Harry steps off the bus under a slate-grey sky, the damp pavements glinting beneath streetlights. He’s clutching a Samaritans’ poster in his coat pocket: could you be the one to break the silence? Each evening he patrols the streets scanning for that familiar slump of shoulders or distant gaze that signals someone in despair.
There’s a young woman perched on a low brick wall. Harry approaches slowly, voice soft and tentative. Echoing the Samaritans’ script, he asks, ‘Hi, where can I get coffee?’ She startles, before hurrying away. His heart thuds, he’s so eager to help, but people don’t want it.
A few streets over, a group of late-night revellers lean against a pub doorway. Harry draws alongside them, saying, ‘Remember whatever you’re facing, you are not alone. I’m here to listen.’ They stare, frozen, then push past him.
By the docks, a man in a high-vis jacket lights a cigarette. Harry steps up, the Samaritans’ slogans trembling on his lips. The man flicks ash on the ground, grunts, and turns away.
Harry’s bed-sit is an echo chamber: a single chair by a window. The silence presses in on him as memories drift: the day his mother died, the job he no longer has, the unravelling of friendships.
His phone buzzes: the Samaritans Helpline. He stares at the number. Tonight, he thought he’d chase down someone else’s despair, but it’s his own reflection staring back. The loneliness he hunts in others runs through his veins.
With trembling fingers, Henry dials.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 