Monday 18 May 2020

Recovery

She sat alone, her six-year old hands touched the warm tarmac, they felt the tiny stones, she looked up at the scattered white clouds and bright blue in between, she heard the other children and this is all she needed. She could feel every bump of the tarmac, she could enjoy every shape of the clouds.The colours and materials all around gave her a joy that the other girls and boys gained from running around, gossiping and praise from teachers.

The other girls tried to be kind, when they got no response they tried to be mean but neither would make her speak: the girl knew exactly what the others were saying it’s just the rest of the world was more interesting. Sometimes the girl would listen to the kids playing but she never thought to join them, the chatter was too much. The girl was delighted when the others gave up and left her to enjoy the world.

A sharp, piercing noise broke through her perfection, it was the bell:  her stomach churned at the thought of another human’s words, rattling chairs and being made to talk. The teacher let the girl sit at the back of the class with a kindly assistant who tried to help. She would speak in soft, sing song tones but the girl would be too busy staring at a perfect shade of green on a painting. Eye contact meant nothing, cuddles bought screams, and words were frightening.

At the end of the school her mum walked over to the painted square her daughter always stood in. The paint was fading like The Plague. The other kids happily burst out of their germ free bubbles but her daughter seemed to stay.

Mum dodged the stares and pitying smiles from the other parents. Again her daughter refused to hold her mum's hand. She remembered her daughter as a baby, she was born with symptoms  everyone feared this big-eyed infant and no one would touch her. The day her daughter stopped crying was the day her mum couldn’t stop weeping, mum realized her daughter was now a victim of The Plague forever.