The Troubles Read Online Free PDF Page A

bellowed spitting in frustration. “Ya are spitting in the face of the only family ya have and ever will Kiera. Jesus is the only son of yer Lord and ya best remember that.”
         Tenuously I had crept away limping and embarrassed, my face marked by tears as black mascara painted my white cheeks.
         I now hear their hushed voices getting more and more raised. He is blaming her for her soft pliancy while she indicting him for his rigid strictness and painful discipline. There has been no love lost between them throughout their 30-year union as they usually have a soft love language and romantic physical gestures that signal their deep intimacy. I feel certain the harsh discipline that has just transpired is the fallout from the chaos beyond our four walls and not reflective of the warm loving household I have grown up in. I do honor them as the commanders of our vessel by doing what they ask without any hesitation or words spoken in retort, as I have always desired to become someone they would be proud of.
         Mother ends the conversation briskly with chores to be done as I watch her walk her through to the kitchen. This is not a time for a kiss to her husband’s brow as he has hurt her child she loves more than her own self. I ache with with hurt hormones bubbling to the surface for my parent’s reconciliation but Mother has made her disappointment in my father impeccably clear.
        Father is the most dogmatic protestant I know of in our limited social circle and I have yet to share or fully comprehend his orthodoxy. I wonder if his apparent devotion to church and state over familial devotion has caused my rebellious behavior or have I out of sound adult mind, simply revealed my true nature, little by little. 
         Sleeping off my bruised ego I have little choice but to get up before dusk and join my parent’s for dinner though my thick deep slumber did not withdraw so quickly. I have again dreamt of the man that has been haunting me and as I eat my stewed potatoes I fantasize about grasping the hand he had extended to me in the dream. My night passes fitfully and I awake startled and obsessive. There is no time to moon over my dreaming man, as I must get myself to the Aerospace Factory. The nepotism that has been shown for me through my birth’s standing is on shaky ground as the unemployment rate for Protestant women is matching that of Catholic women. I also have my slight frame and nagging fatigue working against me, with nights spent reading pagan verses by candlelight. I withstand every day trying to negate my physical flaws. I am usually more proficient than others, using my quick intellect to problem solve and utilizing less strength to maneuver something heavy with straightforward mathematical engineering. I am kind though, yielding, avoiding confrontation with my male co-workers even when they leer at me and hiss under their breath that they would bed me the moment the floor manager leaves so I carry a switch blade in my back pocket, a gift from my intuitive street smart mother. I might have hesitated to use it two years ago when I had applied for a position, but I have complete confidence, I would now do anything to persevere and survive.
         To make my daily journey to my job I must past by the newly risen peace lines (colossal concrete dividers which have been constructed in a seemingly futile attempt to lessen the bloodshed between the warring parties). They are stark reminders to me of the segregation, we, as Protestants, are imposing upon our own kin. I, in my newfound astuteness, am foreseeing this to be viewed as oppressive with a more and more encroaching warlike leadership using the walls as symbol to take a stance against the British paramilitary force, the UVF.
         Murals with rifles and fists raised to a bleak sky above have immediately been painted over the long snaking walls. I stare straight forward as though I am wearing a horses set of blinders as I try