Winter (a story of fiction)

Dark clouds hung low and heavy over the riverbank.  The park was almost deserted, on this mid-winter evening, as most of the city commuters had already rushed home to their warm dinners and their families.  The bleak scene was now still and silent - apart from the low pitch, thunderous rumble of the gushing river, and the occasional laugh and soft voices of two dark figures - standing high on a hillside pathway.  A pram stood unattended behind them.  

An icy wind rushed between the sparse trees in the parkland and, as their barren limbs shivered in the cold, a flurry of dead leaves scattered to the muddy ground.  With the gust, the pram moved a fraction; almost imperceptibly at first.  Another blast of frigid, anatarctic air followed the first, and again, the pram, on the dark hillside, moved a little further and a little faster down the wet asphalt path. The two figures were oblivious to the events relating to the pram, engrossed, as they were, in their conversation.  The black projectile gained speed and accelerated quietly on its trajectory toward the hungry, racing torrent - waiting to swallow it whole - at the foot of the hill.

While the scene unfolded, a tall, solitary figure stood on a grassy spot closer to the water - hidden in the shadows of the night - watching.  He wore a  long coat and a dark, woollen beanie.  He stood motionless - waiting - uncertain - until the pram was almost at the river's edge and then, as the inevitablility of the situation became obvious - he sprang into action.  Running, as hard as he could, along beside the river, between where he had stood and the path of the on-coming carriage, he reached his destination, just as the pram lifted slightly into the air, when it hit the grass beyond the asphalt, and he blocked it from flying off into the waiting jaws of the growling river beyond. 

The heavy pram slammed, like a cannon-ball, into his torso - throwing him backwards onto the grass and the mud of the embankment.  The pain, from the impact, exploded through his body and pushed the air completely from his lungs.  He remained unable to draw breath for several moments. Shaking, and in spite of his agony, he used every last ounce of his strength  to anchor the pram to the grassy spot, and keep it from the raging waters behind him. He gripped the vinyl, of the pram's frame, and he held it fast.  He kept it safe. His knuckles were white in his grip.  He would not let go.  He must not let go. The sound of his pounding heart filled his head and hammered in his chest.  Perspiration dripped from his brow. His eyes were wild - with fear and determination.  Finally, after some moments, frozen in that position, he was able to gasp the cool air and, as he did so, a sharp pain dug into his chest like a knife. But, the child was safe. That was all that mattered. The child was safe! 

A high pitch scream, from the baby within the contraption, brought Daniel back into the moment again. Back to the still, darkness of the park. To where he had been before the drama of the emergency. He prised his icy hands from the frame of the pram and, swallowing hard and holding onto his aching side with one hand, he managed to get up off the grass, to stand again.   

The child continued to scream and Daniel became aware that the two figures, further up the hill, were now running toward him. They were calling out to him - as they ran.  At first he couldn't make out what they said.  He held onto the pram handle and waited.  With his other hand he straightened his muddy coat and his hat.  

As they drew near - their words became clearer.  'Get way from my baby - you drunk!'  The first woman was yelling at him - waving her phone in the air.  'Get way from my child - or I'll call the police!' she screamed. 

When she arrived at the base of the hill, Daniel could see her more clearly. She wore a finely-cut, navy woollen-coat, a pale silk scarf around her neck, and white linen pants.  She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She gave Daniel a look of disgust, and she sneered at him before snatching the pram from out of his hands.  Daniel stood up straight. Defiantly, he lifted his chin and stepped back from her. He knew that he looked much older than his 42 years. He was cognisant of his unkempt appearance: his old brown coat - filthy and in tatters; his unshaven, scarred face; his grubby, long hair - peppered with grey … the whisky bottle  protruding from his coat pocket. 

'Get away from me and my child - you filthy tramp!' she yelled again.  

'I was just …' Daniel tried to speak as he also tried to catch his breath. He was still exhausted after the recent events. And his chest still hurt terribly.  

The companion of the woman had now arrived and she too sneered at Daniel.  She appeared to be a similar age to the first woman, and she, too, was well dressed. 

Together the women yelled more profanities at Daniel before they marched briskly away with the pram. When they had walked a short distance, they turned to briefly look at him once more. They laughed, and then they turned and left; disappearing into the night. 

Daniel took a swig from the bottle in his coat pocket.  He pulled his collar up high around his neck and, after returning the bottle to whence it came, he walked along beside the river again. Alone. Alone with his thoughts - and his pain.  

While his chest hurt, the endless pain which tortured his mind was much worse.   He knew that the pain of his memories was killing him - slowly - like a cancer - eating him away from within. The memories had dragged him down into this long, dark winter of his life - for all of the last ten years. Haunting him endlessly. Even in his dreams.

As he shuffled along - his feet squelching in his brocken sandals, his toes and his fingers grew numb, and his face burned with the cold.  A soft, drizzling rain floated down around him, and intermittent gusts of icy wind cut through his thin, wet clothes. 

While he walked the images of his memories played out in his mind - as they so often did when he was alone:  His wedding day - the little church, the golden shards of light filtering in through the stained glass windows, his wife, Jane's  pretty young face looking up at him. Smiling. The matching gold wedding rings. The birth of their only son, Oliver.  The yellow baby-blanket with the embroidered blue elephant.  His son's little fingers clutching gently at his own finger - so soft.  The cherub face, the blue eyes, framed with long dark lashes, looking up at him.  His son's birthday-parties.  The little boy's arms wrapped around his neck and the soft, warm kisses on his cheek.  His wife holding his hand and leaning into him - as they laughed with their little boy - on those magical days.  His medical practice, which he had shared with his doctor wife, Jane.  His patients asking him about his  family.  His pride in his little clan. His overwhelming love for his family.  The accident.  Blinding white lights.  Screaming from his young son in the back seat. Those last words: 'Daddy!  Daddy! Daddy - '  The silence.  The deafening, awful silence that followed … before the sirens.  His wife slumped next to him.  Blood.  Brocken glass.  Pain.  The hospital.  The faces looking at him - in pity. Horrible, torturing pity. His questions … unanswered.  Where is my wife, Jane?  Where is my son, Oliver?   Are they alright?  Silence.  Silence …  The attempts to reassure him.  'It wasn't your fault, Daniel' they had said.  'It wasn't your fault'.  The truck had gone through the red light. He couldn't have known.  He couldn't have prevented it …  The funeral.  The small white coffin -  a little toy car inside it with his sleeping son. His beautiful son who would never wake. A larger white coffin. Red roses on its lid.  His own wedding ring inside it, beside his wife.   He would never marry again.  With her, in death, his heart and his soul had gone too.  Buried in that white coffin.  Buried with his ring. He had died that day too - only no-body else had realised it - except for him. He had known.  There would be no life for him from that day forth.  Ten years now.  Ten years of pain ...

Daniel took the bottle from his pocket and took another swig.  The pain eased slightly.

He soon reached the bridge, under which he would spend the night. The thunderous roar of traffic, moving over the bridge above, was very familiar.  This was one of Daniel's frequent sleeping places.  Sometimes, there were other homeless people sleeping here with him.  But, on this wet and bitterly cold night, he was alone. Although, he acknowleged to himself, even when there were other people with him on the streets - he always felt alone.  

He felt as if he had existed on the periphery of life - during the past ten years.  Distant to everyone else and everything else. He felt like he was forever skimming across the surface of  life, while other people jumped right in and became part of the world around them. He felt like he was forever looking on - from a distance. Not dead … but not alive either.

He cleared away some of the rubbish, from a patch of ground: bottles, cans, papers.  Then he sat down.  He felt tired. His chest hurt and his limbs felt stiff and heavy in his ice-cold, wet coat and hat. The wind picked up again - cutting right through him - sharp, painful-cold.  He pulled the bottle from his coat and drank from it again. The liquid momentarily warmed him. It dulled his senses. He finished the last of the whisky - and he felt himself begin to drift off to sleep.  He lay down amongst the rocks and the dirt and the weeds, closed his eyes, and let the tiredness consume him.  He fell into a deep sleep. His last thoughts, however, were of his wife and child.  Their faces smiling at him - warm with love.  

The sunshine returned to the riverbank with the morning. A soft yellow-orange light filled the eastern sky. The clouds were gone. The sky was a deep blue. The bare, wet limbs of the trees sparkled in the morning light, and frost covered the grass in the park like snow.  The river was tamed and quiet now. The wild torrent had settled and the water flowed peacefully.  

Early morning joggers would soon invade this tranquil scene.  They would run under the bridge alongside the river.  They would see the still, lifeless body lying on the cold earth amongst the litter.  They would call for the police and for an ambulance.  But it would be too late.  Daniel was gone.  A smile on his blue lips.  His long winter was over.

                                        The End

I wrote this short story this week - as I have often thought - when I complain about the winter-cold from my heated car, or my heated home,  or from under my doona with blankets piled up on top at night - how do the homeless people, living in the streets 'rough,' cope with this cold?  The sad truth is that in Australia, with our social-welfare system, the people who tend to slip through the cracks of this system often suffer with addictions to drugs and/or alcohol, and/or they suffer from mental illnesses.  Unfortunately, even living in Adelaide, we can have incidences where people living on the streets die from exposure (hypothermia) during our winters.  

When I was a teenager I used to collect money for the Salvation Army yearly, with the rest of my family, at Easter.  I still give regularly to that charity.  While I was collecting money I came upon many people living in very humble abodes - often the working poor - who would have the few dollars that they would have saved ready to give to the Salvation Army Appeal.  As they handed over to me the few dollars that they had managed to carefully save -  they so often told me about their own experiences, during the hardest and lowest times of their lives, when the Salvation Army, and other kind people, had helped them turn their lives around.  Often very hard times are transient - and the help of others during these times - can make all the difference in some people's lives.  

Addictions and mental disorders - often both, including depression, can be difficult to overcome.  But, I would say to anyone reading this and living through a hard time now - don't lose hope.  

Hope, in psychology, means believing that bad times are neither permanent nor pervasive.  That means that bad times - don't last forever, things eventually do almost always get better; and they are not 'pervasive' - ie the difficult time is limited to one area of your life - not your entire life. For example, if you lose your job or you fail a test or you make a mistake - it doesn't mean that every aspect of your life is bad or difficult. There will be many other aspects of your life that are going well and, as I've said so many times, while life can be hard - I think that other people are here, in our lives, to help each other.  Everyone has had hard times - I know that as a doctor with 25 years experience - and through all our hard times - there will always be someone to help you and someone who will understand how you feel.  Even the Salvation Army or your GP.

Have a good week and keep warm everyone.

I'll write something a bit less wintery next week.  A bit sunnier and more cheerful.