'My my, what do we have here; late to serve again are we Delilah', the saccharine voice whispered rhetorically in my ear, carefully enunciating my name as though it would revoke my tardiness. Despite having 3 alarm clocks, my time just seemed to slip away from me as I delved into the ever comforting realms of the unconscious, my only respite from the chaos of my daily regime.
Without awaiting a reply, he swept up his dressing gown in his hands, so as to not trip during his typically hyperbolic exit and stormed through the fragile pantry door only to realise his mistake moments later, retrace his steps and, once again, begin his angry descent into the depths of the mansion.
Sighing heavily I began my daily chore of scouring the living space for any form of contaminant, be that chemical or vagabond and dealing with it/them appropriately and immediately upon sight. For this being a not-so-charitable charity building, it was frequented by the so-called dregs of society, those with whom all hope had been lost, as had their humanity. Few have any morals left, having succumbed to their inner Freudian id years previously, they now roam the streets eagerly awaiting the arrival of their next innocent soul to tarnish with their own blackened and wizened ones. Souls so meek in colour, even the most monotonous of rainy temperates would sympathise with the once supposedly pure carcass housing them.
Worst were those who had fallen victim to the enslaving nature of drugs. Thinking themselves to be instead the masters, they debauch their bodies with these filthy substances, too far gone to realise their fatal mistakes and, even if they did, death would seem too inevitable to be preventable. Epitomising hopelessness, they traipse through the doors daily in search of food, water or secure lodgings, only to be hustled into the fenced in area adjacent to the building and forced to sleep without a blanket or proper sustenance. With their backpacks whisked cleanly from their backs whilst sleeping, their final remaining personal belongings are pilfered by staff; either they are kept by the finder or discarded without care. But the saddest part of it all is that these people are seeing the world in such an opaque haze, they don't even notice the loss of their treasures, their birth certificates or nostalgic ticket stubs from a time before the debt.
Even more heartbreaking are the individual stories of woe told by young female visitors who are slightly more attentive than their counterparts. Left expecting and alone by alleged 'the ones', they are disowned by their families and left to go in search of a better life for them and their hatchling, only to be propositioned at every corner and ironically more alone than before, despite the presence of another human being in their womb. Despondently they withstand the nonsensical flirtations of the younger male staff, who, despite the women's obvious swollen stomach and slouching posture, remain either ignorant or insensitive to their victims want to be left alone and persistently bombard them with pick up lines too corny and sometimes even too vulgar to be repeated. Finally when these young stallions are rebuked for the last time, less subtly than before, they instantly sour and, with a hurt pride and a dented ego, they throw the women out like dogs into the 'cattle pen'.
'Would you quit daydreaming and finish the job like you're supposed to do Delilah?' Shouts the ominous voice over the loud speaker, although I am not visible to him, my habitual need to drown in dreams of the day seems to have not gone unnoticed by the omniscient presence that is my boss.
Standing at just short of 5 feet tall, self-proclaimed Professor, Barnaby Diggle, had recently reached the ripe old age of 73. Despite his short stature he evidently made up for it in the enormity of every other characteristic about him, perhaps even to the point of overcompensating to fill the void where his male pride should be. With a disgustingly noisome personal scent and a booming voice, he tended to be the centre of attention in any room, not least due to his oversized moustache framing his mouth with his ginger curls. Professor Barnaby had forever been taking advantage of people and this charity house was no different, taking money from the government for his own vested interests in order to gain financially and publicly as he became a hero to the rich elite, a Good Samaritan, whose sole purpose in life was to care for others.
'Huh, care for others!' I chortled to myself slightly, disbelieving of the stupidity of the upper classes.
Contemplating my own reasons for being here, I recalled my first day, timidly walking through the door to my latest job venture only to realise too soon that the place to complete good deeds was quite the opposite.
