Hi Ms. Popplewell,
My half yearly advanced english exam is this Friday and I wondered if you'd be able to give me some feedback on my short story. I know its wayyy to long, but I'm not sure which parts could be deleted. I'd appreciate any help at all
Thank you!
Belkelly
Death Was My Freedom
I was riding with the wind at my back, the thunder of the herd drumming in my ears. Looking upwards at the sky I could see a mass of threatening dark clouds swallowing all light from the sky. I signalled to a pair of rough dark haired boys on chestnut brumbies, riding along side me. We cracked our whips and urged the cattle on faster and faster towards the corrals in the distance. The dogs barked madly and the horses were sweating hard, but as the first crack of lightning resounded off the hills the last of the herd were safe within the holding yards. Then I heard the dinner bell began to clang as my young wife stood waiting on the homestead veranda.
I began to walk towards her, but my feet felt like lead, they wouldn’t move. As I watched her she began to fade away and the bell became softer and softer. A sharp ‘bing ding’ rang in my ears and woke me up. I rubbed my tired eyes and looked about, but there was no storm, no wife, no cattle, and no sons. Plain white washed walls surrounded me, senseless beings sat in still motion, and the sickening smell of disinfectant filled my senses. The mechanical bell stopped and a middle aged nurse hurried towards me.
“Come on, love, dinner is served,” she smiled with feigned cheerfulness.
“I’d rather not eat, I think I will go to bed,” I replied politely.
“Now, now, it’s very important we keep our strength up. After dinner we will watch a little TV and then it will be time for our bedtime,” she replied with a simplistic but harsher tone in her voice.
I sat at the table and looked down at my plate. The meat had been processed and then steam cooked in a mould of a steak shape. The vegetables had also been made into puree and then pressed into moulds of miniature carrots and potatoes. I looked about the table and saw silent, powerless men and women either being spoon fed by nurses or feeding themselves in robotic fashion. There was no light banter or conversation, only the soft sound of an air conditioner which kept the atmosphere constantly lukewarm. I took a sip from a glass of water and almost felt sick from the after taste of the strong chlorine purificator. Out the window I could see a tiny garden, bordered by a grey brick wall which surrounded the entire building. Every morning it struggled to block the sun from peeking into the dim and lifeless rooms.
“Eat up deary,” a nurse said patronisingly, as a mother would to her defiant child.
I looked back at her with a scowl, “I’m a grown man,” I said angrily, “I don’t like this disgusting mushed up food for babies and I’m very tired and want to go to bed.”
The nurse quickly stood up, shaking her head, and called for a doctor.
“I’m afraid he’s getting argumentative and disturbing the other dears, he needs to be quietened.”
The doctor inserted a calming drug into my arm and commanded that the patient be put to bed immediately.
The very next morning I woke at sunrise and got up. No sooner had I made my way to the bathroom when the night nurse spotted the telltale red light of the blood pressure band on my wrist.
“Now, now, deary. Go back to bed,” said the night nurse, with that condescending tone. Another nurse joined her and they led me back to my room.
“We may have to look at getting some night medication for him,” whispered one nurse to the other.
I pondered awhile, my forehead wrinkled in concentration. I decided that if I wanted to still have control over my own senses I would have to submit myself to their commands and live as they wished me to live. I leant back on my pillows, which were far too soft for my liking. I picked them up and put them on the floor, now it felt like my old swag. My eyes slowly closed and I was sitting on the back steps of my old veranda.
“Daddy,” called a young voice. A small boy walked into view from around the corner of the house.
“Yes, Jerry.”
“Mamma said you’d take me ridin’?”
“I’m a bit busy son, these whips have to be plaited, it takes a long time,” I replied, as I stooped over my work.
The boy’s head dropped and his eyes looked like they were staring at a rainy day in June. I looked across at him and sighed.
“Come on, then. Work will always be around, but a beautiful sky and a spirited youngster won’t be.”
The clock chimed 8 and a creaking door quietly woke me up to reality. I was permitted to walk myself to the eating room and get my own breakfast of lukewarm porridge.
After breakfast there was Bingo. The round table was situated in a corner of the recreation room, opposite the plasma tv. Plastic vases of paper flowers were situated systematically around the room so that they would not be in danger of drawing attention or, worse, criticism from visitors. I sat down between two half asleep elderly women. A nurse directed the game, while we were like pawns on a chessboard, ordered to make one move or the other, given no knowledge of the rules nor the goal of the game and utterly ignorant of its purpose in our daily lives.
While the nurses dealt out cards I rested my head back on the chair and stared at the white ceiling. Slowly clouds began to form over the plaster and the distant figures of birds began to appear, soaring over the wide blue spaces. A cool hand touched my forehead and stroked my brown hair. The smiling face of my wife looked down on me and I could hear her laughter. Then the scene disappeared and I was standing in a darkened room. She was standing beside me, her face a picture of worry and anxiety. We were both looking down at a young boy lying in a simple wooden bed.
“Daddy, it hurts,” the lad struggled to say, as he touched his chest.
“Anna, go get some sleep, I’ll watch him,” I said, sitting down on the covers. “Listen, Tom, close your eyes and listen for the wind. Do you hear it?” The boy nodded. “Now, if you were a spec of dust floating on that wind, where would you like to go?”
The boy replied in a croaky voice, “Heaven.”
With a jolt, I was suddenly awake and the faces of two nurses peering down at me.
“We’ll have no talk of Heaven, you aren’t going anywhere, deary,” said one of them.
“Come, love, your son is here for a visit, now isn’t that nice,” said the other nurse to me.
We went back to my bedroom and a short young man in a R.M.Williams shirt and Ariat boots stood up to greet me.
“Dad, how have you been?”
The nurse left us and I sat down on my bed.
“Well Dad? Are they treating you well?”
“I don’t like it here, Tom, and I want to go home.”
The man shook his head and smiled.
“Nah, Dad. Me and Jerry are far too busy on the farm to keep an eye on you. They provide excellent care for you here, don’t they? I’m afraid there is no alternative.”
My hand shook and I stared at the grey brick wall outside my little widow. I looked at my son, so strong and healthy.
“Where is Anna?” I asked.
“Can’t you remember?” asked the young man, shocked.
“I know. She’s in heaven.”
“I guess. If anyone could get there, Mum could,” he replied, sadly.
I smiled. I could see her face smiling and her cool hand on my forehead.
“I could get there too… couldn’t I. Goodbye son,” I said.
“Goodbye? Where are you going? Dad, what's the matter with you? Get up. Dad, please get up. Nurse, nurse, come quickly.”
I embraced death with a smile, it was my ticket to freedom.
Sixty years later, Jerry sat in the front seat of his daughter’s car.
“One last stop, Dad, make it quick. I need to get home to pick up the kids.”
They pulled up at the graveyard gate and Jerry walked slowly past the sleeping stones of those long dead.
“Come on. The nursing home wants you back in fifteen minutes,” said the tall young woman, impatiently.
The engraving of Liam O’Brien was still visible through the green moss which covered the marble headstone.
Jerry hung his head, tears trickling down his cheeks, “Now I understand Dad,” he muttered, “I’m so very very sorry.”