The Rebirth of Henry Whittle

HAPPY SLAP

Monday dawns. Amy Gordon, Kirsten's media shrew, is such a liar! I do not have an STI! Every week she circulates a new rumour to ensure the sixth form population shun me. I'm spitting nails and it's only first break! Lost in moroseness and the conundrum that is Henry, I rush towards Z block. A gentle tap on my shoulder has me turning around.

"Slap!"

The strike is shocking.

"Slap!"

My head snaps sideways, wrenching my neck muscles.

The playground shifts: the background of disinterested students mutates into teeth-baring inciters careering forward. Head after head stretches and strains in my direction. Within seconds, I'm surrounded. Streaks of green and grey; school uniform, quickly become flashing blots of colour. I close my eyes tightly; I don't want to see my attackers.

"Slap!"

"Arghhhh!"

I've bitten the inside of my cheek.

"Argh."

To the side of my head, a whack so hard, so sudden, with an open hand leaves my ear ringing and my eyes watering. The pain and humiliation mounts as shifting shapes dart forward, swinging in slaps. A swooping dizziness strikes. I want the tarmac to crack, to split so wide I can lean back and let myself fall.

"Ha! Yes! F-ight! F-ight. F-ight," Amy incites, and others join in. Everyone. "F-ight! F-ight! F-ight! F-ight!" The whole fucking universe.

I shield my face with my arms and cower. The baying of the crowd diminishing me. A lump the size of a walnut swells in my throat.

"Shit! She's just standing there, she's such a fucking loser," cackles Jade.

The clapping, the cruel, raucous laughter, the chanting, it booms in my ears as I'm pushed and repeatedly struck.

" Melt! Melt! Melt!"

The whole school hates me.

I.

"HUH."

Can't.

"HUH."

Catch.

"HUH."

My breath. It's stuck in my lungs, crushed by my heaving chest. I want to be nothing; nobody's interested in nothing. My fingers dig deeper into my head as my desperation to not exist peaks.

"Wheeeeeeeew."

The teacher's whistle. Thank. You. God.

The flurry of dispersing bodies is yet another assault as bags are hastily picked up and swung carelessly. I remain still, until someone's hard shoulder leaves me in a spin.

"Get to class now, or I'm calling the police and getting your backsides arrested!"

Great idea; yes, please, call the police. I jump wearily as warm skin touches mine.

"It's ok now," says a voice.

But it's not.

Hands encircle my wrists and I jerk away, but their gentle pressure pulls my arms from my face.

"Look at me."

Dazed, I register concern in a pair of bright blue eyes; the colour of hope?

"It's over," he says softly.

It's never going to be over; he just doesn't know it.

Attempting to speak my voice cracks. My glottis hangs heavily as it contracts and expands in my throat. Please, Phoenix, don't publicly cry. Is it because I know what a glottis is? Am I such an annoying geek, kids hate me? They must, they really hate me. I swallow a sob. I'm unravelling stitch by stitch. I want to tighten the thread, hold my life together, but I'm so fucking worn out. The temptation to reveal all, to be patched up by healing hands makes me almost delirious. My fragile state must be out there, because his arm, firm and comforting, rests on my shoulders; its strength preventing my seams coming apart.