We are down in the down in the. Hold myself rigid and do not fail to meet his eyes. But now the busy tic’s got so bad he has to pause and rub at it.
Alright alright — still calming it — Alright then here it is. I put it off for as long as I was able to. I kept out of its way for as long as I could but I realise now it was always going to happen. At the time I thought it was my fault. Because of my mistake. I walked a girl home from school — first and only time I ever did. I remember being all pleased with myself because there’d been no awkward silences and I’d made her laugh. When I got in though, the other two legged it pretty quick so I knew I was in the shit. I just started with Sorry, sorry, straightaway, you know, trying to placate. She was just shouting Where were you? Where were you? so I panicked and lied about seeing some dog get hit in the road. She screamed Don’t lie! Where have you been? When I stuck with the dog, I got belted round the kitchen but I kept to it until she started on my face. Then I told because I liked that girl and I didn’t want a bruise to explain. I walked a girl home from school, I said. The next thing I remember is blood on my teeth and thinking she’d broken my nose.
I was just useless and sore and went straight up to bed, cursing her for a fucking bitch under my breath. Hoping by some miracle not to bruise or that the stepfather would take her out, which he didn’t. And once they’d all gone to bed, there she was I brought you some cake. I pretended to be asleep but she wasn’t having any of it. Got in beside, saying all the stuff — I wish you wouldn’t make me treat you like that but you’re too young for fooling around with girls yet and putting her hands into my pyjama top. I just lay there, pretending, hoping she’d give up but. I love you, she said You know that, don’t you, son? You know you’re my favourite. You know I’ve always loved you best, just tell me you still love me and let that be an end to it. I wouldn’t though. I hated saying it but she wouldn’t stop so eventually I said I love you. And then Is your face sore? she asked. No, I said. Is your face sore, darling? No, it’s not. But when she asked the third time, I knew I had to give up. A bit, I said. She said A bit what? A bit sore Mum. She said I can see that and I know what will make it better, love.
She was up and out after, saying Goodnight, like she’d been tucking me in. I just turned on my stomach thinking Did that really just happen? Was it some kind of mistake? She couldn’t have meant to but there was the stain and I remember getting out of bed, eating the cake, fucking stuffing it down, trying to get myself straight, but it was like my eyes wouldn’t adjust and I had to go puke it all back up. I must’ve sat for an hour on the bathroom floor, listening to her roam around below — closing doors, checking plugs. The taste of the chocolate sick in my mouth and when I went back to bed, I couldn’t sleep I had another wank to knock myself out, fucking crying all the while. I remember that so clearly and just not knowing what was going on.
The next morning was like I’d been blasted. None of me was right. I kept checking the mirror and — bruise aside — everything looked fine except I didn’t know how to use my body. I remember clunking downstairs touching the woodchip that I could hardly feel and my weird fucking legs. She was pretty manic in the kitchen — maybe she had shocked herself. She didn’t acknowledge me though, just raced about hurling dishes in the sink. Even one of the boys got a clip round the ear for laughing when something smashed.
For the whole week after she ignored me and I had a month of nights on my own. But after that, she got herself organised. Picked up where she’d left off. I don’t know why the delay or what was the spur, only that it became fairly regular then, once a week, sometimes more.
At first it was all pretending she was doing something else. Eyes averted. Under the sheet. As if not looking at each other made it less real. That was only the beginning though, of the very very bad. I remember trying so hard not to get hard but what can you do at fourteen? Now I know it’s a mechanical thing but, back then, I thought it was me. I couldn’t understand why I would. Sometimes I’d imagine she was testing, that I was about to be hauled off to some hospital where they’d fix me up people like me, whatever that was. Later, when she got more confident she’d imply she was the victim of me that I was the I made her do those things to me and all the time it was getting worse. Further from what you could pretend it wasn’t making it more like wanting responses and not the whole way not kissing or that but almost everything else all under the guise of her fucking caring and love, how she understood I couldn’t help myself. But I never cried about it again. Went into my body to get out of my head. There was no way to think about it so I didn’t. And I stopped feeling everything pretty soon. Just let her do what she wanted and did what she asked in return.
He looks around the room but not at me. Lights another cigarette. Pours another drink. Then, pressing his knuckles to the pitiless tic, continues on.
Once she was done, she’d get up and walk out and I’d just lie there getting back to blank. Sometimes I’d throw up. As it progressed, I started dropping lit matches on my stomach, or legs. Not to feel, just to revive some self that could act normally in my skin — I know you know about that. I’d wait to see how long I could take it and, as time went on, for fucking ages. By the end they could burn themselves out.
I should have said No, I know that. I should’ve known to push her off and it sounds ridiculous but the way she had me I couldn’t go against her at all. For years after I left I kept wondering if the real truth was that I’d enjoyed or invited it because physically I did you know do you know what I mean? She always made sure I did and and once that happens it’s like you’re implicated, like you’re the accomplice somehow. But it wasn’t what I wanted and I know that because of what I ended up doing to myself to get over it.
All of him shivering now, like a dog in the rain, but still You alright with this? he says I know we both have it so is it too much? And I am I feel so distraught. This is not my story though or time for upset. I’m fine, you tell me whatever you want. The tic gone so bad his mouth can hardly hold his smoke. Okay, but if you change your mind I say I won’t, please don’t worry about me.
Well, at some point, she started slipping me sleeping pills after — maybe the throwing up was disturbing the peace. At least it meant a dreamless sleep and started me considering when else I’d like that — which was already most of the time. So I began helping myself. Just the sleeping pills first but — once I started to search — there were prescription bottles stashed all over the house. I used to lift so many at a time she must’ve guessed but she never mentioned it and, as she was only getting worse, there wasn’t much incentive to stop. I can see now though I was getting depressed. I’d come in from school and just lie on my bed so exhausted I could hardly move. I was sick all the time. Every flu. Nosebleeds a lot. Then the tic started too and that frightened her, I think. She used to beg me to stop it — as if I could. It was that bad sometimes I couldn’t speak. They used to excuse me from class to go sit in the bog just to get it under control — like school wasn’t already nightmare enough. I hated it. Kept getting into fights which, actually, cheered me up. It was almost as if they solidified me. Gave me somewhere to be angry and feel like I wasn’t queer because, once she started, I lost all interest in girls — that poor one I walked home, don’t know what she must’ve thought, I never even looked at her again. My mother’d go mad though, at the bloody nose, ripped shirt, so I’d get another hiding and I always let her. Never even considered not. Whenever she wanted. Whatever she grabbed. Bottles, brushes, tin of paint once — had to get stitches after that one. I mean, by the end I was nearly twice her height but — same as the fights — I almost got to like it. Seeing how much I could take. Because the less it looked like it hurt, the angrier she’d get, then the further she’d go and that was revenge. She’d feel so bad after and I’d feel like I’d won. But also I was wolfing down pills by then so I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. What I remember most was just finding it hard, really hard, to be alive.