The beginning of term came and Connor increasingly felt out of place; he couldn't escape the feeling he was wearing someone else's skin. Inside he was something else, a vague vapour floating around a body not his own; he became aware, at the oddest times, of his veins throbbing against the underside of his skin; his arms began to ache where he felt they were stretching away from him; the real him trapped inside. He saw no means of escape; he couldn't run away, not from himself. Increasingly he removed himself to his hole beneath the boards and the blankets.
Miranda's days were dogged by the fear that her son was working up to something; without even being aware she counted the days free from incident. His casual indifference to her continued, she cleaned up after him, trailing his wake like a faint shadow, but there was no outward active defiance. In the second week of Connor's return to school Miranda's fears began to ease; she couldn't physically contain the building fear and anticipation that frayed her nerves and left her pale and blood-shot: she was drained and almost as indifferent as her son had always been.
In the park the ice had long fled, giving way to discoloured collections of water along the paths. It was a Friday, Connor was in school and for the first time, in a long time, not on Report.
"Hello." A voiced edged its way in at her.
A boy stood at the corner of her shoulder. His hair, brown, soiled, as though he had risen from one of the pools of muddy water all around. Miranda stared at him. His eyes shone with a wizened sheen and the shock of him made her stand, stepping back from him.
"Don't". He said.
"Don't?" The word, the question, an echo out of her mouth before she could think.
"Don't go."
Miranda's mind stuttered. The boy before her held her in his gaze, surveying her. He was Connor's age, she thought. Connor's height. But the look he gave her, so familiar: longing. He stepped towards her. Miranda stood. Frozen. Every sense crackled, electrified, as if from static. The idea of what the boy was rubbed at her and the alert edges of her mind. She fought with it, but the darkened corners knew, the empty spaces knew and they assaulted her with it. Her mind felt like a bubble, the membrane thick and viscous holding the contents of her life, her history and who she was, but outside of this the pressure grew and the membrane thickened in response, aware of the unknown beyond its sphere, pushing in. The darkness rippled against the sides, shivering up against the layer of fear holding everything back.
He spoke once more, "I think I know you, don't I." He didn't ask. He knew and he told her so, but the look on her face left him fearing what she might say, what she might do.
A sudden wind picked up the wet leaves at her feet; the wind ran itself around her bare ankles, tugged at the loose sides of her clothes and drew the strands of her fringe away from her eyes. The pulsing darkness poured in, filling her up and sudden recognition gave light to the boy before her.
Connor's day was a slow one. The aches and weariness that overtook him continued, but he was becoming accustomed, attuned to the beating drum of his body. Tireless voices chirruped all around him, nibbling at his patience and he longed for the silence of his hideaway. It was science. Science with Mr Bushell, the voices tittered around him because they could, it hadn't taken long to learn the simple lesson that day, now he was safe to play for time and they were safe to chatter. Occasionally he spoke up and some listened, others averted their eyes; not many could take him seriously; at first, girls fawned over him, but most saw through him in the end. Connor had seen through him quite some time ago. Connor's eyes drifted loosely around the room now and finally settled on the poster of the human skeleton, its whitened bones proudly on display with tendons and muscles transposed across the frame, vaguely transparent so a view of both the tissue and the bone could be seen. Connor set to wondering how his soul could fill the spaces there; did it ripple up and around the sinews, lapping around the body like a lost wave without any promise of breaking against the shore? Taking down the plastic skull from the model display, Connor unpicked the catches and released the sections of the skull that exposed the pink, plastic brain. How could his soul fill anything in this body of his when every space was accounted for? He stared into the absent eyes of the plastic corpse and it stared back with a familiar vagueness: the corpse was a poor plastic cousin of his, but he felt a peculiar attachment to it and while Mr Bushell attempted to win favour with the crowd, Connor buried the skull in his bag.
The bell rang, summoning them to lunch. Mr Bushell was the first out. Always late, always first out. Connor had never given him much thought, he was, after all, hardly worth it. But he saw his science teacher then for what he was, an empty waste of a man. A grown man, no better than the plastic shell in his school bag, chattering like some broken wind-up plastic monkey clattering its cymbals because this was all it knew to do. He felt a revulsion at himself then, felt that he too were some puttering wind-up toy, skittering around aimlessly. He didn't belong here, he didn't even belong in his skin, he felt it wasn't his, had never been his and as he scratched the paint from Mr Bushell's car door with the broken edge of his sharpener, he tore careful lines into his skin too, leaving bloody trails that petered along his arm's length.
He walked straight home that day, the first since he could remember. The way was familiar enough the way the bus drove, but he cut through the neighbouring estate to save time. Twice he came to a dead end in two separate cul-de-sacs; the children who lived there watched him walk by and then out again hurriedly. Up until now, he realised, he was as much a joke as Mr Bushell: his tantrums and maliciousness were nothing but wasteful and as he slunk along the pavement in the direction of home he resolved to be wasteful no longer.
Miranda's days were dogged by the fear that her son was working up to something; without even being aware she counted the days free from incident. His casual indifference to her continued, she cleaned up after him, trailing his wake like a faint shadow, but there was no outward active defiance. In the second week of Connor's return to school Miranda's fears began to ease; she couldn't physically contain the building fear and anticipation that frayed her nerves and left her pale and blood-shot: she was drained and almost as indifferent as her son had always been.
In the park the ice had long fled, giving way to discoloured collections of water along the paths. It was a Friday, Connor was in school and for the first time, in a long time, not on Report.
"Hello." A voiced edged its way in at her.
A boy stood at the corner of her shoulder. His hair, brown, soiled, as though he had risen from one of the pools of muddy water all around. Miranda stared at him. His eyes shone with a wizened sheen and the shock of him made her stand, stepping back from him.
"Don't". He said.
"Don't?" The word, the question, an echo out of her mouth before she could think.
"Don't go."
Miranda's mind stuttered. The boy before her held her in his gaze, surveying her. He was Connor's age, she thought. Connor's height. But the look he gave her, so familiar: longing. He stepped towards her. Miranda stood. Frozen. Every sense crackled, electrified, as if from static. The idea of what the boy was rubbed at her and the alert edges of her mind. She fought with it, but the darkened corners knew, the empty spaces knew and they assaulted her with it. Her mind felt like a bubble, the membrane thick and viscous holding the contents of her life, her history and who she was, but outside of this the pressure grew and the membrane thickened in response, aware of the unknown beyond its sphere, pushing in. The darkness rippled against the sides, shivering up against the layer of fear holding everything back.
He spoke once more, "I think I know you, don't I." He didn't ask. He knew and he told her so, but the look on her face left him fearing what she might say, what she might do.
A sudden wind picked up the wet leaves at her feet; the wind ran itself around her bare ankles, tugged at the loose sides of her clothes and drew the strands of her fringe away from her eyes. The pulsing darkness poured in, filling her up and sudden recognition gave light to the boy before her.
*
Connor's day was a slow one. The aches and weariness that overtook him continued, but he was becoming accustomed, attuned to the beating drum of his body. Tireless voices chirruped all around him, nibbling at his patience and he longed for the silence of his hideaway. It was science. Science with Mr Bushell, the voices tittered around him because they could, it hadn't taken long to learn the simple lesson that day, now he was safe to play for time and they were safe to chatter. Occasionally he spoke up and some listened, others averted their eyes; not many could take him seriously; at first, girls fawned over him, but most saw through him in the end. Connor had seen through him quite some time ago. Connor's eyes drifted loosely around the room now and finally settled on the poster of the human skeleton, its whitened bones proudly on display with tendons and muscles transposed across the frame, vaguely transparent so a view of both the tissue and the bone could be seen. Connor set to wondering how his soul could fill the spaces there; did it ripple up and around the sinews, lapping around the body like a lost wave without any promise of breaking against the shore? Taking down the plastic skull from the model display, Connor unpicked the catches and released the sections of the skull that exposed the pink, plastic brain. How could his soul fill anything in this body of his when every space was accounted for? He stared into the absent eyes of the plastic corpse and it stared back with a familiar vagueness: the corpse was a poor plastic cousin of his, but he felt a peculiar attachment to it and while Mr Bushell attempted to win favour with the crowd, Connor buried the skull in his bag.
The bell rang, summoning them to lunch. Mr Bushell was the first out. Always late, always first out. Connor had never given him much thought, he was, after all, hardly worth it. But he saw his science teacher then for what he was, an empty waste of a man. A grown man, no better than the plastic shell in his school bag, chattering like some broken wind-up plastic monkey clattering its cymbals because this was all it knew to do. He felt a revulsion at himself then, felt that he too were some puttering wind-up toy, skittering around aimlessly. He didn't belong here, he didn't even belong in his skin, he felt it wasn't his, had never been his and as he scratched the paint from Mr Bushell's car door with the broken edge of his sharpener, he tore careful lines into his skin too, leaving bloody trails that petered along his arm's length.
He walked straight home that day, the first since he could remember. The way was familiar enough the way the bus drove, but he cut through the neighbouring estate to save time. Twice he came to a dead end in two separate cul-de-sacs; the children who lived there watched him walk by and then out again hurriedly. Up until now, he realised, he was as much a joke as Mr Bushell: his tantrums and maliciousness were nothing but wasteful and as he slunk along the pavement in the direction of home he resolved to be wasteful no longer.
