Mother motored with extreme caution. The miles
to London dragged by. We halted at a motorway
service station and drank bitter coffees in silence.
The weight of the drab sky seemed to press down
on my shoulders. When we reached the outskirts
of the city, it began to rain. A familiar dirty drizzle
that summed up my mood. My stomach churned,
thinking of Elizabeth in her misery. I thought of
Father too. He would be foaming at the mouth.
Once I would have been terrified. It didn’t seem
to matter much now. Next to me, Mother stated
the obvious. This was our suburb. Suddenly I
craved the calm of my attic room. I would lock
myself in its private sanctuary and compose
reams of sad poetry.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist