IN TIMES OF VIOLENCE
By
Karina Kantas
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Design, and Patents Act 1988.
Cover art by Melinda Reynolds. melinda_reynolds333@yahoo.com
Her art features in online publications, published calendars, novels, and anthologies. Will accept art commissions when time allows.
Thank you for your talent and patience, Melinda.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
Many thanks to Steve (Spydah) for your assistance and unwavering encouragement.
In Times of Violence By Karina Kantas
Copyright 2012 Karina Kantas
Smashwords Edition
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IN TIMES OF VIOLENCE
1
“Yeah, let’s finish the bitch,” she said getting up.
I stood up and faced them, bracing myself for what I thought would be the finale. Blood was dripping down my face, and the headache I was suffering from, had to be the worst I’d ever experienced. My vision was clouded and fuzzy, and I felt sick.
The three of them were in front of me, waiting to finish the onslaught. I wasn’t going to make it. Nevertheless, I was going down fighting.
I tried to hit at them only my fist didn’t connect to the target, and I punched the air. I roughly made out their shapes and shadows, but couldn’t focus on them properly, not that it mattered then. They shoved me against the wall and pinned up my arms. I struggled, but my movements made no difference. Monica’s shadow descended upon me. I only felt her first few punches.
Reaching my pain barrier, my body became numb; too weak to register any more pain. I knew I was going to lose consciousness. I hoped it was sooner rather than later.
Eventually, she stopped. They let go of my arms, and I collapsed to the ground, only the battering continued. The three of them kicked me; every strike hit its mark. I lay helpless, sensing what was happening to me. However, physically, I was unable to feel anything. There was a loud ringing in my ears, as one boot found its target (my head.) I could just about hear; every word shouted came out as a slow boom. Breathing became difficult and I started coughing out blood. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take much more. I thought I was going to die. Giving up, I laid on the ground unable to move, feeling nothing. I don’t know how long the beating went on for, for time lost its relevance. I sensed they’d stopped, although they were still standing over me shouting abuse.
A year ago, I would never have dreamt, I would leave my dreary, tiresome, village and head for the bright lights of London for a visit, let alone reside there. As I lay still, drifting in and out of consciousness, the last month flashed before me. Could I have changed the situation? Would I want to? I reflected.
I suppose it all started on my eighteenth birthday. Yes, let’s start from there. It’s as good a place as any. I decided the best way to celebrate, was to go down the local with my current boyfriend David and his mates, get pissed, stoned, and basically chill out. I didn’t have any friends at the college I attended so a party was out of the question; not like Mum would have let me have one anyway. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the wrong decision. Something was in the air that night, and nobody was in a great mood. The atmosphere felt strained. I didn’t try to force myself to have a good time; it was obvious it just wasn’t going to happen.
By the time I reached home, I was depressed.
Start as you mean to go on, I thought. I needed to sit down and think. I’ve got to do something with my life. There must be more meaning to this? Some reason why I was put on this earth? There must be more to life than this boring life I live, and it’s up to me to change things. That was the beginning. That’s when it all started.
I’d been dating David for just over a year, nothing serious though. I can still remember the first time we met. I’d just come back from the village store when David first attempted to chat me up. I knew him from around the village; even so, we’d hardly spoken to one another. I refused to go out with him at first, and gave the excuse about my mother. In fact, I told him what life with a drunk was like. I assumed the truth would put him off, and he would leave me alone. Boy was I wrong. He took a bottle of sherry round to her and wormed his way into my life.
I was using him, not in the least attracted to him. He possessed a car, his precious black Mazda. Money wasn’t a problem, and he came with a large circle of friends. Don’t get me wrong, I did enjoy my time with him and gained some happy memories.
Even so, the only time I felt truly relaxed and free was when we enjoyed a smoke, just the lads and I.
The first time I ever got stoned, I was alone. In the beginning, it made me feel relaxed and sleepy, only then I felt more depressed than I did before the joint. From then on I made sure I smoked in a group, with the lads.
When we were together and high, we felt as though we didn’t have a care in the world. Nobody gave a shit about anything. Suddenly, nothing mattered.
One bad side effect was paranoia. We’d get thirsty after a joint, so we’d nip into the local. Only all eyes would be on us, watching, or so we thought. We would try to act inconspicuous, but that just made it worse. We felt sure everyone knew that we were high, and that we’d been smoking cannabis. However, the paranoia would soon pass, and we would be sharing our little secret once more, one that only we knew. Oh, and the munchies. I would get such a craving for food, yet it wasn’t that I was hungry. My tongue would crave for texture, and my taste buds would come alive. Food would taste so strong, which often wasn’t such a good thing.
I suffered an embarrassing side effect when I smoked dope. I became randy. I just couldn’t help myself. I would flirt appallingly with David’s friends, but David would just laugh it off. It was not as though I was attracted to any of them, most of the time I would be too stoned to care. Poor old David only got laid when I was high. He didn’t realize I wasn’t in love with him.
I remember a couple of the other lads almost got lucky once. It’s still embarrasses me to think about that night.
It happened on a summer’s evening. We were driving around aimlessly after having indulged in a few drinks and a couple of strong joints. I was gone, totally out of it. David parked near the local reservoir, and as it was a warm evening, I came by the ridiculous notion that it would be cool to go skinny-dipping. I was on top form that evening and the guys seemed to hang on to every word I said. Thinking about it, I vaguely remember being funny. David was so stoned; I don’t think he realized what was going on.
I can’t even remember walking into the lake. Nevertheless, there I was, stark naked, kissing David’s best friend, but not conscious of what was happening. His hands were everywhere, touching and caressing in such a way it didn’t occur to me to be wrong. It felt exciting, thrilling, a real turn on. I didn’t realize everyone else was watching. Someone else touched me, their stroke slightly different from the others. I could feel hands all over my body. I remember feeling aroused by it all. It was erotic.
I don’t recall why, perhaps it was the dope wearing off, or the coldness of the water; suddenly I came to my senses and stopped everything, there and then. I ran out of the water, and just in time as the others were stripped, stark naked, and were just about to jump in. God knows what would have happened that night if I hadn’t come out of my daze. I’m not a slag, and I’ve never slept around. David was my first. It was just that one night. After that incident, I was careful how much I smoked and made sure I knew what I was doing. Luckily, the guys allowed me to forget. No one ever spoke of that evening.
I needed to smoke. It was my way of leaving everything behind and going into my own world. Just for a short while, I didn’t have to think about anything, not even myself. It was as if I was in another place, nothing around me except peace and calmness. Only then the effect would wear off and reality would come crashing down on me like a ton of bricks, causing an urgent need for another release.
It wasn’t difficult to get my hands on the drugs. I had my own supplier, and if he was out of stock, then David would have some. I think most of the juveniles in the village dabbled with drugs. We needed it. We were bored.
I had a laugh with David and his friends. Sadly, up until then, they were the best moments of my life.
I woke up the morning after my disastrous birthday, with what I’m sure, was the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. I didn’t want to go to college; I couldn’t even get out of bed. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, or something to do with my depression. I’d known hangovers before, just not like that one. People told me I drank too much, but it’s like the smoke, it gave me a release. I’m sure I would have cracked up without them. Mum understood about me not going to college, not that she cared anyway.
My mum worked part time cleaning other peoples’ houses, which made me laugh, as she didn't give a damn about the state of ours. She also did work from home, sewing bits of materials together. Piecework, I think she called it. It gave her extra cash for her habit. She was an alcoholic, a bottle of sherry a day kind of gal. Perhaps that’s why I started drinking. It was there. It was free.
We lived in a small-detached house in a village called Blexham, population of four hundred. Now are you beginning to understand?
My dad lived some distance away. He was seeing a nice lady called Karen. She had two girls who I didn’t try to be friendly with. I couldn’t be bothered. There wasn’t any jealousy. I was pleased that my dad was happy. He was a good man, just didn’t give a shit about me. Sometimes I fantasized about living with my father. Regardless, I never brought up the subject. I don’t think I could have taken the rejection.
I stayed in bed most of the day feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t face going back to college. Being a loner had started to bother me. For some reason, I needed a friend. I needed someone to talk to, but why now? It never bothered me before. In a strange kind of way, people respected me. If the students asked for my help, say for homework, or to fight someone, I would foolishly agree just to get them off my back. I’m surprised they didn’t boot me out; mind you, I was a good student. I never wanted friends, and I guess I pushed people away when they got too close. I wanted to be alone. I liked being a recluse, or I did up until then.
I was studying Business and Finance, which included Sales and Administration. I enjoyed it, I liked learning; loved using my brain. Holding no plans for the future, I took everyday as it came and took whatever was thrown at me. There was no harm in learning as much as I could as I went through life.
A local bus from the village would take me the fifteen miles to college. Many a time I missed the bus, not on purpose you understand.
It was the day after my disastrous eighteenth, that I made the biggest decision of my life. Little did I know it would change me forever.
How was I going to tell my parents? I imagined their reaction. Even though I was legally an adult, they didn’t treat me like one, and I knew they would hit the roof. Summer was almost here. Eight weeks of sun, and fun, with no one looking over my shoulder. It was a way of getting away from it all. I was desperate for some action.
I knew what David was going to say when I told him that I planned to spend my summer in London with my aunt. I didn’t give a shit what he thought. I’d already made up my mind that I was going, and nothing anyone could say would make a difference.
I hadn’t seen my aunt or cousin for almost five years, although I received cards and presents for Christmas, and birthdays, and I’d spoken to her a couple of times on the phone. She was forever inviting me down to stay; only I made one excuse after another why I couldn’t make it.
The first time I met my cousin Sandy, we clicked. We liked the same kind of music, had the same tastes, and I could open up to her, tell her things I normally wouldn’t talk about. We could relate with one another. It was a shame we didn’t stay in touch, but I couldn’t be bothered to write, and I never received any communication from her. Nevertheless, when we did get together; there was no separating us.
Sandy was sixteen then, but she acted older. She was a petite girl with shiny blonde hair and the most amazing blue eyes. We had loads in common, yet in spite of everything, we were nothing alike. I always fantasized about going to the capital; Sandy had made it sound wonderful. I just never took the first step.