Get It Straight, Or Say Good Night

Good Morning?

It was a beautiful dawn.

Lou cast an eye over the pinks and peach marmalade that were beginning to colour the eastern sky.

Although Lou only saw black.

She moved her body gingerly slow through the bright red front door, creeping it shut as softly as she could.

George oft would do this, tumble in from long night out with the boys, but his idea of soft and quiet, usually meant the whole house was woken.

Cringing as she held the banister, Lou paused to recover and ready herself for the long trip up the short staircase. She silently bemoaned the fact that she should actually be attending the doctor or hospital, but with no motor or inclination to alert her parents to the infliction's, she felt best a good sleep and shower would be all she could, and should, manage.

Louie fell carefully on the bed after pulling what was left of her work clothes off, piling them haphazardly behind the door in her bedroom, the usual spot for her laundry.

Mother and father would be out today, attending to the weekly shopping and work. She had no need to hastily hide the remains of her clothes away. She would somehow get to that later..

Everything hurt.

If she rolled to one side it would pain, roll onto the other yet more.

Sharper stabs of pain like lightning strikes struck intermittently and her insides felt like they were on fire, split open.....

And she knew there were cuts, deep gashes close to her core, to her female parts, to her sides. Bruises coloured her skin quickly and cigarette burn's, that looked like brands on her stomach and upwards, reaching up her sides, to both her breasts.

Lou winced and relented....she let a few lonely tears slide down her cheeks.

Pulling the sheets high and gently over her body, she tumbled quickly into a deep disturbing nightmare of broken shards of sleep. Her eyelids showing the truth. Eyes sweeping left then right then middle and back again, in a frantic race through her mind.

Her body had shut down and she fled to somewhere deep inside, and hopefully safe.

Only now....

Without her being able to stop it, her unconscious mind recalled the darkness, the nightmare that was her night .

"Wake up lazy bones, come iron my shirt" George poked at Louie, pushing his long finger rudely in her nose til she screamed blue murder for him to stop.

George had never heard her do that before.

Sure, he annoyed her, that was pretty much his job, but the noise she made this morning was like something being killed at the knackery. He raced downstairs and tried in vain to iron his shirt himself.

Paul walked in from the kitchen, ready and immaculate in his pressed clothes, excited and nervous but hiding it well.

He had a few sips from his fresh cup of tea and spied the mashup job George was doing on his shirt. Huffing, he placed the cup on the sideboard then pushed the useless twat aside. "Give it here...."

Having had to fend for himself since his mother passed on, ironing was a norm in his household of men.

The doorbell rang and George ignored it while he could.

The sweet tea he now swilled and tossed back while watching McCartney iron was hands down better than seeing John's ugly mug at 7am in the morn, any day.