Her Pocket Dweller (A Short Story)

Within her pocket. Warm pieces of cloth sobering my senses. She clutched upon my minuscule body, pressing upon my chest in a tickle of fancy. Placed me within her palm and spoke. 1

"Do you feel like coming out today my little one?"2

I giggled at her polite tone. She smelt of freshly grounded parsley. I think she had only just been making dinner for herself and her three breast fed children - pie of lamb mince and herbs. She radiated the presence of an oven. I giggled at her lemon stroked smile and returned her question.3

"No. I am not ready yet. My bones still feel like they might break at any moment. I like your pocket. It gives me strength."4

She sighed. I have never quite worked out whether she liked to lend her pocket as a habitat. I could not bare the world out there with it's cigarette smokers and unfriendly pokers. She scrunched her nails through my already trampled hair and placed me firmly within her pocket again.5

Black. Darkness has become my friend. I do not get lonely in here. I have conversations with myself. Breathing fresh air as I listen to my own voices. I do not think that I am insane as some people on the outside might say. They might say, "Speaking to yourself, young son, is the first sign of insanity." I do not believe that. In fact, I am strongly opposed to this. My voices are my security, just like her pocket. 6

There is no breeze in this hole of hers. No dampening rain to mesh with. 7

Or hot weathered climates to contest with. This kept my skin white tinged and freckled. 8

Suddenly, I heard her voice. It was almost deafening with anger. She beamed,9

"I do not need you to tell me how to run my life. These kids are mine. They are not yours. I don't even need you."10

I could hear the knife cutting into the parsley. These verbal arguments have been more frequent this week. He is the man who lets her down. Maybe that is why she keeps me when I plead with her. Plead to go back down into her pocket. I think He would be denied access to her pocket if He was a tiny man. At this moment He begins,11

"I pay for your kids. I pay for your clothes. I even paid for that stuff you're choppin'. You can't speak to me like you're all high and mighty. Takin' this shit and makin' some fancy pie. I'm not gonna eat your pie."12

I heard his heavy footsteps. Her beaten sighs. The movement of both her and I towards the cupboard where the rubbish bin was kept. The falling of the parsley into the crevice which mouths her tin. I shouted,13

"Get me! Get me! I can help you out. I'm a good listener even though I have smaller ears than Him. Get me! Get me!"14

She did not get me. I stayed in her pocket. I smelt the lavender dish washing liquid cleansing her hands. The end of the argument is drawing near. I will remain here. In this warm valley of hers.15