflated balloons, having deposited so many litres of tears. He is humoured by how much his pretentious and vociferating wife’s temper has changed the way he feels. He laughs, shakes his head and wonders if he takes things too seriously.

He waits in the queue. He needs to keep exchanging the pint of milk from one hand to the other because it is so icy and penetrating his palms turn blue. His skin is as sensitive as he is.

There is a foreign looking woman in front clutching a screeching toddler. As she bounces him up and down in her arms and pleads for him to be quiet (in some sort of exotic, unfamiliar accent), her unruly, curling, blond hair pounces in the air like springs. Her face is flushed as she ferrets for her purse in the bag swaying from her shoulder.

The toddler wrenches her hair, persistently crying.

The shopkeeper looks impatiently at his watch.

The man juggles the glass bottle from his left hand to his right.

The woman pays. She seizes the plastic bag. Wipes her clammy forehead with her inner elbow, as she has no free hands.

The baby shrieks like a car alarm.

The milk bottle passes from his right hand to his left.

The woman turns, suddenly. Slams into the man’s right shoulder. His whole body jerks left and the milk bottle speeds to the ground. With a sour, tense look on her face, the woman walks quickly out with the whining child as if she hasn’t even noticed, leaving a river of sharp glass and cold milk seeping over the green shop floor under people’s shiny shoes.

They stare.

They roll their eyes, shake their heads, look at their watches and mumble to others next to them…

“I’m going to be late now,”

“This is all I need,”

“Tut, tut, tut, that’s carelessness, that is.”

“You will have to pay for that!” The shopkeeper points at the man and begins to route for a mop.

The man doesn’t like being pointed at. Or shouted at. Or blamed for accidents.

“How much is it?”

Or being ignored.

But there’s nothing he can do about it. He places the pound coin on the counter and walks out of the shop.



Chapter 2

The blond foreign – looking woman with the screaming toddler strives to unlock the door of her flat with one hand. She pushes it open with her hip and when inside shuts it skillfully with her stretched left leg.

She puts him down on the bed and notices it. A stain of darkened milk dominating his t-shirt. Running like a river towards his shorts but escaping onto his body at the bottom of his t-shirt.

“¡Mierda!” she groans, and starts to remove his red t-shirt, and then his ripped blue shorts. “You must go in the bath now.” She sighs.

He stares up at her with his big, brown eyes and has no idea what she means or what he has done wrong.

“Shit, Christian, what am I go to do with you? I not have time for this!” She sighs, yanks him into her arms and rushes to the bathroom.

“You have bath this morning, and now you have to have more bath. I do not have money for so much water, you know Christian?!” She shrieks, thinking of the expensive bills she has had to pay lately.

He begins to whimper quietly…

“Oh, God, do not cry! I know… not your fault, but… Jesus, Christian! I going out tonight, the baby watcher coming at seven and I not be ready!”

Dumping him in the bath like a dirty towel she turns the tap on and thinks about the way things turned out for her. The phone rings. She jumps and rushes into the bedroom clutching milk-drenched clothing.

“Hello? …. Oh goodness, ¡hola! …. How are you? ….”

The water reaches his feet and it’s unbearably icy. Christian whines and crawls to the other end of the bath.

“…. I did not expect you call me! …. Yes, bueno, how is Marco? …. ¿Verdad? Gosh, that is fantastic! ….”

It’s up to his waist and it’s so cold he struggles to breathe. He grasps the white, slippery sides of the bath with so much effort his hands turn pink

“…. Ah, I agree …. Oh, sí I know! …. That is happen to me before too! ….”

He doesn’t know what to do. Water flows into his mouth and he splutters, gasping for air, his hands slip from the side of the bath and he plummets under the water.

“…. Oh, it is brilliant! …. You would like to go next week? …. Or tonight, you come out with me, yes?”

He stares up at the layer of water concealing him, and the rest of the world above it feels so distant. He feels enclosed, peaceful and safe beneath the surface and he glares at all the beautiful oranges and yellows and greens reflected off the silver waves above him.

“…. You talk with her or no? …. Did she speak that? …. No, no, I do not like her! …. She has five childs? …. Why? ….”

The magnificence becomes breathtaking, in a literal sense. He swallows more water and his lungs ache so he holds them tightly and curls into a ball.

“…. Do you think? …. Gracias …. I go English classes Thursday, so …. It is getting better …. It is good to talk to someone …. I talk Christian in English but …. no he is make me stress! …. This morning a man .…”

“¡Mierda… Christian!”

She drops the telephone receiver and Christian’s clothes and runs to the bathroom.



Chapter 3

“You are such an idiot!”

“It wasn’t my fault… I…”

“Oh, F***ing hell, it’s never your fault. Being married to you… for f***’s sake it’s like having a bloody kid. I gave you a pound coin and ask you for one pint of milk. Is that so hard? One pint of milk from down the road! Not from Asia, or Australia, down the f***ing road! And I give you the money! I gave you the god*** money! And not only do you not get what I asked for, you come back without my f***ing money! Why? Where the hell is it?”

“I… well… I had to pay for it. I mean, the guy said… and… he was…”

“Don’t you mean I had to pay for it?! I had to compensate for you being such a clumsy twat!”

“I’ll go again…. now… I… erm… didn’t take any…. my wallet… I left…”

“Forget it, I’ll f***ing go. I do f***ing everything.”

She snatched her handbag up off the sofa, gave her husband a callous, cold look, so cold he shivered. Shivered with fear, guilt, and shame, as if he were a kid being told off. He heard his wife grunt, “You’re useless” as she stormed down the stairs. He trudged into the kitchen and retrieved the blue-handled scissors from the drawer. The ones he always used. Perched on the lid of the toilet, he jerked up the tattered sleeves of his shirt. He looked for an unused space on his arm. Some of the scars were fading and producing fresh skin for him to use. Some scars were still visible, brown and thick like pieces of string under his skin. He held the blade between his shaking fingers like a paintbrush. The artist was holding his apparatus, ready to create artwork on his canvas skin…

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it for how much he was trembling. He cast the scissors on the floor. He clasped his head in his hands. The tears in his bleak eyes prepared for their expected journey, the journey they make everyday, down the man’s solemn face. They wonder if he will ever stop.
If there will ever be a night that he doesn’t cry himself to sleep.



Chapter 4

His wife frowned and attempted to open the door again. Why the f*** had he locked it? She rang the doorbell…

Again.
Again.
And again.
And there was no answer.

She put the pint of milk on the pavement outside her flat door and got her mobile phone out of her handbag.

She rang their number…

It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And there was no answer.

She growled, “Oh, for f***’s sake,” and leaned against the door.

It still rang.

She squatted on the doorstep and emptied out the contents of her bag on the floor. She swears she had lost her key, but it was worth looking.
Red lipstick, blusher, a ripped tissue, phone, credit cards, an old receipt, chewing gum, a red button, another receipt, 10p, a gold earring, shopping list from last month, someone’s phone number, a silver key…

“Ah-ha!”

She returned the contents of her bag and unlocked the door.

“You’ve got a f***ing nerve!” she yelled walking up the stairs, “what the f*** was that for? You knew I’d lost my key! Is this because I was mad about the milk? Well, your little stunt didn’t f***ing make things better Damien! I’ve been ringing too, why the f***…”

She stopped talking suddenly when she saw what he had done.



Chapter 5

She sat on the cold bathroom tiles with her back against the wall.
“Christian.” She whispered emotionlessly. “Christian, wake up. ¡Despiertate! Wake up, Christian! Please wake up.”

He was bobbing softly in the gentle waves like a piece of litter in a lake. Face down, the few pale hairs on his head were dancing delicately as his body swayed like a feather does through the air on a windy day. This is what she had always wanted from him, just a little peace and quiet.

She couldn’t cry, or move, or touch him. She just sat there. Watching him with an empty look on her face. She ran her fingers through the wispy blond hair that fell over her round, blue, crystal eyes. She didn’t blink or look at anything, except what she had done. She curled up into a ball and hugged her knees.

He was so still and peaceful as if he were dreaming and she felt as if she should be quiet, so not to wake him.

But she knew.

She knew he would not wake up.

Ever again.

How could it have happened? It had all happened so quickly. She wasn’t on the phone for that long, was she?

And now he was gone… something that she often wished for when she was angry and stressed…

…She didn’t know if she even cared that he was dead.



Chapter 6

“What’s going on?”

“What does it look like?” He was at on the couch with an unnerving look in his eyes.

In front of her sat a humongous pile of belongings that reached her waist.

“Why the f*** is…”

“Don’t swear at me.” He interrupted.

She stared at him for a minute until his dark stare was so penetrating she had to walk away. She dropped her handbag on the floor and started towards the kitchen.

“Where do you think you are going?” He yelled bitterly.

“I’m getting a drink.” She said sharply. “If that’s OK with you.”

“No it’s not actually.” He stood up and moved towards her.

“OK, what the f*** is wrong with you?” She turned to him quickly. “Are you drunk? Why the hell weren’t you answering the door? I was stood outside for f***ing ages! And why the f*** are all my clothes in a heap in the middle of our…”

Suddenly he grabbed her wrist and began to quickly pace across the room and down the stairs. He paid no attention to her yelling “What the f*** is wrong with you, Damien?! Get off me!” so she began to thump him and try to shake him off her, but his expressions were lifeless, and he continued dragging his wife down the stairs so vigorously she almost fell.

He pushed her onto the street.

He slammed the door in her face.

Went upstairs and had a beer.



Chapter 7

The Spanish woman with the blond hair walked down the street linking arms with her friend Maria.

“Why did you rush off the phone so quickly?” Maria asked.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“We were talking and you shouted something in Spanish and left me on the other end of the phone waiting for ages.”

“I did? Oh, yes, I did, I was cooking something for Christian and I had left it for long time and when we talking I smelt burn. Sorry.”

“It’s OK! So who is with Christian now?”

“Erm… a baby watcher. Her name is Dorothy, she is nice.”

“Are you OK? You seem a bit… distant?”

“Well… I…”

“You can tell me. What is it?”

Their conversation was interrupted by a horrible shrieking voice. They saw some people staring at something on the pavement. Approaching them, they saw a middle-aged woman banging frantically on a door screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Damien! Let me in! Let me f***ing in right now!”

Maria laughed, “Crazy lady.”

They began to walk off and the woman continued to furiously attempt to break the door down.

Before Maria could recommence their conversation, the blond woman grabbed Maria’s arm, smiled at her and said,

“Oooh, I know where we go for lunch! My treat! Come on.”



Chapter 8

A few hours later the woman was perched on her doorstep with her head leaning against the wall. She gazed into nothingness and shook her head with disbelief. Suddenly, to the left of her, a shower of clothes drenched the pavement from the window above. She didn’t turn to look, she remained gazing into space, her eyes like a zombie.

Damien heaved it all out of the window. Everything that belonged to her. Every shampoo bottle, every item of clothing, every glass, every book, every CD, every memory.

She looked up at the window that was spitting out item after item like a production machine. “For f***'s sake Damien, I’m going to call the police if you don’t…”

His head poked out of the window, “Shut up!”

As he went back in and he walked into the next room she heard him yell,
“And don’t f***ing swear at me.”


*****


So you are on that path. Do you turn left or right? I mean, it is such a little choice, it shouldn’t matter.

What if you turn left?

What if you turn right?

What if Damien had taken his wallet to the shop?

What if he hadn’t collided with the woman and spilt the milk?

What if Maria hadn’t called?

What if Maria had found out the truth?

What if… what if… what if…

Life’s too short to “What if…?”

Life’s too short to think about every choice you make?

Isn’t it?



I’d say it is.

I’d say you always know which choice is the right choice, because it is the one you choose.

I’d say turn right.

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