Delta40
07-15-2011, 09:24 PM
I don't know Effie well but she is hard to ignore. At first glance, it's certain she defines the term eyesore. No matter what backdrop you put her against, her ugly being will spoil the sweetest of views. A Michelin woman wearing a grubby, smelly pink tracksuit at least two sizes small.
'I just want people to appreciate who I really am. It's not my problem if they can't see past me.'
Perhaps she is right but she barks out the statement like one of Pavlov's slavering dogs. When the lunch bell rings, she does just that, heaving her pudgy arse to the cafeteria, so I am not exaggerating.
Her afro ginger hair is the source of taunting too. Some Africans call her an albino nigger but she is not fast enough to catch them. She once told me that hair is not important. 'Hair does not a woman make because if it fell out tomorrow, I'd still be the same person wouldn't I?'
She is repulsive in looks, action and personality to the point where her snarling wisdoms fall on deaf ears.
Effie is an involuntary patient and can't get access to money to buy cigarettes. She stomps around the locked courtyard, her globular shape bouncing and for a moment, I can almost feel the earth vibrate under her gross weight. She shouts out at everyone she approaches.
'Have you got a smoke? I really need a smoke. I'm going crazy and all I need is one smoke. Just one. I'll pay you back as soon as I get my hands on some money.'
There is a mixed bag of responses ranging from 'Sorry, this is my last one' to 'Get stuffed you fat mole.' Effie is reduced to pleading only to be met with abuse, anger and even laughter. Finally she pulls her shoulders back, revealing how low her sagging breasts sit on her jelly belly. She argues with them all, calls them names, till eventually she thumps over to the farthest seat in the courtyard and cries. It makes little difference. Nobody is moved by the awful whining sound of her tears. They are as ugly as she is and it is all too apparent that nobody likes her much.
So why do I sit next to her when I visit?
Her walrus like cheeks flap as she looks away from me. Her entire being is a massive emotional deflector and perhaps, but I will never know, rejection is the blood which pumps her heart. I wonder if there was a time when her green eyes, now hid by drooping, fat lids shone like emeralds. Surely even Effie had all the hope that life was ready to offer her? I can only guess. It isn't polite to probe into the life of a woman has lost anything that ever meant something to her, no matter how unsightly she appears.
'Hi Effie' She looks at me suspiciously as if to say 'What cruel joke are you gonna play on me now?'
I light up a smoke and offer her one. She grabs it in case I don't really mean it. It has happened to her before. Some patients for fun offer her a smoke only to withold it and laugh at her buoyant act. She does her best to jump like a starving dog leaping for a bone but she never succeeds.
'Ya see? That dumb b itch falls for it every time!' It's cruel and I question what loving God creates people this way. Has this been His constant joke throughout her life?
Did her Daddy tease her with sweets? Maybe her mother used to tell her she was the prettiest girl in town and then later, over drinks laughed with her friends what a mutated monster Effie really was. Did the child standing behind the door hear every word, feeling the throes of misery stab into her raggedly like a blunt knife?
Is this locked courtyard any different from the schoolyard where children tormented her, calling her Elephant Effie? I conclude her pain is measured in gallons and curse whoever helped shape Effie this way.
I am happy when she lights up and breathes in the one thing she loves. I imagine I can hear her thanks with each puff and together, we drink in the serenity of the day. She snorts that she has few friends and when I stub out my cigarette, she clutches my wrist and asks me to light a candle for her when I get home.
'I don't know who else to ask so will you do this for me? I know you're busy but I could do with a blessing from Our Lady.'
'Sure Effie. I'll even say a prayer for you.' She snatches her hand back like she has been burned and grunts in disgust.
'F uck God! And I don't need no prayers from people like you! Just burn me a candle like I asked.'
'A candle it is then. If I see you in the courtyard next week I'll have a cuppa with you if you like.'
Effie bursts into hoarse, rasping tears. 'Don't tell me I'll still be here! Why are you saying that?' She chokes and I cringe at the snot collecting on her lip. 'I can't take much more of this. Just piss off ok?' She turns away from me and lapses into convulsive crying while I apologize and take my leave, thankful to escape her hideous situation.
As I reach the security door, I look back and see Effie pick up my butt from the ground and light it. I ponder whether talking to her is doing her any favours.
Perhaps me giving her one cigarette each week is the cruellest joke of all.
'I just want people to appreciate who I really am. It's not my problem if they can't see past me.'
Perhaps she is right but she barks out the statement like one of Pavlov's slavering dogs. When the lunch bell rings, she does just that, heaving her pudgy arse to the cafeteria, so I am not exaggerating.
Her afro ginger hair is the source of taunting too. Some Africans call her an albino nigger but she is not fast enough to catch them. She once told me that hair is not important. 'Hair does not a woman make because if it fell out tomorrow, I'd still be the same person wouldn't I?'
She is repulsive in looks, action and personality to the point where her snarling wisdoms fall on deaf ears.
Effie is an involuntary patient and can't get access to money to buy cigarettes. She stomps around the locked courtyard, her globular shape bouncing and for a moment, I can almost feel the earth vibrate under her gross weight. She shouts out at everyone she approaches.
'Have you got a smoke? I really need a smoke. I'm going crazy and all I need is one smoke. Just one. I'll pay you back as soon as I get my hands on some money.'
There is a mixed bag of responses ranging from 'Sorry, this is my last one' to 'Get stuffed you fat mole.' Effie is reduced to pleading only to be met with abuse, anger and even laughter. Finally she pulls her shoulders back, revealing how low her sagging breasts sit on her jelly belly. She argues with them all, calls them names, till eventually she thumps over to the farthest seat in the courtyard and cries. It makes little difference. Nobody is moved by the awful whining sound of her tears. They are as ugly as she is and it is all too apparent that nobody likes her much.
So why do I sit next to her when I visit?
Her walrus like cheeks flap as she looks away from me. Her entire being is a massive emotional deflector and perhaps, but I will never know, rejection is the blood which pumps her heart. I wonder if there was a time when her green eyes, now hid by drooping, fat lids shone like emeralds. Surely even Effie had all the hope that life was ready to offer her? I can only guess. It isn't polite to probe into the life of a woman has lost anything that ever meant something to her, no matter how unsightly she appears.
'Hi Effie' She looks at me suspiciously as if to say 'What cruel joke are you gonna play on me now?'
I light up a smoke and offer her one. She grabs it in case I don't really mean it. It has happened to her before. Some patients for fun offer her a smoke only to withold it and laugh at her buoyant act. She does her best to jump like a starving dog leaping for a bone but she never succeeds.
'Ya see? That dumb b itch falls for it every time!' It's cruel and I question what loving God creates people this way. Has this been His constant joke throughout her life?
Did her Daddy tease her with sweets? Maybe her mother used to tell her she was the prettiest girl in town and then later, over drinks laughed with her friends what a mutated monster Effie really was. Did the child standing behind the door hear every word, feeling the throes of misery stab into her raggedly like a blunt knife?
Is this locked courtyard any different from the schoolyard where children tormented her, calling her Elephant Effie? I conclude her pain is measured in gallons and curse whoever helped shape Effie this way.
I am happy when she lights up and breathes in the one thing she loves. I imagine I can hear her thanks with each puff and together, we drink in the serenity of the day. She snorts that she has few friends and when I stub out my cigarette, she clutches my wrist and asks me to light a candle for her when I get home.
'I don't know who else to ask so will you do this for me? I know you're busy but I could do with a blessing from Our Lady.'
'Sure Effie. I'll even say a prayer for you.' She snatches her hand back like she has been burned and grunts in disgust.
'F uck God! And I don't need no prayers from people like you! Just burn me a candle like I asked.'
'A candle it is then. If I see you in the courtyard next week I'll have a cuppa with you if you like.'
Effie bursts into hoarse, rasping tears. 'Don't tell me I'll still be here! Why are you saying that?' She chokes and I cringe at the snot collecting on her lip. 'I can't take much more of this. Just piss off ok?' She turns away from me and lapses into convulsive crying while I apologize and take my leave, thankful to escape her hideous situation.
As I reach the security door, I look back and see Effie pick up my butt from the ground and light it. I ponder whether talking to her is doing her any favours.
Perhaps me giving her one cigarette each week is the cruellest joke of all.