Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Thirty-Three: Highschool

TRIGGER WARNING: DOMESTIC ABUSE & ALCOHOLISM

Out of the pair of us, I was always the one who got beat by our father. Barney was the lucky one; he didn't have the motor-mouth I inherited, my nagging sense of self-righteousness or a sloppy sense of self-preservation. For so many years Barney grew up oblivious to the anguish our father put us through: excused my ropy scars as incidents with industrial farm tools, excused my bulging bruises as farmyard encounters with less pleasant animals and excused the weeping wounds as typical thoughtless childhood injuries.

But I can't be incensed over a child's innocence. I could've done with a little more innocence. I learnt at an unfair age that the world isn't a fairytale and no hero is going to swoop in and rescue me from all of my problems. I had to be my own hero; not to mention my ma's.

Sure, a ten year old isn't a monolithic meat shield, but it is another blur standing between a miscalculated fist and its target. And anything to delay my ma' getting another bludgeoning was worth it; after all, she always took the brunt of the beatings. I was lucky to scramble away with a black eye and a bloody nose.

Not to say that my injuries went unnoticed to everyone my age.

I remember the first time Kate came close to rumbling me about the horrors of my home life.

Our classroom was a dismal space. Creaky windows too stiff to open in the stuffy summer, tatty displays with pieces of paper hanging off with frayed edges and a chalkboard marked with scratches and dust from previous lessons. The desks were always lopsided, the chairs had a few bolts loose and the magnolia paint on the walls was chipped and vandalised.

How they could call such an uninspiring space with unimaginable teachers an 'education environment' still bamboozles me.

Idly, I jotted down information about the American Civil War, noted that had been magnified on the chalkboard straight out of the textbook. By then, I had mastered the art of mindlessly translating notes onto the page without asserting a single drop of attention.

Amidst my industrious copying, a gash had reopened on my upper arm during class, and it had gone amiss to me that a small streamer of blood was trickling down my arm and a scarlet splodge was soaking into the sleeve of my t-shirt. But my eagle-eyed friend - my only friend - was quick to slip me a torn slip of paper inquiring about the matter.

The tatty scrap read, in Kate's flawless handwriting: 'You're bleeding, what is it?' And demonstratively, a droplet of red dripped onto the white paper.

Awareness drawn to the warm dribble of blood and the sting of the cut, I clutched my arm. In my panic, I used to paper to mop up the blood, whilst having a condescending look shot at me by Kate. It was unsanitary, but necessary.

I nodded a 'thank you' to Kate for her discretion, I didn't need the rowdy kids to take note that I was springing leaks like an old ship. I swear to you, highschool kids can smell weakness a mile off and will exploit it once they've sniffed it out. 

Another shred of paper was slipped onto my desk. 'When did you hurt yourself?' The loopy handwriting read.

I flipped it and as the teacher turned to put chalk to chalkboard, scribbled back 'I'm a klutz. Probably did it on the farm.' And subtly nudged it back towards her, keeping my face devoid of any nervous tells.

She rumpled her nose as she read it. Katie had alway been damned perceptice, annoyingly so. She was quick to scratch out a message back and shoved it towards me with a interrogatory eyebrow raise.

'How in the hell do you accidentally cut your upper arm?' I rolled my eyes and snuck a glance at her. She was sat upright with pursed lips and crossed arms.