Emma

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This is supposed to be safer than back home. That’s what I thought anyway as I walked the seven miles into Belfast.  I can handle the cold wet pavement beneath me, even though it has me soaked through and is hurting my hip. I’ve got a sleeping bag that some lady gave me. And a bit of cardboard underneath. Her kindness should have made me cry. But I lost the propensity for tears a long time ago.

I just need those men over there to go. They’re showing too much interest. 

‘Hiya darlin’. We was just wondering if you’d like a wee drink to warm you up?’

A shaven headed male squats beside me and offers a quart bottle of smirnoff, half full. His mates watch from a distance. I pull the hood of my hoody down. The night is bitter cold and it is admittedly tempting to swallow a few mouthfuls. I’ve had no food or drink since yesterday. However, I notice a fizzing at the bottom of the bottle and the remnants of something blue.

He puts his hand on the back of my neck and tries to get me to drink. I pull back. He grabs both my hands and coos.

‘Heyyyy…there’s no need to be scared. I’m only trying to help yas.’

He rubs my icy palms and blows on them.

He is sort of handsome. But I don’t want to be touched by men ever again. 

My scars catch his attention; bone white lace threading along my wrists. He runs his fingers over them reverently.

‘Ack baby girl. Did you do these?’

My tears still won’t come. My heart is dry as dust. Devoid of life.

I shake my head and my lank unwashed hair falls over my face to hide the lie.

His friends wolf whistle from across the street and suddenly he hauls me to my feet.

‘Stop fucking around now ok babe. We only want a bit of fun. Least you’ll be warm. You’ll maybe like it.’

He attempts to lead me away

This not unexpected switch in his demeanor breaks me into a million shards and I find myself screaming my lungs out into the night.

‘No! No!’ I screech and slam him head first into the glass window of the shop whose conveniently unportcullised doorway has been my home for the last two nights. 

His mates are coming, tattooed legs and arms churning, dodging cars and cursing. There’s blood pouring from the monster’s head. I try to run. It’s no use. A blue light washes over us. Sirens howl. Something cold encompasses both my wrists. Metal. 

There’s a car and lights. Voices. We drive. We stop. We climb stairs.

‘Has she said anything at all yet?’ a man with a pen says from behind the desk. From within the perimeter walls of my shock, I emerge caterpillar/butterfly-like from my mental chrysalis; slow, disoriented, wounded and realise he is a policeman.

‘No. She’s not talking.’

I can still taste that rapey bastard from the street’s blood on my lips. Still no tears. They won’t ever come. My Dad took them all.

‘Can you tell us your name?’

‘Emma. Emma Todd.’

He writes in some book.

‘Please don’t tell my Dad I’m here.’

He looks at me blankly.

‘Age?’

‘Fifteen.’

The officer behind me sniffs and says so quietly that his words are almost ghosts;

‘Just another day in paradise then. God, what is this country coming to?’

A woman officer appears and I am led away.

I’d like to hope it is somewhere safe but I do not have the courage for dreams.

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