Click
By Elaine Gormley
My insomnia started when I was a ten. That’s when Mummy met Jimmy. We moved into his house in North Belfast. Almost a year later, the twins arrived. The three of us slept in one room. The twins, clinging to each other in the cot beside my single bed. Jimmy, started to drink more then. That’s when the arguments started.
The weekend was the worst but weekdays were alright. Jimmy had to get up for work. He finished at four on a Friday. That’s when Mummy would send me to collect the wages from him in the pub. I had to get in early if we were going to eat that week.
One night, the sound of shouting travelled to our bedroom, I opened my book and put on my headphones then pressed play on my Sony Walkman and turned the volume up high. The music pumped. ‘We can be heroes. Just for one day.’
I heard the thud over the music. Silence.
I hurried out of bed and found Jimmy standing over Mummy. His fist covered in her blood.
So, I picked up the hurl and whacked him over the head. Kept him quiet until the morning.
He could never remember the night before. I remember my nights better than my days. I remember the dreams and the terrors – when I actually get to sleep.
Last night I remember the clock flashing 02:45 when a drunk girl stumbled over my recycling bin outside my window. The empty cans of cola rolled across the footpath.
At 4:45 the seagulls started to squawk.
5:30. The beep, beep, beep from the lorry parking outside the Centra across the road.
06:45. Whoosh. First bus of the day. Doesn’t need to stop. No passengers until 07:15. Monday mornings are tough for everyone.
I didn’t know I was traumatised. How would I? You don’t know what you don’t know.
Reá, my counsellor, helped me to understand. It helps me knowing why I don’t sleep, particularly at the weekends. It doesn’t stress me out anymore. I use the time to think. Think about my next project.
The weight of the camera dangling around my neck, forces my head to protrude until I find something worthy to capture.
Beside the cans scattered from my recycling bin is a child’s mitten. One thumb. No Fingers.
Click.
I put the fifteen cans back into the bin. A reduction from last week, just like my screen time. Except I can’t figure out what percent.
As I approach the gates of Botanic Gardens I watch the cops steer Paddy by the scruff. With his arms stretched behind him, the needle marks are more visible.
Click.
I walk through the pines and pick up one of their cones. Their offspring. So, fucking perfect.
Click.
A crochet blue heart catches my eye as it hangs from an oak. Reminding us all of the Belfast boy; the black Belfast boy. His Mummy still has no answers. I blink away the thoughts of what might have happened to him. I must have dozens of pictures of blue hearts scattered around the city so we don’t forget. We won’t forget. I won’t forget.
Click.
The sky spits and I rush to the bandstand for cover. It’s quiet, peaceful, terrifying. Silence is a trigger Reá said. When I was young and it would go quiet, I wondered if Jimmy killed Mummy or if she killed him. Now, that’s why I moved to the front bedroom in my new flat. I like the noise.
Graffiti on the post of the bandstand says in thick black marker, ‘I bucked yer ma.’ Underneath in red – ‘No you didn’t ya virgin.’
Click.
Barking. Nola runs over to me and drops her ball at my feet. Dessie, her owner, arrives a few minutes later. He tips his flat cap in my direction. Years of running around Belfast in full army gear has taken its toll on his joints he says. So, I throw the ball for Nola for a while, and he tells me how the loyalists were worse than the republicans. With the republicans you knew where you stood. They all wanted you dead.
But Nola wants Dessie to throw the ball now. She lies in front of him, head level with the tarmac, pleading with her eyes. But he can’t bend down.
Click.
I cut out through the back gates towards the Holylands. A young boy is dragging his sister to nursery. She looks too small to walk. A lollipop with legs, munching on a bag of Tayto crisps for breakfast.
‘What you looking at?’ she scolds me. Sounding older than her toddler years. Her brother, red faced pulls her. I look back and she starts kicking him.
Click.
A rumble distracts me. I forgot to eat this morning. I put a reminder in my phone for tomorrow.
Outside the shop on the Dublin road she sits with a sleeping bag wrapped around her. She asks me for a bottle of juice. I also get us a croissant each. From a distance I see her eat some of it and tuck the rest away. Two men in suits come out of their office. She holds her hand out. They step over her.
Click.
Will things ever change?
Ping. A text message from Maria. She asks if I’d be free to walk her dog, Willow. She is in bad shape today.
‘Of course,’ I instantly reply.
When I arrive at her door, she tries to smile though the twisted pain. ‘Fuckin fibro.’
I muster a sympathetic smile but feel shit that I can’t take her Fibromyalgia away.
‘You look as tired as I feel,’ she yawns.
‘Nah, I’m grand. Sure, I’ll keep Willow for the day if you like? Drop her back to you at bedtime.’
Her eyes become glassy. ‘You sure, love?’
I say to Willow that we will go back to mine and I’ll make us some lunch. It’s sunny so we sit on my doorstep, and I eat a sandwich and she enjoys a tin of sardines. We look at the Black Mountain for hope.
‘What does it say today, Willow? Is the blue heart still up there for the dead boy?’ I cup my hand over my eyes to get a clearer view.
FREE PALESTINE.
I wonder how long it takes them to create the giant sign. All that toil just for a few days. It makes me feel warm inside. Maybe they feel that too.
Click.
Reá said recovery isn’t a straight line. When she said that 384 days ago, I could have screamed. I never was patient. Now I get it. I see the seasons change, Willow fill out. Not a pupper anymore. I remember to eat most days. When I can’t sleep, it’s not because I’m scared he’ll kill us all, it’s because I was scared that he’d kill us. But today is not the past. Today is today and tomorrow….
Well, I’ll get there.
Elaine Gormley
Elaine Gormley is a new writer who lives in Belfast. From a young age, Elaine had a keen interest in writing and performing. Having received a BA in Drama and Film Studies at Queen’s University, she went on to study for a degree in Counselling at the University of Ulster. Elaine now works as a Counsellor and works heavily with trauma and abuse.
Elaine’s work as a counsellor has inspired her to write about the challenges victims face following trauma and how they can begin to rebuild their lives after such devastating experiences.
Header photo credit: Matteo Vistocco
Apricot Press 
