The Prayer Maker, Page 2

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  Tick. 9.03. Ugh, is it morning? Can't see. Why doesn't that girl ever open the curtains, what's her name: Amelia? You can't tell with that clock, the big government clock with the red second hand that never stops its blessed ticking. Leave me here locked-in with a ticking clock, why not? An analogue clock and a government calendar and leave the curtains closed night and day. That's my lot. My cross to bear.

  Abide with me while I endure.

  How long did I sleep? It must be a new day.

  Lord, thank you for a new day...

  It is a new day, isn't it? Not still night? I like that, “Still night”, like still life, but different. I like that too: “Still life, but different.” That could be the title of my memoirs, heh, my memoirs.

  Lord, thank you for the new day, for Emily, for gardenia, Amen

  Simple: a functional prayer, not fussy, but not exactly a crafted prayer is it? Well, not every prayer need be art. But, we did say that though, didn't we? That we'd craft our prayers while we were here in this... in this state, in this vegetative state. Give our prayers details, we said, make them visceral. Use the senses we still have: some sight, mostly sounds and smells and make 'em mnemonic, give them a lilt or a hook of some kind. This way we manifest our prayers and exact our revenge if… if that’s what must be done.

  Tick. 9:07. The clock, always the clock, the holy ticker... and the calendar: November the 7th, not yet crossed off. You keep your government red pen on my walnut dresser. I hate the way you use it to cross each day off. Another day, another dollar for you. Every day at five o'clock, you cross the whole day off. I watch you crossing me off, not realizing every day is another day I've lost. Just another dollar in your pocket. You'll record the day I pass with a scrawled red X too, won't you?

  And you'll keep the same government issue calendar for your next government issue old lady, I’m sure, save the government’s money. How many days left? You must have wondered about that too: how many more pay days on this job?

  I am just a job to her, one day she'll pay. Perhaps the red pen will run out first. Pray.

  Ugh, wait, he's still here, in here! The man! How long did I sleep, is he still here? Listen... ...listen.

  Creeping up on her with his greasy tan hair, his grimy jean jacket and teeth like broken beer bottles. I can still smell the vinegar damp ashtray, he must be still here, or has he come and gone? Amelia? What time is it? Try to make out the edge of the curtains, it's not easy, but can just see a thin red tinge of daylight at the edge of the curtains, a thin red line like the second hand. All the red lines of still life. What time is it?

  Tick. 9:25. The slim government-red second hand slips onto the next tick and the next. Live for hours in between each tick, but I can't hear him. Maybe he's not here yet. Maybe he has pock-marked cheeks, or whiskey breath, or yellow jelly eyes and a bad, gouty limp?

  The front door thumps the wall, rebounds and thumps it again as Emily barges in with her bumper shopping bags. 9:26. A rich scent-stream flows in from the corridor: dust and pine cleaner, burnt eggs and cigarettes. She manages a quick “Hi” as she walks past my door. A quick “Hi” is all she can muster, but:

  Lord, thank you for the starfruit of greetings.

  Amen.

  Thankful for small mercies, and all that, but this time think I will probably hear just a smidgeon more, why not? She can’t even open the curtains of a morning. If a sweaty hand was clamped over her mouth there would be muffled screams...

  She walks straight to the kitchen and slams down the shopping without a care in the world for the others here… in here. The daily rustle-rustle of plastic, rattle-rattle of cans, a chair judders and squeaks on the linoleum, on my linoleum. Is it Emily, Amelia, Amy-lee? Whatever. Tick. Time for a prayer. Tick. Breathe life into the narrative, and craft, craft:

  Lord, let it be the front door again: pushed open, not thumped this time, the sudden stink of rank whisky acrid inside my nostrils, wheezy, excited breathing echoing around the hall. Someone will have followed her in!

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  Thanks for reading my story. If you enjoyed it, support a starving artist and post a review!

  Mark

  Connect with me at Mark Alan Waldron is Online