Brenda: From an active mind...

I saw her as she sat down. Technically I heard her, even above my iPod (Life Of Agony, if you’re interested). She was a big lady, but not huge. Seen bigger. Her hair was messy, it reminded me of wire wool. She wore an over-sized fleece. She had kind eyes. I hate that expression but she did. I’m thinking she’s a surly woman, hard as nails no doubt. I think she had a stick to help her walk. That could have been the old lass’ sat next to her.

I took her in, studied her frame, her everything. She was chatting (read: shouting) to a girl with a pram, and it wasn’t until she turned her head that I saw her face. I didn’t acknowledge it, thought it was a drawing, it was on her chest too. It took my tired-out head a few seconds to realise it was a tattoo. A prison style, ‘Indian ink’ tattoo. My first reaction was “ugh” and I felt bad.

I was looking at her, studying her face, I could tell she’d had a hard life. I was playing her life-story in my head. She was called Brenda. She had kids, three I thought. A couple of ratty little dogs, constantly shitting in the kitchen, barking through the night. Her kids hadn’t amounted to much, two daughters and a son. The elder daughter had kids, she’d set herself up best as she could. The son’s a thief, he probably lived on Brenda’s couch. The other daughter’s nowhere to be seen, fell into drugs, met some lowlife excuse for a man.

Then I thought about Brenda, what did she do? I imagined her to be an ex-prostitute, from a poor family that did all it could to get by. She had to work the game to survive. Naturally, she turned to drugs. This was the 80’s. Heroin was strife. It was then, one night out of her mind on smack, that she allowed some junkie to tattoo her. I use the word tattoo loosely, as it was done with ink, a dipped needle and some gritted teeth. Then again, it won’t have hurt, they weren’t even in this world at that point. They were in an opium dream. It took 2 years for her to realise what in God’s name had she done.

She wasn’t married, nah not Brenda. He’d done a bunk after the youngest, the run-away daughter, was born. He’d had enough, not that he’d put anything into the house, he’d drink all Brenda’s wages from the Chippie. By this point her call girl days were behind her. He was an ex-punter. He made her stop, promised her a better life. He spent the next 16 years beating and ridiculing her. The neighbours dubbed him ‘The Bastard’.

He’d been gone years. It was just her, the dogs and her bum of a son, stretched out on her sofa 24/7, demanding this, demanding that. She didn’t argue against anything, this was her life. The cards she’d been dealt. Any spark she had was put out by the poverty, the prostitution, the pain.

I looked at her again. She caught my eye and I looked away. I felt instant guilt. Why should I judge Brenda by her tattoo? I have no right. I hope I see her again, I want to talk to her, ask about her life. Maybe find out her "real" name. I couldn't stop my imagination running wild.