https://Voice.club - Mum always said, “Make the best of life.” Habeas Corpus! “Seize the day” was redundant, as I was born into affluence and privilege.
Naturally, Mum saw me as her unicorn baby. Perfect with azure eyes, blonde locks, and baby giggles highlighting my dimples. I combined the temperament of a cheery saint and slept through the night. Teachers favoured me. Schoolmates regarded me as no enemy, because I advocated for the weak.
Newspapers heralded me as influential and rich, stating that I would achieve knighthood before forty. My parents taught me humbleness. Good citizenship prevented me from becoming an arrogant git. So I volunteered.
Damned London slum, musty church, dingy kitchen. I peeled potatoes, fried mince, diced vegetables for soup, and rolled miles of pie pastry. Serving tables was challenging. No disrespect, but because the homeless wanted to talk. They wanted to talk about their day, their past, their loyal dog. I wanted to make a difference. Make them feel human. Cared for. Some I led to shelters with hopes of becoming clean—in every sense of the word—and securing a job no matter how menial.
My upbringing forbade me writing a handsome cheque. It would have done no good. Tuesdays were my heaven.
At midnight, breathing the underbelly’s toxic air, my blood curdled. A feral scream cleaved the air. I sprinted. Hopefully, she felt my warm arms and voice as her life drained. My tears saw abused youth and exploited beauty. Sad medics. Bitter hollowness. Life was unfair; she was given a terrible hand!