A Childhood

Day after day...

The next day would come. He would practice in the mirror – pulling his strongest, bravest face. He would hold back his tears as he dressed in his uniform. He would add new Band-Aids, creams, bandages, tape to his injuries. His palms would slip down his arms, pushing the goose bumps down until he reached his wrists. And that’s when he would think. Did he feel sick? His head was a little sore. His stomach wasn’t trustworthy. He could feel everything rise – all of his insides. Holding himself together, he knew there wouldn’t be a point. His father, smarter than any doctor, would prove it was nothing but nerves. There would be no way to escape his certainty.

   "Feeling okay Jack?” his mother would say, the keys in her hands. He would want to cry in that spot, throw up his anxiety and bawl in her arms. To finally feel safe and protected. But instead, he would nod, take his bag, hide a book up his shirt and walk to the car with her.

He would arrive early. There’d never be a time when he was late. She’d drop him off, kiss him and as she drove off, she would pray. Pray to the angel that saved his life when he was a mere age of two. He would pray also, for nothing but a miracle.         

Mornings were cold. Frost would cling to his blue lips. He knew well where they were. Probably at the footy grounds or playing basketball. It gave him enough time to run to the library and hide inside for a good forty or so minutes until the bell rang.

Lessons were safe enough. He would sit next to a visual impaired boy named Rohan, and on the other side would be the heater. Rohan wasn’t at all entirely popular either, because he would spend his breaks with teacher aids as he was very dyslexic. He would ignore Jack as well.

Whenever she asked a question, a rain of hands would rise and all will be incorrect. Except for his, which she would ask in the end. Some will groan, some would shout out insults. Others threw paper balls at his head when she wasn’t looking. He would sit there and take them all in. They didn’t hurt of course, but shame overpowered him. 

The most dreaded point of the day would come – lunch. There weren’t too many original hiding spots, so he decided to sit behind the white wall which kids would play down ball against. It was quite open, but there was no place else. Not that he could find quickly.

As he sat down, he would hug his book against his chest and set his lunchbox next to him. They couldn’t tell him what to do. He could eat when he wanted, read where he wanted, sit where he…

“Hey look. It’s nerdy brains!” the book would be held tighter against him. He could imagine himself rocking back and forth in horror.

“What are you doing here?” four boys. It was always them. Every day.

“I…I’m having my lunch,” he would reply. The biggest one would grin, take his lunchbox before he could reach for it, pour the food onto an ant nest and squish it down.

“Still hungry?” the other boys would laugh. Tears would begin to fill. The effort and love his mother had put into that for him, just for him. The starving kids on the other side of the world who would kill someone to as so much see the food, ants covering it and all.

“Look at him! Baby. Go cry to your mummy.”

“Aw, missing your Vegemite sandwich? Your stomach empty?”

He would nod stupidly.

“How about now?” a full throttle punch in his stomach would lurch his head forward and a cry of pain would burst from his lips. The others would just laugh. In the weakness of pain, the biggest one - by the name of Stan, would snatch the book from his arms.

“Hey! No!” he’d plead. He’d stand up, forgetting about the pain and jump for the book. His father’s book. The one he was told never to wreck. Invention plans and blueprints, ideas…and they were flying overhead as he attempted to catch it. The laughs of the other boys as they threw it weakened his efforts.