100 Word Chiller: Mummy's Precious

Courtesy of www.feminiya.com

My brother would give me a Chinese burn when she wasn’t looking.

‘I didn’t mean it!’ he’d say when I screamed.

She’d shake her head. ‘I can’t stay cross. His sweet little face!’

He sneaked up on me at the paddling pool when she was asleep. The sun had gone in and everyone else had left. Hard little fingers twisted my flesh. I turned in agony and saw his violent joy.

I didn’t mean it, the shove in the chest. The head cracked on the concrete bottom, the sweet face under cold water. The crying, the body in a box.

The Crossing Patrol

Courtesy of www.telegraph.com

I don’t like the phrase ‘Lollipop Man.’ I was in the military.

You see it all. Hyper-vigilant mummies, pampering. Cooing. They share their concerns with me: a homeless man or teenager, loitering. They clutch hands and huddle over pushchairs.

Then the dizzy ones. They natter in sing-song voices as if the world is jolly and safe, while their children run in the road.

Some mums don’t turn up at 3.30 – their kids like abandoned lambs. Misfits. Outcasts. The teachers usually take them in. But one day they won’t. I have picked one out. I watch and wait.