Unquiet Desperation
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Author Topic: Compunction  (Read 20332 times)
Pater
Galileo Galilei
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Pressed wrong button in p'port photo booth...


« on: June 16, 2012, 03:56:18 AM »

Compunction wasn't a word he understood, though instinct was. Just the desire to do things with little thought attached. Trouble dogged him, some of it serious stuff; the need for incarceration kind.
Now 25 years-old he was born into the village set, or rather, the rundown ex-mining community once able to hold its head up. Not ever middle-class, not ever working-class in those ways many years earlier that provoked change. Just an evolved community with recognisable shared values.
Those values disappeared slowly over ten years after the pit was closed down. Defeated in the strike the union then lost its power and folk left, gradually at first in dribs and drabs then in minor surges at the realisation no-one cared, least of all national government. A rump of the unemployed and the ever-present few who were unemployable remained.
The subsidised social club survived for five years, longer than the variety of old-style shops: a butcher's, a newsagents, a grocery store, et al. And the Methodist church, once a fulcrum of the community. All gone now.
When he entered this world there was a clutch of houses left of those built for the miners and the families they raised to live in two generations ago. He was born in one of them, a hospital being too far away since the cuts necessitated the closing down of the hospital in the city ten miles out from the village.
His mother had been impregnated at eighteen after a night out in that very city, the seeding taking place at the back of a bar with late-opening hours including a so-called "happy" one when cheap and strong drink was served.
Drunk and hardly able to stand up straight and with her dress up around her neck a bigmouth had pinned her against a wall to do his thing; she remembered little of it the next day.

To be contd...
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