It is three fifteen. I am four years old. I am still sitting in my classroom, even though the bell has rung. This makes me uncomfortable; I don’t belong in this place at this time and my mother who is sitting beside me most definitely shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t belong with this array of toys, numbers and letters; she is too big for the blue chair that fits a child sized person so she is forced to sit on the patchwork beanbag, her knees hunched up beside her.
I know I am being told off. I sat in the centre of the room this playtime and refused to go outside. I couldn’t bear to be out there again, to have my hair tugged, to be called names, to be tripped up. I couldn’t bear it so I refused. I sat in the centre of the room and my teacher told me I could only stay if I was really good. I wasn’t really good. I went around the class and broke all the lead from the tips of all the pencils and colouring pencils and put each one in my pocket.
When everyone came back from break I was sitting in the middle of the floor with all the leads lined up in colour order. I was taken to the corner and asked to explain why I did it. I said I didn’t know but that it seemed right at the time.
So now I’m here, with Mummy. My teacher wants me to sharpen all the crayons ready for tomorrow instead of doing some normal games for homework. Mummy says that this seems fair, that I will do it and she says that she is disappointed in me.
I didn’t know it was wrong- I didn’t even think about it. I think I am disappointed too, I am almost big enough to feel longer words.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is twenty past ten. I am eight years old. I am in the girl’s bathroom, washing my hands. Two squirts of soap, rub hands together, once over the back of the left, same to the right then rub hands together in a praying position and repeat. I finish this and step towards the hand dryer. I am following the same pattern under the flow of hot air when a bigger girl, Josie I think she’s called pushes me out of the way, quickly dries her hands and then leaves with her squawking friends. She ruined my day just like that. She took away the one thing in the day I count to feel safe, the rest of the counting is like breathing. It comes into and out of my head but with my hands I like to know I have followed the pattern properly.
I miss this counting because it is conscious. I wanted to have control over such a little thing in my life. But it’s okay- I’ll just count a little more this afternoon.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is quarter to five. I am twelve years old. I am waiting to walk home; I walk home at exactly five. I have a digital watch so I can even count the seconds. One thing that does worry me from time to time is the fact that as I count, as I make myself count I watch the seconds of my life tumble down. I count myself to death. It scares me that I love the numbers as much as I did when I was young. They are so beautiful in so many ways. The reflection of an 8, the way water could catch in the curves of a well proportioned 3. I watch the minutes slip from me and I hold myself tightly. My arms wrap around each other, I don’t mind the smears of blood which stain my shirt, I don’t mind the weakness in my arms that I have gotten used to since I decided food was really to much of a luxury. Sometimes I don’t deserve to eat. Sometimes I just look in the mirror and wish I could free myself.
I feel as if I am chained to the person I hate most in this world, like she is attached to my arm. I feel like I am in my own hell, like my body is a prison to hold me against my will. My own body is a prison and an escape from the world. I spend as much time alone as I can but I hate my body and all that it requires, I know it is the thing keeping me here. It needs looking after and it can’t do things I need to do. I wish I could explain to people that I’m not trying to run away from life, I’m not unhappy with anything I have been given. I just have to leave. It’s not a choice anymore, was it ever my choice? I can’t remember ever thinking, maybe I shouldn’t have to live through my life, perhaps it would be easier if I just stopped thinking. Eventually I will die. Eventually I can break the chains between us.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is ten fifteen. I am sixteen years old. I leave economics, my books piled up on my hip. My hair slips from the clasp I use to secure it with and a strand of hair slips in front of my eyes. I had a very quiet economics lesson. I went in, wrote all they asked me to and left again, in silence.
In slow motion my calculator drops from my folder, I reach to grab it before it hits the floor but I miss and the rest of my books go flying. My folder bursts open and all of my notes, coded in date and sectioned according to topic spread in disarray across the floor. For a moment I feel like leaving them there but I can’t. I sit on my haunches and try to gather as much of the paper in one place as I can. I watch the feet of the other people in my class as they walk right past me, as they stand on pieces of my work. I want to scream at them, to tell them to have some consideration for a change but I don’t dare. I stay close to the ground; I keep my tongue under firm control.
I gather my precious work into my arms; at least if I have it then I have some slight chance of making it better. I am holding almost all of my notes to my chest now, then I feel a hand on one of my shoulders, I flinch away from the warmth.
“Do you need a hand with this?” The boy asks me. I don’t want to turn away, when he sees who I am he won’t try to help me. I shake my head and to my disappointment a tear slides down my cheek. The boy turns so he is in front of me. He lifts up my chin with one hand. “It’s fine. I’ll help.”
I look at him; my tear traces a line down my cheek and touches his skin. His warm skin. He starts to copy me, to gather as much of the paper as he can, when there is nothing left on the floor we stand carefully. He opens the door to my economics classroom and walks to a desk where he places all of his paper. I copy.
“Now, how was this all arranged?” he asks, looking at my papers to see how they could possibly be made to look neat again. I explain the system and together we start to put my life back into its little compartments again.
Suddenly recognition hits me. “David.” I whisper. The beautiful boy lifts his head and smiles, “Yes…?”
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is seven, exactly seven. I am five years old. It is my birthday. It is exactly seven and I am exactly five. This is wonderful. Mummy and Daddy aren’t awake yet. I don’t think they are anyways. I feel very grown up, I have been told birthdays are when you get fed food that is nicer than normal and when people buy you things without having to think about the money. Birthdays mean you get a wish to have whatever you want and as long as you don’t tell anyone then you get it. I want to have a doll, I want her to have blonde hair and a little white smile and I would look after her and protect her from everything. And she would be safe, and she would be loved and she would love me. I want to have a lovely little perfect girl.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is two minutes past seven. I am nine years old. It is my birthday. I think today should be okay. We are going to my grandparents for a birthday tea and mummy says I could ask a friend to come too if I want. I really want to have someone to go with me but I don’t think anyone would. Even though recently I have talked to some people in my lessons. One of them is called Melissa, she has long blonde hair that she can sit on, and I want hair I can sit on. Maybe she would go with me. I don’t know whether she would or not, but that would be as close to a birthday party as I have ever had. I would like a party, to be the centre of attention for a little while. To have a party means you know enough people who don’t mind sharing a room with you. If I could have a party, I would have a magician and then a tea party. He would ask for me to go to the front and I would then afterwards he would make me a balloon crown. I’ve heard it be talked about at school sometimes; even if they don’t want me to talk to them I still listen.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac