~~ TWO
My eighth birthday fell on a Sunday. It was the first one I went through without Dad — and Mam, who passed out on the sofa early in the morning and didn't awaken until after dinner.
I always hated when Mam drank from the bottles. She turned mean and angry, lashing out at anything that got in her way before spiralling into an inconsolable mess: crying and shrieking, but still angry.
My father's death killed more than him.
I didn't want to be alone that day, but I knew Dad wasn't coming back, though I still didn't really understand why. But whatever the case, I still had our place, and it was better than 'a poke in the eye with a big stick', as he used to say. It always made me laugh whenever he said that — 'anything's better than that', I'd tell him, but over the years, I've come to realise that a poke in the eye would be a lot less painful than opening your heart to someone.
But the good times are worth it.
Since I was sad that day, I went to the place I always went to when upset: the playground. I hadn't been there in a while because I was worried. I wanted to see the boy again, almost as much as I wanted to see Dad, but what if he wasn't there? I didn't think my heart could take the pain of losing my friend, however little I knew about him.
I remember the feeling when I was at the gates of the playground that night: it was like butterflies had got into my stomach and started flying around, and my heart was racing so loudly that I thought it was going to leap right out of my chest.
I think it did when I saw him. He was on his swing again, unmoving as he stared at the gates, facing away from me this time. It took all the strength I had in me not to run over to him, but I somehow managed to force myself to walk, though I knew there was a little skip in my step.
I didn't say anything when I sat down, and neither did he. I'm not sure what I expected — for him to look up, smile and for us to swing again, like weeks hadn't passed since our last encounter?
If I did, I was disappointed. He didn't look up, nor did he swing or even acknowledge my presence. A few moments passed by and my hopes deflated even more until I was left slumped on the swing, like all the bones had been taken from my body.
Then I saw it.
I know he knew I saw it, but it was too late for him to do anything. My eyes welled up, the sound of my mother slapping my cheek echoing around in my mind as I looked at him, feeling so angry and sad. I didn't know what to do and neither did he, so we just stayed like that for a while, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.
Again, no words were spoken, but they didn't need to be because – at the same time – both our hands moved towards the other's and they joined, fingers linking and palms touching, but we said nothing.
We didn't swing, nor did we move or laugh, but I cried. I cried for my dad because I knew he wasn't coming back. I cried for my mother and me because we were sad and hurting because he was gone.
I cried for the boy beside me, whose blue eyes had lost their spark because of the dark blue bruise on his cheek.
I knew it was impossible – that nothing would ever really be happy again – but I couldn't help but think that when he smiled, things started to feel okay again; complete.
That night when he left, he did what he'd done last time: he took another piece of me with him, one that I never did – or will – get back.
YOU ARE READING
Piece by Piece
Romance"I cried for the boy beside me, whose blue eyes had lost their spark because of the dark blue bruise on his cheek." Meeting in a playground one night, two children develop a bond that spans many years and slowly turns into something more than eithe...