The Journey of Byron Kiers

His life began as many others have, expelled into the sterility of a hospital delivery room, covered in blood and screaming as his new body hit the uncontaminated air on that cold December morning.
His mother was alone in the delivery room no expectant father pacing anxiously outside no family to comfort her, The baby’s father had long since disappeared into places unknown not that it concerned him at this precise moment.

His life, from information gleaned later on was uneventful, the usual childhood ailments occurred as they do in the millions of children born every year. He was named Byron after the much maligned and celebrated romantic English poet whom apparently his mother was  very fond of... .This in later life he found both to be untrue and totally incredulous.

The first clear memory he recalled was of the traditional first day at school the majority of the other children were crying and clinging to their mothers in some kind of separation based anxiety dance. He himself took no part in this ritualised separation and instead walked towards the Victorian school entrance without looking back his face free from tears, even at this young age he felt different he felt calm and a look of contentment was just visible to anyone who was watching.

No one was.

His first teacher at Cotton End school was a lady by the name of Miss Sheridan a plump woman whose penchant for flowery dresses and mismatched cardigans was to him mildly irritating even at this young age, she smelt of Lavender oil which given her liking for flowery garb was he thought rather quite apt.
The days at Cotton End were spent doing very little really of course he had the usual activities one endures as a 5-year-old child, finger painting, drawing, biting scratching wishing other pupils DEAD.
The person he most wanted dead was a fellow classmate by the name of Abigail Atkins an annoying brat of a girl with freckles, ginger hair and a scratchy whining voice like fingernails on Miss Sheridan’s blackboard, from his first day he was instructed to sit alongside this child this thing of freckled gingerness. At first he was civil and kind to Abigail but in less that a week the thought of removing her numerous freckles with the point of a sharp knife grew ever more appealing.
One day in the vast school playground which in reality was just a large open concrete space with various shapes and diagrams painted onto the floor for learning and playing apparently.,He preferred the solitude of the outer regions of the play ground where he was free to think of ways to torture Abigail Atkins, In the distance he heard a loud scream and a multitude of voices were shouting “quick quick get the Nurse”.As he watched the crowd thinned and he could see Abigail her face covered in blood that was erupting from both her nose and a gash on her forehead, the blood was gushing now and the sight made him smile inwardly. The nurse arrived and made an effort to stem the blood from the head wound whilst the obviously broken nose continued to bleed a mixture of blood and mucus. He reasoned that she had been running in the play ground and had tripped in some fashion and ended up face first in the unforgiving concrete. The familiar wail of an Ambulance siren could be heard in the distance getting nearer to the school on a mission to attend to the broken and bloody mess that was now Abigail Atkins face.
He silently wished for delays in its journey.
Abigail returned after a month or so her freckles were less now and her skin had  a smoothness where the old skin had been ripped away by the unforgiving concrete floor of the playground, a large scar occupied her forehead where the hospital had inserted 18 stitches and her nose now had a distinct lump due to the broken bone it now contained.

She retained her scratchy whining voice but he figured you can’t have everything:
The ensuing years were mostly uneventful with the exception of the day Miss Sheridan died in front of the whole school having a massive heart attack on the stage of the school assembly.

If it wasn’t so very tragic it would have been comical no sound came from her mouth just a strange pained look as she was gripped by the sudden crippling pain inside her chest as her heart went into full-blown shut down. Gasping for air she crashed to the floor of the stage whilst the other teachers rushed around in a rare show of energy. The children were ushered out of the hall and made to line up in the playground whilst medics and assorted amateur doctors made up of the Head, Deputy Head and school nurse fought to save Miss Sheridan.
They fought in vain and all that remained was the faint scent of Lavender that sometimes drifted through the hall at assembly time.

Byron felt no sorrow,

No emotion

He felt nothing

His life had followed a path of little interest during his days at Cotton End school, his mother had begun her descent into the alcohol filled haze that had taken her hand and led her willingly down the path of full-blown alcoholism.

His needs had been superseded by her need for oblivion the kind of state that could only be achieved by super strong Cider, Wine and Beer although in truth anything would do as long as it sped up the journey.

It seemed that the constant flow of men that entered there home during his childhood never hung around long enough to make any significant change to the status quo. Most were fleeting visits a couple of nights at most and Byron was sure that he and his mother were better off the way they were

By the age of 13 he had grown into a wiry child all skin and bones this he decided was the consequence of infrequent meals and the need to scavenge in the nearby shopping centre bins. It always amazed him what was thrown away by the supermarkets, the number of homeless people in his town alone would be grateful to be able to receive the food that was wantonly discarded on a daily basis

He needed to be extra vigilant when he visited the garbage bins as only last month the security guard had caught him and had locked him inside the bin he was searching and had taken great delight in inflicting torture upon Byron by banging the metal sides with his torch.

The darkness and the putrid dank smell covered his skin his clothes , the officers banging caused Byron to jump and smack his head against the lid resulting in a cut which bled profusely the liquid sticky on his face and becoming matted in his hair. Eventually the guard relented and opened the lid, dragging Byron out by his threadbare shirt and trying unsuccessfully to beat him with his torch.

So since that day he had always been extra vigilant only venturing out to the shopping area in the dead of night, the area was poorly lit and the bins were hard to identify in the darkness, sometimes he would dive into an empty bin and land heavy on the harsh metal floor.

Tonight he had found a good bin and with no sign of any guards around he ventured in, slowly lifting the heavy plastic lid and hoping that it wouldn’t make a sound, he used his torch to identify what was inside and and it was a treasure chest of unwanted food filled with Bread, Cakes, and Fruit and even some juice which he greedily grabbed.

Byron took what he could and placed it all in his backpack, he began to head home when from the distance came a shout, “Oi stop right there”, Byron did nothing of the sort and took of into the darkness not looking back. When he had reached the relative of the housing estate he slowed down and checked behind him. No one was following him so he relaxed and dug into his backpack and pulled out a piece of fruit biting into the apple and devouring it within seconds not daring to look at the piece of fruit for the fear of seeing something insect like within it firm flesh.

Better to eat no need to see……

His journey home took him through the nearby estate which was inhabited by the social rejects and misfits that seemed to radiate to the concrete behemoths that had sprung up all over inner cities like living breathing stalagmites of hereditary misery. The cold December air created an eerie glow around the beckoning distant lights.

Here is where he felt at home

The burnt out vehicles marked the boundary to the estate which had been named after somebody he had never heard of, one of the towers was called Maxwell House something that always raised a chuckle inside Byron even though he was sure it wasn’t named after the coffee brand.

Raised muffled voices from the surrounding houses echoed in the cold nigh air, shouts, screams and even a little laughter sometimes. The lack of street lighting was a godsend to him, much easier to stay hidden in the darkness.

He made his way through the labyrinth until he reached the relative safety of London Road which led directly to his house, he kept to the shadows created by the wooded area that ran the length of the road his eyes alert for any sound from both within the darkness of the trees and from the road to his right. Approaching headlights caused him to stand stock still slightly crouched and hopefully invisible to the beams that sought him out unintentionally.

He watched the car into the distance and the muffled sound of its radio disappeared into the distance, He continued on his way still searching for darkness still alert and watchful, The local police were known to cruise around looking for an excuse to arrest someone and Byron had been stopped before and returned home with a flea in his ear about being out at night at a young age.

The house was in sight and he darted across the road spilling a couple of apples onto the tarmac he let them roll mindful that trying to retrieve them could prove costly, better to leave them he had enough anyway. The wooden gate hung broken at the entrance to the poorly maintained path that lead to his front door he had negotiated the path many times in the dark and knew instinctively the places he need to place his feet to avoid tripping and losing his supplies, the door was unlocked it always was even at this time of night. His mother lay on the threadbare sofa, it like her had seen better days, empty bottles littered the floor and the smell of urine hung in the air.

His mother stirred slightly and mumbled incoherently, a dream maybe or a nightmare, Byron cared neither way and tiptoes out of the room into the hallway, unopened letters lay scattered on the floor and he scooped them up in his arms.

He moved quickly up the stairs and unlocked the padlock on his door the padlock had been found during a previous scavenging mission it was brand new and he kept the key around his neck alongside a small piece of Turquoise his birthstone.

He placed his spoils inside a wardrobe that he had adapted into an ad-hoc larder the fruit was placed in a cool box he had acquired from next doors garden when they had left it out overnight following a barbecue. He remembered seeing the bemused looks on their faces the following morning, inwardly he chuckled...

Finders Keepers Losers Weepers he muttered under his breath…..

He took one cake from the larder and stretched out on his bed wiping any debris from its surface, the cake was surprisingly fresh and was covered in gooey icing and full round currants the cake felt good as he devoured it greedily. He closed his eyes and awaited the sleep that would surely soon come.

It didn’t……

As was usual at this time his thoughts drifted towards his father, who was he, where was he, did he even know of his existence, were the thoughts that consumed Byron part of his DNA. Would his life had been so different with a strong male role model influence or would the fantasies and desires still reside inside him.

He reached under his bed searching for a box that contained his notebooks and assorted ramblings, heaving the box onto his bed he began to read the words.

” I want to stop the thoughts, the darkness that engulfs me the visions of torture and mutilation that reside inside me, The way I think both concerns me and fascinates me. I am not like others I am different I am Byron Kiers and its time I awoke”

The sleep engulfed him and he closed his eyes and dreamt a dream of calmness and tranquillity, he was aware of his breathing and the feeling of calmness this brought him, It allowed for the thoughts to invade and he knew the Awakening had begun.

Tomorrow was a brand new day and it was his to seize, for tomorrow was his birthday...

Carpe Diem indeed ….