Friday, 6 January 2012
Sunday, 22 May 2011
As I lay broken
As I lay broken
The glaring strip light of morning cruelly shakes me from my intoxicated coma. Too hot, dry mouth, brain half bleached, last nights happenings merely drying smears on an otherwise sterile plane. A clenched fist of emotion holds my throat tight. As I tentatively survey the room, sparks fly in my brain like a sadistically timed fireworks display. It is as if my neurons are backfiring. My eyes sting and a wave or nausea turns my stomach over while beads of putrid sweat congregate on my forehead like mocking soldiers.
I turn my wrist to check the time, 10:37. 10:37 and 24, 25, 26 seconds. Everything is moving, changing, I cannot shield myself from the day with duvet. I will get up, get a drink, yes. As I try to pull myself into a seated position my whole body strains and aches. I feel bruised and every movement is laborious.
I recall his eyes shining with mischievous intent as he buried his head under the duvet and bit down on my warm naked thigh. I squealed in mock horror but there was delight in my eyes. His mouth. Warm, vicious, wet, tender, forceful, secretive.
As I drag myself, zombie like towards the kitchen, my dressing gown falls open to reveal perfect dental imprints on both thighs. Yesterdays shadows preserved. Dark smoky butterflies, held for display, without pins.
I run the cold tap and search for a clean glass amongst the bustling city of empty bottles and differently stained receptacles. I will deal with that later, too much to bear right now. I half heartedly rinse one glass and fill it with the cold rushing water. I glug at it urgently, all the while smelling the sweet edge of rum not entirely removed from the glass rim.
Yet more shadows, ghostly remnants. Do I even want to remove all traces? When the mess is cleared, washing up done, surfaces are clear, clothes are tumbling in the sudsy machine drum and my body is submerged in a deep hot bath, what will be left?
As sweat, saliva and sexual secretions drift away from my skin, what will I retain?
All I know is that for now, I am in no hurry to be clean. I will wear them like last nights clinging dress, pungent with the smells and flavours of yesterday.
I refill my drained glass and before turning off the tap I splash my face with cold water. I go back to perch on the sofa, pushing the duvet out of the way as I make the descent. I feel stupid now. Why am I clinging to the experience so much? You both had fun, now move on. Don’t get attached.
I breath in the silence and exhale deeply, attempting to blow the tension away. My heart slows a little and I feel the good morning whispers from my friend nicotine. I pick up my pack of baccy, roll a fag and light up. No ashtray. Fuck it, I will use my glass. What a slob, I wonder if other people do gross things like me when alone, behind closed doors.
I think of the words ‘Hangover’ and ‘Comedown’ I had never realised what perfectly descriptive words they were. I breathed out smoke, watching it twirl gracefully up to the ceiling. I always enjoyed the sensation of smoking. Even as a kid I knew I would smoke. I never minded the smell even though our living room at home was always thick with drug mist.
I began buying little 12.5 gram packs which would last a whole week. I only really smoked around friends, it was more of an exhibition than a genuine desire .
Even after hearing terrible stories of throat and lung cancer, seeing photographs of tar stained lungs, hearing how it can block your arteries and seeing the increasingly graphic images and words on fag and baccy packets. I still secretly thought smoking was cool.
I needed them now though, I was utterly enslaved by them. Stupid girl.
I took another puff and blew it towards the finger dappled window pane. It shot across the room before being forced backwards like a silent A bomb set off by glass. Everything is moving and everything changes/comes to an end. I just have to accept that. Our only ties to the past are memories and mementos. I have plenty of both.
I decide to run my bath. I turn the hot tap on full and squirt a little body wash in to make bubbles. I think I am ready for a coffee now, the nausea has faded mostly. I can’t find a clean spoon so I pour the coffee straight from the jar into my tall mug. Not enough. Ah shit, too much. Oh well, I like it strong. I wonder what to do with the sugar, too much is a disaster so I plunge two fingers into the glistening white mound and attempt to pinch around a teaspoons worth. This made me laugh. How the fuck can I estimate a teaspoon worth or sugar using only two sticky fingers and hung-over eyes?! The kettle began to boil, steam rushing upwards from the spout, right underneath my left elbow. I jumped and dropped the teaspoons worth of sugar all over the counter and floor. Goes quite far, one maybe teaspoons worth. Shit my elbow hurts! I run it under the cold tap, which was fairly tricky and my awkward pose brought to mind an amputee limbo dancer.
I finish making the coffee and go to check on my bath. There is a distinct lack of bubbles, dunno if it’s due to the inferior body wash or lack of whooshing by hand. I should have whooshed.
I put down my coffee, reach to add a little cold to the bath, undid my dressing gown and swing it onto the bathroom door. I plunge my feet into the bath and then slowly lower my body in. It was deep and ever so hot. My skin tingled, stingy nettle kisses.
I lay my head back and closed my eyes. Submerged in hot wetness, soothing my aching muscles.
When I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was a long black hair clinging to my thigh. It must be his. I pick it up and look at it closer. It was a very thick hair, much thicker than mine and I pluck a hair from my head to compare. I hold them side by side, mine red, thin and fragile, his thick, strong and black. I wrap them around my finger, twist them into one and then dip my finger into the water where they drift off, still entwined.
Just before he had left to make his long journey home we had kissed in the hallway. It had turned quickly from a goodbye kiss into something more insistent and passionate and we had held close, our breaths quickening, my body certainly wanting more.
My hand slipped under water. I let my fingertips trace the outline of the bruise. Despite the hot water, Goosebumps rose on my thighs. Memories swirl in my mind. I force myself under water, feeling tiny bubbles fill my ears and nose. Under here the only sound is my heart thudding. My hands slides inside my thighs.
I will miss him.
The glaring strip light of morning cruelly shakes me from my intoxicated coma. Too hot, dry mouth, brain half bleached, last nights happenings merely drying smears on an otherwise sterile plane. A clenched fist of emotion holds my throat tight. As I tentatively survey the room, sparks fly in my brain like a sadistically timed fireworks display. It is as if my neurons are backfiring. My eyes sting and a wave or nausea turns my stomach over while beads of putrid sweat congregate on my forehead like mocking soldiers.
I turn my wrist to check the time, 10:37. 10:37 and 24, 25, 26 seconds. Everything is moving, changing, I cannot shield myself from the day with duvet. I will get up, get a drink, yes. As I try to pull myself into a seated position my whole body strains and aches. I feel bruised and every movement is laborious.
I recall his eyes shining with mischievous intent as he buried his head under the duvet and bit down on my warm naked thigh. I squealed in mock horror but there was delight in my eyes. His mouth. Warm, vicious, wet, tender, forceful, secretive.
As I drag myself, zombie like towards the kitchen, my dressing gown falls open to reveal perfect dental imprints on both thighs. Yesterdays shadows preserved. Dark smoky butterflies, held for display, without pins.
I run the cold tap and search for a clean glass amongst the bustling city of empty bottles and differently stained receptacles. I will deal with that later, too much to bear right now. I half heartedly rinse one glass and fill it with the cold rushing water. I glug at it urgently, all the while smelling the sweet edge of rum not entirely removed from the glass rim.
Yet more shadows, ghostly remnants. Do I even want to remove all traces? When the mess is cleared, washing up done, surfaces are clear, clothes are tumbling in the sudsy machine drum and my body is submerged in a deep hot bath, what will be left?
As sweat, saliva and sexual secretions drift away from my skin, what will I retain?
All I know is that for now, I am in no hurry to be clean. I will wear them like last nights clinging dress, pungent with the smells and flavours of yesterday.
I refill my drained glass and before turning off the tap I splash my face with cold water. I go back to perch on the sofa, pushing the duvet out of the way as I make the descent. I feel stupid now. Why am I clinging to the experience so much? You both had fun, now move on. Don’t get attached.
I breath in the silence and exhale deeply, attempting to blow the tension away. My heart slows a little and I feel the good morning whispers from my friend nicotine. I pick up my pack of baccy, roll a fag and light up. No ashtray. Fuck it, I will use my glass. What a slob, I wonder if other people do gross things like me when alone, behind closed doors.
I think of the words ‘Hangover’ and ‘Comedown’ I had never realised what perfectly descriptive words they were. I breathed out smoke, watching it twirl gracefully up to the ceiling. I always enjoyed the sensation of smoking. Even as a kid I knew I would smoke. I never minded the smell even though our living room at home was always thick with drug mist.
I began buying little 12.5 gram packs which would last a whole week. I only really smoked around friends, it was more of an exhibition than a genuine desire .
Even after hearing terrible stories of throat and lung cancer, seeing photographs of tar stained lungs, hearing how it can block your arteries and seeing the increasingly graphic images and words on fag and baccy packets. I still secretly thought smoking was cool.
I needed them now though, I was utterly enslaved by them. Stupid girl.
I took another puff and blew it towards the finger dappled window pane. It shot across the room before being forced backwards like a silent A bomb set off by glass. Everything is moving and everything changes/comes to an end. I just have to accept that. Our only ties to the past are memories and mementos. I have plenty of both.
I decide to run my bath. I turn the hot tap on full and squirt a little body wash in to make bubbles. I think I am ready for a coffee now, the nausea has faded mostly. I can’t find a clean spoon so I pour the coffee straight from the jar into my tall mug. Not enough. Ah shit, too much. Oh well, I like it strong. I wonder what to do with the sugar, too much is a disaster so I plunge two fingers into the glistening white mound and attempt to pinch around a teaspoons worth. This made me laugh. How the fuck can I estimate a teaspoon worth or sugar using only two sticky fingers and hung-over eyes?! The kettle began to boil, steam rushing upwards from the spout, right underneath my left elbow. I jumped and dropped the teaspoons worth of sugar all over the counter and floor. Goes quite far, one maybe teaspoons worth. Shit my elbow hurts! I run it under the cold tap, which was fairly tricky and my awkward pose brought to mind an amputee limbo dancer.
I finish making the coffee and go to check on my bath. There is a distinct lack of bubbles, dunno if it’s due to the inferior body wash or lack of whooshing by hand. I should have whooshed.
I put down my coffee, reach to add a little cold to the bath, undid my dressing gown and swing it onto the bathroom door. I plunge my feet into the bath and then slowly lower my body in. It was deep and ever so hot. My skin tingled, stingy nettle kisses.
I lay my head back and closed my eyes. Submerged in hot wetness, soothing my aching muscles.
When I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was a long black hair clinging to my thigh. It must be his. I pick it up and look at it closer. It was a very thick hair, much thicker than mine and I pluck a hair from my head to compare. I hold them side by side, mine red, thin and fragile, his thick, strong and black. I wrap them around my finger, twist them into one and then dip my finger into the water where they drift off, still entwined.
Just before he had left to make his long journey home we had kissed in the hallway. It had turned quickly from a goodbye kiss into something more insistent and passionate and we had held close, our breaths quickening, my body certainly wanting more.
My hand slipped under water. I let my fingertips trace the outline of the bruise. Despite the hot water, Goosebumps rose on my thighs. Memories swirl in my mind. I force myself under water, feeling tiny bubbles fill my ears and nose. Under here the only sound is my heart thudding. My hands slides inside my thighs.
I will miss him.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
An ending fitting for a start.
BANG
BANG
CRUNCH
SLAM
Oh no, he is home. It’s time. Not again I won’t, no.
Its five to midnight and he has been drinking steadily since two pm. Personally I couldn’t give a fuck about football, but I listened alright, I had asked my boss at the shop if we could have the radio on to hear the match. It was 2-0 to ‘us’ at half time, things were looking rosy, dad will be happy as a pig in shit tonight, I thought.
I loved it when Dad was happy drunk, he would roar with laughter, slap me on the back and even embrace me sometimes, problem was, he didn’t know his own strength and would squeeze all the air outta me. His cheeks would be blushed bright red, making his weather beaten face appear like one of those bitter old red crab apples, the red spidery veins on his face more apparent when he was on the sauce. He’d burst through the door, pissed as fuck and do a victory dance up the hall and into the kitchen, he would kiss Mam and sometimes slap her arse which would make her giggle and me feel highly fucking uncomfortable. He would ask me to fetch two tumblers, pour us a bitter each and tell me to roll him a fag, do myself one while I was at it. I always felt honoured in an odd way as I lit both roll ups and passed one to him. My dad was not perfect, hell no, but when he was like this he was my fucking king, I his willing servant. We would sit there in front of the Rayburn, the wooden chairs pulled up close, one on each side. A basket of logs between us, and he would give me the highlights of the match. Like I said, I couldn’t give a fuck about football like, but fair play to the old bastard, his enthusiasm was catching, he would get so passionate, he would be spitting bitter all over the shop, his roll up always getting too soaked for him to get a drag out of it. Mam would always have a go of getting him to fill his belly with something to soak up the booze but he never did. ‘Fucks sake Erryl, I ad a pie at half time mun, fuck off and let me tell the boy ow it was yeah?’
But no, it wasn’t meant to fucking be tonight, the pricks must have spent quarter of an hour congratulating each other and sucking each others cocks at half time cos when they came back out they got their fucking arses handed to them. ‘We’ lost 4-2. My boss knew the score, he looked at me and shook his head, put his hand on my arm and said ‘here you go kid; you get on home and take a pouch of baccy for your Da, alright?’
Mr Griffiths was proper old school, only eight years older than my Dad mind, but God, he looked proper fucking ancient! Not just that, every time he moved, he would accompany it with a groan. He had different groans for different things. If he was reaching for his mug of tea it would be a UuuuPargh, if he had to reach a higher shelf for one of the shrunken grannies he would make an EeeeUghh. The most painful though, was when he had to stoop to pick up the mail from the floor in the morning, the noise he made went right through me, so much so I always tried to get there before him to collect it. Sometimes though, he would already be hobbling to the letter box and I knew it would bash his pride were I to overtake him. He would part his legs just before the descent to the wiry brown welcome mat. He looked like John Wayne with Parkinson’s, his legs juddering, his long bony fingers shaking as he began to bend at the waist. His spine would make such clicks they were audible from the end of the store. They were the intro to his hideous soundtrack... click click clunk ArghhhUghUghFfffffffuckingBasterinThing! I don’t think the posty had a fucking clue when he dumped his postmarked load through the slot that he was delivering an old man his own personal Everest.
Slipping on my coat and scarf, I grabbed a small pack of Drum off the shelf, thanked Mr. Griffiths and headed out the door, the brass bell above the door clanging as the door shut behind me.
The cold air stabbed at my lungs like minute frozen hedgehogs, I knew I should have brought my gloves, its bastard nobblin’ out here. I head across the street to where my bike’s chained to some railings, my fingers are stinging already, by the time I start fucking about the keys and the lock they feel like some other cunts hands, the sensation of burning more powerful than my capacity to actually use them. I get there in the end though and relock the freed chain around the railings. I quickly use my sleeve to wipe the seat and set off up the street.
I stood up to go up the hill, didn’t really need to, my calves were more than capable of powering me up the hill sitting down, but I kinda like the way the bike swings from side to side with every rotation of the pedal this way. My heart would be thudding hard under my jumper by the time I reached the top. At this point I always came to a stop, checked for cars coming up the hill stretching out beneath me and if the road was clear I would start pedalling like fuck. It doesn’t matter what mighta been going through my head before I reach this point, when my knees are jutting up and down like well greased pistons and I am forced to stop pedalling, there is no fucking feeling like it in the world. The wind fills up my coat, my eyes start pouring like an ugly bird at a wedding and all the crap in my head is blown out, thoughts fly the fuck off and somewhere in the whooshing, soaring, chaos my senses become sharp and my mind becomes still, burdened no more. It’s even better when you got your ass on the saddle and someone else is pedalling, we used to do that a lot me and my brawd. The reason it was better was cos when he was the one pedalling and watching out for cars I could shut my eyes tight, grip on tight and let it all happen to me. I dunno how I managed to trust anyone enough to put my life in their hands like that, but if my Da was my king, my brother was my fucking God. It wasn’t like I thought he couldn’t fuck up, it’s that I didn’t care if he did.
Get your head in gear boy; we are nearly at the crossroads, start breaking. My knuckles are killin me, I am sure one just fucking creaked then, Shit! I will be like Mr. Griffiths before I know it. The breaks squeak, its embarrassing mun, been meaning to sort that, fucking sieve for brain. I hear a beep and I pull closer to the edge of the road to make room for a few cars to pass, don’t recognise the first two, but the third is being driven by my uncle, he isn’t any relation to me like, he is a retired publican from the village. First landlord to retire round ere they say! All the rest died with their name still above the door, too partial to gulping away their profits. But here he is now, Uncle Tudor, can hardly see him over the wheel, he is another one who has shrunk with age. I wave frantically, leaning into the road, he sees me at last and indicates before pulling in, scuffing the curb with his back wheel. Silly fucker, you would think he could drive by now. I pull up beside the driver door and he winds the window down a bit, Christ he is out of breath!
‘Tudor! How are you? Where you coming from? Have you heard?’
‘Alright son, don’t mind if I sit by ere in the warm does ew?’
‘No, course not Tud, you stay warm butt, colder than a witches tit out here!’
‘I just come from yours as it goes, yer Mam said you would be back soon but I wanted to get home before it got dark see. Your mother had the radio on yeah, we caught the result. Erryl, I mean yer Mam, phoned Glenda down the street, there is a bed made up down there for her, just in case. She said you can ave the sofa if worst comes to the worst. You alright son? You look like a rabbit in the headlights?’
‘Aye, I’m alright Tud, better get back to Mam; she will be having kittens’ ‘Take care Tudor!’
He starts winding up the window, his face all serious, then changes his mind, opens the door and shouts after me as I am cycling away ‘Don’t let him hurt her boy! Not again, you hear me?!’
I didn’t answer, just carried on pedalling like fuck, through the crossroads, past a row of shops. The last one was the butchers, I slowed down to see Mr. Evans and his son, both clad in stained aprons, pulling down a carcass off a hook in the window. I nod as I pass and Tom, the younger of the two, smiles. I dunno how they do it, they work hard every fucking day, one of the dirtiest, smelliest jobs around, yet they always seem so fucking cheerful! I couldn’t be doing with all that dead flesh myself; I love to eat it like, but would rather not see it till it’s on the plate, maybe with some gravy and some mash. Dinner- not death.
I recall my dad telling me how before cows are slaughtered, it’s best to not feed em for a day and to keep em as calm as you can. Apparently, they taste like shit otherwise. Funny that, suppose you are tasting their fear.
I shudder at this.
Tudors' words are still ringing in my ears. My heart is pumping underneath my jumper again and I take a big gulp of icy air and think - no I won’t, not again Tudor. That cunt has swung his last blow.
BANG
CRUNCH
SLAM
Oh no, he is home. It’s time. Not again I won’t, no.
Its five to midnight and he has been drinking steadily since two pm. Personally I couldn’t give a fuck about football, but I listened alright, I had asked my boss at the shop if we could have the radio on to hear the match. It was 2-0 to ‘us’ at half time, things were looking rosy, dad will be happy as a pig in shit tonight, I thought.
I loved it when Dad was happy drunk, he would roar with laughter, slap me on the back and even embrace me sometimes, problem was, he didn’t know his own strength and would squeeze all the air outta me. His cheeks would be blushed bright red, making his weather beaten face appear like one of those bitter old red crab apples, the red spidery veins on his face more apparent when he was on the sauce. He’d burst through the door, pissed as fuck and do a victory dance up the hall and into the kitchen, he would kiss Mam and sometimes slap her arse which would make her giggle and me feel highly fucking uncomfortable. He would ask me to fetch two tumblers, pour us a bitter each and tell me to roll him a fag, do myself one while I was at it. I always felt honoured in an odd way as I lit both roll ups and passed one to him. My dad was not perfect, hell no, but when he was like this he was my fucking king, I his willing servant. We would sit there in front of the Rayburn, the wooden chairs pulled up close, one on each side. A basket of logs between us, and he would give me the highlights of the match. Like I said, I couldn’t give a fuck about football like, but fair play to the old bastard, his enthusiasm was catching, he would get so passionate, he would be spitting bitter all over the shop, his roll up always getting too soaked for him to get a drag out of it. Mam would always have a go of getting him to fill his belly with something to soak up the booze but he never did. ‘Fucks sake Erryl, I ad a pie at half time mun, fuck off and let me tell the boy ow it was yeah?’
But no, it wasn’t meant to fucking be tonight, the pricks must have spent quarter of an hour congratulating each other and sucking each others cocks at half time cos when they came back out they got their fucking arses handed to them. ‘We’ lost 4-2. My boss knew the score, he looked at me and shook his head, put his hand on my arm and said ‘here you go kid; you get on home and take a pouch of baccy for your Da, alright?’
Mr Griffiths was proper old school, only eight years older than my Dad mind, but God, he looked proper fucking ancient! Not just that, every time he moved, he would accompany it with a groan. He had different groans for different things. If he was reaching for his mug of tea it would be a UuuuPargh, if he had to reach a higher shelf for one of the shrunken grannies he would make an EeeeUghh. The most painful though, was when he had to stoop to pick up the mail from the floor in the morning, the noise he made went right through me, so much so I always tried to get there before him to collect it. Sometimes though, he would already be hobbling to the letter box and I knew it would bash his pride were I to overtake him. He would part his legs just before the descent to the wiry brown welcome mat. He looked like John Wayne with Parkinson’s, his legs juddering, his long bony fingers shaking as he began to bend at the waist. His spine would make such clicks they were audible from the end of the store. They were the intro to his hideous soundtrack... click click clunk ArghhhUghUghFfffffffuckingBasterinThing! I don’t think the posty had a fucking clue when he dumped his postmarked load through the slot that he was delivering an old man his own personal Everest.
Slipping on my coat and scarf, I grabbed a small pack of Drum off the shelf, thanked Mr. Griffiths and headed out the door, the brass bell above the door clanging as the door shut behind me.
The cold air stabbed at my lungs like minute frozen hedgehogs, I knew I should have brought my gloves, its bastard nobblin’ out here. I head across the street to where my bike’s chained to some railings, my fingers are stinging already, by the time I start fucking about the keys and the lock they feel like some other cunts hands, the sensation of burning more powerful than my capacity to actually use them. I get there in the end though and relock the freed chain around the railings. I quickly use my sleeve to wipe the seat and set off up the street.
I stood up to go up the hill, didn’t really need to, my calves were more than capable of powering me up the hill sitting down, but I kinda like the way the bike swings from side to side with every rotation of the pedal this way. My heart would be thudding hard under my jumper by the time I reached the top. At this point I always came to a stop, checked for cars coming up the hill stretching out beneath me and if the road was clear I would start pedalling like fuck. It doesn’t matter what mighta been going through my head before I reach this point, when my knees are jutting up and down like well greased pistons and I am forced to stop pedalling, there is no fucking feeling like it in the world. The wind fills up my coat, my eyes start pouring like an ugly bird at a wedding and all the crap in my head is blown out, thoughts fly the fuck off and somewhere in the whooshing, soaring, chaos my senses become sharp and my mind becomes still, burdened no more. It’s even better when you got your ass on the saddle and someone else is pedalling, we used to do that a lot me and my brawd. The reason it was better was cos when he was the one pedalling and watching out for cars I could shut my eyes tight, grip on tight and let it all happen to me. I dunno how I managed to trust anyone enough to put my life in their hands like that, but if my Da was my king, my brother was my fucking God. It wasn’t like I thought he couldn’t fuck up, it’s that I didn’t care if he did.
Get your head in gear boy; we are nearly at the crossroads, start breaking. My knuckles are killin me, I am sure one just fucking creaked then, Shit! I will be like Mr. Griffiths before I know it. The breaks squeak, its embarrassing mun, been meaning to sort that, fucking sieve for brain. I hear a beep and I pull closer to the edge of the road to make room for a few cars to pass, don’t recognise the first two, but the third is being driven by my uncle, he isn’t any relation to me like, he is a retired publican from the village. First landlord to retire round ere they say! All the rest died with their name still above the door, too partial to gulping away their profits. But here he is now, Uncle Tudor, can hardly see him over the wheel, he is another one who has shrunk with age. I wave frantically, leaning into the road, he sees me at last and indicates before pulling in, scuffing the curb with his back wheel. Silly fucker, you would think he could drive by now. I pull up beside the driver door and he winds the window down a bit, Christ he is out of breath!
‘Tudor! How are you? Where you coming from? Have you heard?’
‘Alright son, don’t mind if I sit by ere in the warm does ew?’
‘No, course not Tud, you stay warm butt, colder than a witches tit out here!’
‘I just come from yours as it goes, yer Mam said you would be back soon but I wanted to get home before it got dark see. Your mother had the radio on yeah, we caught the result. Erryl, I mean yer Mam, phoned Glenda down the street, there is a bed made up down there for her, just in case. She said you can ave the sofa if worst comes to the worst. You alright son? You look like a rabbit in the headlights?’
‘Aye, I’m alright Tud, better get back to Mam; she will be having kittens’ ‘Take care Tudor!’
He starts winding up the window, his face all serious, then changes his mind, opens the door and shouts after me as I am cycling away ‘Don’t let him hurt her boy! Not again, you hear me?!’
I didn’t answer, just carried on pedalling like fuck, through the crossroads, past a row of shops. The last one was the butchers, I slowed down to see Mr. Evans and his son, both clad in stained aprons, pulling down a carcass off a hook in the window. I nod as I pass and Tom, the younger of the two, smiles. I dunno how they do it, they work hard every fucking day, one of the dirtiest, smelliest jobs around, yet they always seem so fucking cheerful! I couldn’t be doing with all that dead flesh myself; I love to eat it like, but would rather not see it till it’s on the plate, maybe with some gravy and some mash. Dinner- not death.
I recall my dad telling me how before cows are slaughtered, it’s best to not feed em for a day and to keep em as calm as you can. Apparently, they taste like shit otherwise. Funny that, suppose you are tasting their fear.
I shudder at this.
Tudors' words are still ringing in my ears. My heart is pumping underneath my jumper again and I take a big gulp of icy air and think - no I won’t, not again Tudor. That cunt has swung his last blow.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Tom boys last summer
Transformations
We lay there amongst the grass lazily absorbing the sky; I was absent mindedly picking clovers with one hand and twisting the leaves off one by one. I had long since given up trying to find the elusive four leaves, we had all found one at some point anyway so we felt lucky enough.
Julie was doing what she called her opera singing, it was annoying and nothing like those fat women I had seen on the telly anyway, to me she sounded like those chickens at the back of her neighbour's house when they thought you had food in your pocket. I told her to shut it and for once she did. She had her jewellery box at her side, the one with the pretty shells on top, some of them missing, a brown crust beneath that had at one time held them tight. I knew she had only brought it out so that she could show off. She was saying I could borrow anything I liked but I knew that if I agreed, the offer would vanish like a mosquito you are certain is trapped in your hand, evaporates as you give it light.
I wasn’t really interested in jewellery anyway; my Mum had a box at home, a Chinese one. It was black and had brass corners. In the middle was a picture of some sort of shed and a bird with long legs beside it. I used to enjoy looking in there when I was younger. The chains were always tangled up together in a knot with earrings hanging off when I lifted them out, like a crazy jumble sale of a charm bracelet. I liked to untangle them, felt like I was doing her a favour, though she rarely wore any of them. She had other things in there too, in between the dividers I would find hair grips, safety pins and some sort of seeds all covered in fluff and tobacco dust. It smelled a bit like her handbag but not as sweet.
I had always been fascinated with my Mums boxes and the things she kept inside, she had so many and over time I found out what they all held. I would do that when she was not around though, it’s not that she would have minded but it was more exciting doing it without her permission. Similar to when you pinch a chip off someone, it always tastes a lot better than if they were yours in the first place.
To me, each box was a treasure trove that may contain a dark secret, or a glimpse of the life she had before me. One box I looked in, one of her smallest, had a sort of mosaic of shiny stones in the shape of a flower on the lid. It was hard to open which to me meant whatever was inside it must have been very important, or very secret indeed. Not that I could hear anything rattling around inside. When I finally managed to prise it open I found inside a lock of golden hair, it was soft and shiny and held in place by an ancient piece of elastic band that now resembled a worm that had dried up in the sun. I wondered why my Mum had somebody’s hair in a box, I thought maybe she was a witch but that didn’t seem quite right.
We watched the others as they raced up and down the bumpy dirt track on their bikes and I wondered why everything had to be a competition with human beings. It was rare we played any games that didn’t involve one up man ship. Even my favourite game of making dens down the woods ended with a prize for the best den. The prize being whatever we could steal from our kitchens while our parent’s backs were turned. I had to admit that when I had won and had gone home with my winnings, that walk had been the easiest of my life, my pride a hovercraft beneath my feet.
I laid them out on my bed, one carrot, one mostly red apple that Pete had shined on his t shirt for me and best of all, a bag of space raiders, which I took quickly outside with me, up the old tree and into the tree house to feast on. It was nearly tea time and Mum would have gone mad had she seen me.
I could hear it now- Where’d you get ‘em? Who gave you the money? You better not have been stealing again madam! You wont want this lovely food I been slaving over a hot stove for then? She was always like that my Mum; ask ten questions before you got to answer one.
Now the boys had joined us on the grass, their bikes thrown down uncaringly to the ground, their jeans and shoes looked like they had been painted by Jackson Pollock with a limited palette. Tim had mud all up his back too cos he always rode through puddles too fast. My Mum said his mum must love washing.
The wind rose a little, shaking the Big Beech trees like paper rattles. The clouds drifted by above, the boys only seeing boobies and shitting arses in their forms. Julie tried again to gain some interest in her jewellery box but got even less response for her efforts this time and so wandered off to get lunch, her red curls bouncing sharply, showing her annoyance from behind.
As soon as Julie’s front door banged shut, Pete turned to look at me, giving me one of his long stares that he seemed to do a lot these days. Julie’s tits are bigger than yours but her arse is too big he said. I felt the heat rising from my neck and up into my face, prickling as it grew. I let my head hang forward so my hair would hide my shame. He let out a sadistic yet fake laugh and Tim joined in, although apparently unaware of what was funny.
My chest hurt, I mean it really hurt, worse than when me and Tim had fought and he had kneeled on it to pin me down. I hated the fact that my once flat chest, not unlike both Tim’s and Pete’s was now marking me out as different to them. My Gran had even brought up the subject of bras last weekend, though I had quickly escaped to the garden to play with her dog. I came in to find a catalogue left open at a page full of coffee coloured boob scaffolding. I had seen my Nan's bras and they were similar to those, as far as I knew all of them were like that cos my Mum didn’t wear one. When I asked why she said well you don’t need a shopping bag if you are only buying a strawberry. I had no idea what she meant but thought her nipples looked more like raspberries to me, though my Nan called hers cherries. I had no interest in wearing a bra and didn’t want to think about what fruit my nipples most resembled anymore so I quickly found the page that held remote control cars and the robot with the flashing lights and voice I had been seeing adverts about on Saturday morning. Now that, is seriously cool I thought. I didn’t hold out much hope of ever getting it though, last Christmas I got my little ponies! What an absolute insult, I was disgusted. This is why I hate opening presents in front of people, if they choose such an unsuitable gift, I feel insulted and then my face insults them.
Pete starts throwing grass at me, first little bits, then manically pulling great big clumps out, and hurtling them towards me while making the noise of a bomb falling. One hits me right in the mouth, earth flying onto my tongue and teeth. I roll away furious and quickly get up, Pete is still laughing, clutching his belly, when I kick him full force in the shin, he pulls his knee up in agony and hits himself in the lip. Now he is squealing and me and Tim are laughing, this time Tim being in no doubt about the joke.
I spit out my muddied saliva, Pete spits out a bit of blood, we’re even now I thought.
For the rest of that day I was part of the boy’s crew again, Pete refrained from any talk of tits and no more mountains were made out of my molehills.
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