A Little Tale

I've wanted to post some of my work up here for a while but I've only now worked out how to use expandable posts.

I wrote this prose last spring and it got really good feedback from my tutor - who is now on Sabbatical - I wish she'd stuck around. She was brilliantly nutty in that academic way. So, please read it through and see what you think. There are still parts of it I'm not happy with but I daren't touch it anymore. Thank you!

PEDRO

Pedro was the only one left. He would sit beneath the statue of the Duke of Wellington in Threadneedle Street holding a tenth edition of the Oxford Concise Dictionary under his left arm. Most of the time he would sit and watch them go past but occasionally he would turn his attention to his book, read something to himself from it and then laugh loudly and beat his fist on the bronze beside him.

Sometimes they asked him why did he not go home to Sorrento. He could sit on the black volcanic sand and drink limone, or sink his feet into the still Mediterranean ocean and watch the boats go by. Pedro told them that London was too important to him, he couldn’t leave her now, she was his world and she held his everything. He could feel the cold that swam through her streets, the endless rain, the fog; but he also knew the heat of August that used to bring all the people out of the buildings and into the parks.

Sometimes he would walk along the banks of the Thames, slower than the rest of course, and stop every so often to look over at The Houses of Parliament. He would start reciting all he knew about Westminster, all the facts he had learnt from leaflets, books and the internet. They could hear his muffled words some in English, some in Italian but could not make sense of what he said until he would suddenly lift his head and scream ‘WAR’ or ‘BETRAYAL’. He startled the younger ones and their guardians would have to pull them close to reassure them.

Once some security service officers tried to take him away from his spot at Wellington’s feet. They tried to reason with him, explain to him that he didn’t belong here and that he should go home. Pedro circled their faces with his eyes and then reached out and gently stroked one of the officers hands. In the moments they were taken aback by his behaviour Pedro opened his dictionary and began running his finger repeatedly across one particular entry:

Human · adj. of, relating to, or characteristic of humankind. † of or characteristic of people as opposed to God or animals or machines: human error † showing the better qualities of humankind such as sensitivity .
· n. a human being.

He began to laugh as if the word was his own private joke. They took this action to be a confirmation of the his dementia and told him they would come back for him later when they had the official paperwork. One officer stayed behind a moment longer than the others and whispered to Pedro, “Stay safe Old Pedro, the doctors can help you, please let the doctors help you”. Pedro laughed, he thought very little of the doctors in their hospitals. Fifteen years ago the doctors had helped Pedro’s friend Joe. They took away all his problems, cured all his pains and then Pedro never saw him again. They had done it to them all.

Two days later the authorities came back and Pedro knew it was over. As they gathered around him Pedro recognised the officer from the day before and remembered how he had almost been kind. Maybe there is some hope he thought to himself as they escorted to him to a white van. Inside it was warm and relief came to Pedro’s cold limbs. It saddened him as he wondered whether he’d ever feel that kind of sensation again.

At the hospital they took Pedro to a small room with a desk and three chairs and left him there. A few moments later two doctors came in and sat down to question him.
“Why did you wait so long to come here Pedro?”
Pedro said nothing. He just looked around them again like he did the officers, like they were just like the statues and landmarks he adored.
“We can replace everything Pedro. Your old bones, your poor eyes, your skin…it’s far too sensitive to temperature. Wouldn’t you like that Pedro? No more pain?”
Pedro answered them this time, “I like the pain, I like the cold”.
“You can’t Pedro. Nobody has to live with pain. You don’t need the pain”.
Pedro sighed and resigned himself as he knew the doctors would never understand. His pain reminded him he was human, that he was frail and that he could die. He wasn’t like them with their replaceable parts, their bionic bodies. They were not human.

As he waited for his operation Pedro considering escaping. He wanted to look around the city just one more time. To see the statues of forgotten war, the palace of extinct hierarchy, the buildings that once housed corruption and greed. They said those were the worst traits of the human condition but Pedro thought at least they were human. Pedro knew all about the terrible things humans had done but he also remembered the good things. Just like the summer in London, everyone would forget about the rain once the sun was blazing on their backs as they lay in the beautiful parks. Maybe they didn’t think about it like Pedro did because he knew that those parks only looked so lush and green because of the rain. Pedro knew the old world had existed on balance. Not now though. Pedro opened his dictionary one last time and turned to a word:

Cyborg · n. a fictional or hypothetical person whose physical abilities are extended beyond human limitations by mechanical elements built into the body.
- ORIGIN 1960s: blend of cyber- and organism.

Pedro did not laugh. His dictionary was very old.

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