Poking the Devil
The government site was as dry as a two-weeks-old bread. Flooding is possible. Do not walk or drive through fast-moving water. She looked at the clock. 1 am. The nagging feeling that something was wrong kept her in front of the computer till this hour.
“Where is your daughter?” the stranger at the café asked her. They met earlier today and have one of those irrelevant, quick acquaintances where nationality and family situation were briefly discussed, coffees were finished and then everybody was on their way. He said he monitored foreigners for terrorist threats for a living. She was a painter.
“She is safe.”
Was she. The child was with her father, and he was an arrogant bastard. She cannot remember the countless times she dreamed of this man misfortune so she could take her child and leave this goddamn country. He slips in the bathroom. A local gang beats him. He gets electrocuted. A terrorist blows up his train. It was not the wishful thinking of a bitter ex-wife. It was the vivid, creative thinking process of an artist. She had a folder full of with sketches of these calamities, and she remembered the overwhelming desire to see them as a reality, that was moving the pencil over the paper. She believed that if picture them in enough detail, the things could magically change.
Her moving to Sowerby Bridge was not uneventful. Right after their separation, her mental health worsened and she was stuck in a hospital while the bastard was claiming he is the primary child carer, claiming child benefits, getting in control of the custody battle, while she had no choice but to wait, pissed and powerless, until she is released 200 miles away. They even rejected her hearth-rending plea to visit her through these long months. It was too complicated to arrange, he said. And her anger had no other outlet but the bad news, feeding the broadcasting. Stabbings. Storm after a storm. Volcano eruptions. She was constantly dreaming of death and destruction. She was turning into a proper sociopath.
When she figured out there is no way to win a court trial, she played by his rules. She moved where he lived, leaving behind friends and her job at a web design company. God knows it was not easy and her life got complicated. She had to put up with his bullshit, when to see her daughter, for how long, how to dress her, the clothes she was buying disappeared somewhere in his house the sooner the child walked out of her sight wearing them, not having holidays with her as the festive times were strictly reserved for him, how to feed her, loads, loads of infuriating stuff. And after every lost fight she developed the habit to pray for his doom. By drawing.
And today the storm hit. Sowerby Bridge was facing nature’s fury that was alleviating her anger when she was reading about harsh weather battering England all throughout the year. God knows what she was thinking. That the country could disappear as Atlantis and she and her daughter will go back to their home country. But now she was thinking was the child safe. Nature was not as selective, it was not going to be her hit man and she could not sleep, listening to the constant rhythmic beats of the rain. The picture of the carefree, happy, vulnerable child that was just learning how to swim, hurt her heart. Do not walk or drive in fast-moving water. What if they get caught in the flood in their way to her house, she lived just by the river, which levels were rising rapidly. Was that idiot even aware of the situation? She had to call him but decided to wait till the morning.
One of the songs from her country she was listening struck her attention. “I am the devil. You should have been careful.” Yes, she should have been. What was she thinking? That God was listening to her darkest secrets. That he will clear the skies and the highway to the nearest airport so she could live with the child. The irony of the situation was almost painful. This weather was a punishment and she could only hope the punishment was not about to be that cruel. Like something happening to her daughter while she was with her father because her mom was stupid. The child needed both her parents, she loved them both. The rain relentlessly bombarded her roof. “You’ll get it, dude, trust me.” The annoying song sounded like mocking her. “Dude, how you like getting it?” What the hell YouTube loaded. She looked at the red headed woman with cold eyes on the computer. “Did you get it?” If there was a devil, it had this kind of heartless enjoyment in his eyes. “You make me feel like a God. I like what you have to say. ” The music went on. And then one of her favourite Greek songs. “Disaster will happen.”
She took a piece of paper. And she listened to her heart before she started moving the pencil. A seaside. Child swimming. Love for nature. “Darling, I feel you under my body. Only love.” How could she be that stupid. “Only love.” The song from her playlist went on. Another piece of paper. She and her daughter climbing a mountain. Another song, something about subliminal things. Love. She was not afraid of nature’s fury, she was ready to oppose it, but she was recalling its gentle side. The kiss of the wind. The kiss of the sun. She slowly drifted away.
When she woke up, it was quiet. She grabbed the phone.
“Hi.”
“Hi, what’s up.”
“There is a flood warning, please be careful where you are bringing our daughter.”
“I grew up here, I am used to it. You be worried about yourself.” And he hung up.
Arrogant bastard. Let a tree falls on his thick head.