Halfmast

Rain pelted down on the streets of Lauton as the dim streetlights fizzled in protest. All sign of life was safely indoors, curtains drawn tight against the force of the hostile storm outside. All except a small figure, head bent against the wind, making his way down the two mile path from the cliff tops. 1

To many of the villagers this was a familiar sight. Regardless of the weather conditions this small figure would travel the distance down from the cliffs that overlooked the little town at around six o’clock everyday. No one had every bothered to find out why, or even just to ask the boy his name.
The people of Lauton where the kind of people who judged a person by their appearance. To them his ragged clothes and shoeless feet where enough to make them look at him with such distaste that it could be mistaken for loathing. However this was not loathing, it was the outcome of years of vicious rumours mingled with an essence of the truth. It all started four years ago. On the eve of the first half mast eyes. 2

That night had not been filled with howling winds, or rain that pelted down like bullets. But to the young boy slowly trudging down the steep path down cliff face it might have well been. it would have made no difference to him if the sun had been made of ice, nor if hail the size of golf balls had hammered down upon him. Nothing could deepen the pit of despair that had been carved into his heart. 3

Leaving his mother had been the hardest struggle in his few years, but Timmy knew from the previous nights experience that to argue was not an option. He slowly crossed the room, dragging his feet as he went.
Half mast, she sat, a lone silhouette - rocking, in front of the burning embers of a never dieing fire. Come rain or shine the half mast eyes beat away the warmth belted out by the open grate that was in the centre of a dingy wall - opposite the only door of the one roomed shack, which was home. 4

If you asked him Timmy might tell you ‘half mast eyes are sad eyes’ what he wouldn’t tell you is that half mast eyes are drunken eyes, half mast eyes are run away from father eyes. If you pressured him Timmy might tell you that ‘Half mast eyes are lonely eyes, they don’t laugh anymore, they don’t dance anymore’. That’s all he ever said about half mast eyes. 5

Timmy’s forgotten the sound of laughter- well real laughter, not just the crackly half coughing hackle that came out of the wireless every now and then, he knows only crying, and the soft humming that comes on the same days as half mast eyes. It’s a slow almost monotone tune, always the same-‘hmmm hum hmmm hmm’. 6

Sometimes Timmy hums it too, except he adds in an extra note, beat rhythm to make it a little bit more upbeat. 7

He tries to keep his mother company, he tries to ease her suffering, but he’s only eleven- what more can he do?
It’s not safe for him there at night. He knows this just as he knows it’s not safe for his mother. Her last words to him were ‘Don’t come home at night, run, be safe, you’re safer on the streets then you are here- now that your father’s back- and don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’ Then she had smiled- a weak smile and pain was thatched behind her eyes as she hurried Timmy out the window and steadied him as he found his balance on the woodpile.
She wasn’t fine though. She never spoke again. No words now, just humming. 8

*9

As Timmy opened his mouth to speak the anger which has bubbled up from his stomach, stopped and presently died within his throat. A strangled cry rang out as the boy collapsed - a miniscule heap in the cavernous chamber. The muted sounds of anguish echoed around the unforgiving walls. Finally the diminished child cured up into a ball, knees to face, closed his eyes and blocked out the world. A world he would not recognise when he finally reopened them. 10