I raised my voice above the masses and released a triumphant cry. I was radiant; I glowed so bright that the sun was cast into shadow. I walked with a swagger and a sway, I marched on the downbeat, I sung the melody of glory, I danced the steps of liberty and I flew on gilded angel wings.
I flew from the tallest tower and was baptised on my landing.
I am not so strange, bound to my bed in the corner. I am happier than before.
Have sanity and society abandoned me or did I leave them?
Ravaged by age and decades of hard living, you were barely recognisable as you blended in with the others. Your eyes were rheumy, your mouth hung slack and saliva drooled into a pool on your lap.
Once my tormentor and my rapist, you filled me with fear and self loathing; I believed you were omnipotent yet when I saw you in that cheap, run down care home, unloved, stinking of stale urine I saw how little you really were and what nothing you became.
I expect you never thought this is how you would end your days did you, Dad?
In this commune of artists within but still detached from the bustle of Twickenham hides many a curious site, particularly a garden the likes of which you have never seen and may never see again.
A myriad of dismembered dolls lie planted across the uneven earth. Surrounded by brightly coloured plastic flowers, heads rear up from flower pots and limbs leap out at all angles.
Spooky to some, crazy to others, unique all the same. As a student, it was commonplace to creep over in the dead of night and dare each other to visit 'the dolls' house', a challenge only the most courageous of us would accept, though noone would cross the fence lest the fabled witch should catch us. Legend and tales embellished by drunken storytellers told of torture and murder, that each broken doll was representative of a murdered child.
Years pass, fears fade and maturity alongside curiosity compels the need for the truth. In fact Eel Pie Island is a one of a kind showcase for a time long past. The last vestiges of 1960s hedonism remain here with the drunken musicians, artists, theatre and jazz. The welcome you receive is unprecedented as the residents are only too happy to exhibit their work.
I regret not having the opportunity to meet the owner of 'the dolls house'; Rosa Diaz, a renowned costume designer formerly employed by Hasbro (the toy maker). She turned their discarded dolls into something spectacular and in the cold light of day, through the eyes of an adult this garden is just art.
Glimmers of life splint the haze of darkness which has cast my eyes; cracks of laughter pierce the deafening oppression of despair.
I cannot muster motivation to involve myself nor can I respond in any physical manner. I am shunted and buffeted by the dance around me but am not moved from my fixed point.
Engulfed and enveloped in numbness, not sadness nor fear nor hatred. I do not feel, I do not make impact and I fall away unnoticed.
In solitude I reflect, perhaps regret, maybe long for the flame and the fire but remain here in the cold.
I cannot bear your sadness; I can't carry it with me and nurture it as you do. I can't love you and see that love sink into an abyss of sorrow. I can't embrace your bitterness or hold a hand that is always clenched. No warmth can melt the ice in your eyes and no force can penetrate the concrete fortress around your heart.
Nor can I say goodbye, for all the pain I cannot walk away from you or turn my back on the memories of what we were. For every tear I shed for you, for every moment I feel I am about to break there is a second of hope that keeps me here and nourishes my faith.
A violent slap brings me back to consciousness; I force my eyes to focus on the mangled features in front of me. What was once a face is now an acid burned malformation with pits for eyes and crude slits for nostrils. There are no lips and the mouth contains no teeth or tongue, it is just a jagged hole which emits a heavy rasp with each breath.
He gesticulates with a stump of an arm, he motions for me to move then drags me up with his other, well muscled but mutated arm then pushes me forward. I stumble over bracken and protruding roots, reliant on him to guide me.
He pushes me again and points to a gap in the trees through which a corner of navy tarpaulin is just visible. At that he turns and flees back into the freezing fog and I make my way to the tent to find my family sleeping peacefully, unaware that I had been absent.
I was THE malevolent spirit; once I became impassioned by the destructive force of hatred I was unstoppable.
My trademark trick was to imprint my visage on young children's faces as their parents went to kiss them goodnight then repeat every night until those children became rejects. Fathers smothered their sons in their beds, mothers abandoned their cursed daughters in churches or convents. The pain never left their hearts and they became consumed by darkness and sin.
I could break the strongest of bonds and manipulate the most loving family into murderous monsters.
I am the root of all evil.
