James Mandarin

Family

"You shit head!" I wince as dad's voice booms in my head. My knees tremble and eyes sting with unseen tears. Everyone is looking at me. Everyone is staring at me and there is nothing I can do. Pain, self pity and embarrassment swell in the pit of my belly. It's all your fault James, my mind says. You should have never agreed to come here. "Get your hands off the bat and walk off the fucking field." I drop the bat to the ground. My walk of shame is bittersweet. Making it to the other side is a miracle.

I sit on the ground beside the bench and watch as the cricket game resumes.

A thin layer of sweat forms on the palm of my hands as I watch the men run across the field, after a ball smaller than the size of my palm.

The shrill of the whistle cuts through the noise and the running stops. The game is over. The men's face glisten with sweat. Their chests heave up and down in rhythm as they make their way towards the stands. They worked hard but the damage had already been done. They lost the game.

They lost the game because of me.

Dad's piercing gaze never leaves me. He makes sure I feel it. He makes sure I feel degraded. Small. Uncomfortable. Agonised.

I crack my knuckles and make small circles with my legs as the men murmur about the game. A few grumble about losing the game, some pass me a sympathetic smile and the rest pretend I don't exist.

The ride home is tense, quiet and constricts my chest. I'm in dire need of the bathroom. I have a shit bladder. I remember there was one time in Year Seven, after an intense sport lesson, I drank three one litre bottles and couldn't stop going to the toilets every five minutes. It was embarrassing.

The kids called me 'Toilet Boy' for a week.

I focus my eyes on the open road instead. There isn't much to see; just red, blue, black, green and white cars, moving past us, with absent minded drivers, caught up in the walls of their thoughts. I wonder if they notice me as they overtake our car. I wonder if they see my small smile or sad eyes.

Here's the truth. They don't and they won't ever notice me. Why? It's easier and better to be confined in the walls of your mind. It's an escape from the world, a place without time and restrictions. A place of sweet madness, where the elements come out to play and the brain and rational thought ceases to exist.

That's why they won't notice me.

I'm not a part of them. There is no spiritual or physical connection between us. There'll never be.

We arrive home and dad parks the car in the garage before briskly heading out of the car and slamming the door shut behind him. I gingerly step out of the car and follow him inside the house to find mum cooking pasta.

"How was the game?" she asks. Her hair is a mess, she isn't wearing her pearls and her lips are pale and thin without the presence of rouge lipstick.

"Your son is a pansy," Dad sneers as he grabs a beer from the fridge. "Can't even play a bloody game of cricket without fucking it up." And with that, he walks away.

Mum and I stare at each other awkwardly for a moment before she gasps.

"What is it?" I ask, feeling more self-conscious than ever. Is my hair right? Is my face deformed? Do I look like I just died and came back to life?

"It's your shoes, James! They're dusty."

"No shit mum." I mutter under my breath as I begin walking away.

"Where are you going?"

"To my bedroom."

I gently shut the door behind me and lock it before running to the bathroom and emptying my guts inside the toilet. My chest constricts as I heave and my lungs and throat burns as I slowly feel myself suffocating.

I kneel on the ground with my hands on the toilet seat, listening to the pitying sounds of my gasps and intake of breath.

Cut.

It's a faint whisper but I still hear it.

Cut.

I pretend to ignore it.

Cut.

I think of skateboarding, of Chloe, of Zen, of Hollie, of Ben.

Cut.

I fucked up the cricket game.

Cut.

The razor understands me. The razor is my only friend, my only hope.

Cut.

My eyes begin scanning the bathroom. It reeks of vomit and acid.

Cut.

I think of my muddy shoes and the dirty footprints that stain the tiles.

Cut.

My dad hates me.

Cut.

My mum doesn't understand.

Cut.

No one cares about me.

Cut.

Chloe cares. Zen cares. Hollie cares.

Cut.

I need my razor.