Piece by Piece

Two

~~ 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.