2.

“Remember, you are only an actor in a play, which the manager directs”. Epictetus

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“I wish I had never married, ‘cos the humour is off me now!” Popular song.

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Moira Curran heard the door close, even though it was done quietly.  She knew she should get up at once, to get the younger children ready for school, but instead she reached out and switched off her alarm, which was due to go off in about fifteen minutes.

She was very tired.  It was the tiredness of depression and grief, as well as the effect of endless domestic drudgery; and late evening knitting, to earn some money from neighbours who had no time to knit for themselves.  She closed her eyes for a quick, forty winks.

Moira heard the door close, even though it was done quietly. She knew there was something wrong.  Surely she’d been here already this morning? Surely she’d heard the door close once already. And the second time was slightly louder than normal.

She sat up in her big, pink cotton nightdress, and leaned her head and shoulders against the metal bars of the head of her little, single bed.  Reaching out, she picked up her clock, and checked the time.  It was 7.20.  She’d slept for thirty-five minutes after the Old Man had gone out.

She felt confused. Why would the door close twice?  In the past, it would have been Dermot going out to work.  But he was no longer here.

There were five beds in this room, four of which were occupied.  The one in the corner, by the wardrobe, used to be Dermot’s bed, up to three months ago.  She looked across at the tidy bed cover, and the tears welled up in her eyes, as they had done every day since he’d left for England.  And now, about twelve weeks later, she’d only had one letter from him, and that was of little comfort, since she detected no warmth in his dutiful words; and no sense that he missed her or his home.

He was a cold fish, was Dermot; even though he was her big boy; her brightest son; the brains of the family; the one who would become a doctor.

She cupped her hands over her eyes and sobbed gently, until she heard Aileen, her eight year old daughter, stirring in the adjacent, single bed.  She immediately suppressed her tears and sobs, so as not to wake her daughter; swung herself out of bed; and began to get dressed. ...More... https://abc-counselling.org/a-psychological-thriller-about-a-disturbed-family/

Chapter 1: What hell is this?

1.

“Fatherhood would be a wonderful state if only we each had a father who knew how to father us!” (J.L. Prendergast)

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“A bitter heart devours its owner”. (Herero adage).

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24th September 1964

Waking and sleeping are like parallel universes.  The function of the former is to learn about life; and the function of the latter is to collect up the broken pieces of another futile day.

Those were strange thoughts for a man who had only attended technical school, in a poor rural village, and who lived in a bookless home.

He stepped out from among the trees on to the shamrock blanket that grew profusely in the fields to the south and west, and abutted the sprawling sea of grey, corporation houses that was Wattling Town, on the outskirts of Dublin City. The shamrock was just as alive and active in the cold, pre-dawn breeze, despite being almost invisible.  But it was still the same shamrock that had inspired generations of Irishmen to strive for freedom in a world of permanent serfdom, and perpetual slavery to false ideas and false gods.

He felt the poor shamrock crushing under the weight of his big, black riding boots; the ones he used to wear many years ago, when he was a proud, young farmer, many miles from here.  He could sense the black blood flowing out of the crushed shamrock leaves, as he stepped forward.  And then he noticed a change in texture, and realized that his right foot was now completely bare, and buried up to the ankle in a warm, sticky cow pat.

Michael Curran awoke to the sound of the mechanical alarm clock ringing violently, like the bell of a local fire engine. His head was pounding.  Picking up the clock, and switching the alarm bell off, he noticed the time – 5.30 am.  The damn thing had gone off half an hour early.  But he was glad to be awake, since waking up pulled him out of the nightmare he was submerged in, up to a moment ago.

He swung his fifty-five-year-old legs out of bed, and looked up at the crucifix on the wall opposite the side of his lonely bed, above the holy water font by the light switch.  He scratched his greying head of wavy, formerly-black hair, and yawned. Over to his left he could see his son Christopher’s blankets rising and falling rhythmically, as he snored through his drunken stupor.  The little drunken bastard. ...
https://abc-counselling.org/a-psychological-thriller-about-a-disturbed-family/

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