Afire: Entire Blinded Series (6 page)

Why are you fucking leaving me here with her, Dad? Why can't I bloody well go with you? Take me with you. Please? I can't stay here. Not with her the way she is. Fucking mad woman. Shitting, fucking, bastard mad woman.

But he'd gone, a wink and a watery smile the last I saw of him that year, and God, did I cry. Silent tears, though, me unwilling to let Mum know how much I hurt inside. If she knew she'd use it against me—gladly.

I sigh now, a hard lump in my throat, and stare into the distance at the winding path that leads to the shop. I should just keep walking, plodding on until I can't go any further, tiredness making me slump down on the ground, hunched in a ball, my eyes closing, brain shutting off the past. The pain. But I don't. I keep going until the row of local shops comes into view, the inevitable bunch of blokes outside, ones I went to school with if previous nights are anything to go by. As I near, they look up and nudge one another. I ready myself for their usual onslaught, one I'm getting tired of but don't have the bottle to try and stop. And they wouldn't stop anyway, even if I said something. Wankers.

"Whey hey! It's the bent bastard!” one shouts, the others bursting into laughter.

I keep my head down and draw closer, my guts going over, fear of what they'll say or do seeping into my bones. I should stand up for myself, give them what for, but there's five of them and one of me, and I don't fancy being beaten up tonight. Their laughter gets louder the closer I get, and it's like I'm outside myself looking in, seeing me walking past them, seeing a leg jerking out from the pack ready to trip me over. I scoot around it, heart hammering, fists clenched in my pockets, and walk inside the shop. All this for a fucking pint of milk, and I've got the return visit to look forward to in a bit. Just got to hope they've buggered off by then.

I pay for the milk and leave the shop, stomach clenching in anticipation of a fresh attack. It comes loud and clear, hoots of derision and gross words about sex that bring a blush to my cheeks. I wouldn't know if what they'd said was true—never been fucked, never been kissed—but they make it sound dirty, wrong, when it isn't. Not to me. To me it's right, beautiful, who I am. I walk on, lifting my eyes to see where I'm going, tuning out their crass jibes. Around the corner, I release a breath I didn't know I'd held and clamp my lips together, tears too close for comfort. I hate it that they can reduce me to feeling like a little kid again. Hate it that they've dogged me all my damn life and always will if I let them.

How am I supposed to come out, be myself, when I live in such a small-minded, nasty little town? How the fuck am I meant to be
me
?

Jesus Christ, I'm not going to cry. Not going to let those bastards win. Ryan'll be with me soon. I'll be all right then. Yeah, we'll go up the pub or something. Just...forget this crap and have a laugh
.

I stare ahead, shoulders not so stooped, and it's like just the thought of Ryan makes me feel better. Gives me courage. A small smile plays about my lips as images of him messing about go through my mind. He's so free and easy with himself, and he would be, because that's who he is, who he's been allowed to be. And I'm back to square one. Back to thinking about Mum and my shitty life. I need to stop going over it, letting it fester inside me. I should be like Dad and smile despite the pain. That'd piss her right off.

A figure strolls toward me in the distance, and right away I know it's Ryan. I can tell by his gait, the way he walks so fluidly, arms swinging by his sides, probably whistling if I know him. He must have got off the bus a few stops early.

Yep, it's him all right. He raises his arm and waves, picking up the pace, jogging toward me until we're a few feet apart. I stop, he stops, and we stare at one another, his breaths short, cheeks flushed.

"All right?” he asks, smile wide.

Shit, I love him. Always have and always will. “Yeah. You?"

"Not too bad, mate. She wanted milk, then?"

I nod, and we walk side by side. My whole day has changed from dreary to exciting, the future—at least for the next few hours—bright and happy.

[Back to Table of Contents]

She wanted sugar. Fucking sugar to sweeten her tea. Shame it didn't sweeten her attitude. Ryan walked back to the shop with me, and funnily enough, the blokes outside didn't utter a damn word. They never do if he's with me. He'd given them as good as they gave him a while ago, striking back after one of them punched him in the stomach. I'd stood rooted to the spot, unable to help even though the desire to do so raged through me. I wished then, and still do now, that I was tougher, that what they say and do wouldn't affect me the way it does. You'd think, seeing as I was belted and thumped by Mum up until about a year ago, I'd be fearless, but confrontation always bothers me, renders me pliant and obedient to whoever calls the shots. Maybe one day something or someone will push me too far and I'll stand up for my damn self.

Back from the shop now, Ryan waits outside while I go in and give the old dragon her sugar. She snatches it from my outstretched hand without thanks and stomps into the kitchen, body as rigid as a taut elastic band, ready to snap at any moment. Though I'm used to it, I still cringe, wincing as I follow her and wait for the rebuke that always comes.

"Took your time, didn't you?” she says, ripping open the sugar bag and pouring some into the canister. “And that Ryan's outside, so I take it you're going out tonight?” She slaps the canister lid down and opens the cupboard, reaching up to slide the remaining sugar onto the top shelf. “Glad to see he knows his place. People like him aren't welcome here."

I stare at her as she swings around to face me, two bright red spots on her cheeks indicating she's revving herself up for an almighty blast of vitriol. I want to shout at her for insulting Ryan, and by doing so she's insulted me with her ‘people like him’ comment, but I'm used to it, can take it. Ryan, though, he doesn't deserve it. He's never been anything but polite to her, and he's out there now, banished to the doorstep as always, unable to defend himself.

"He isn't normal,” she says, arms folded over her concave belly. “Always knew he was queer, right from a little kid. And you hang around with him, acting like you don't see it, when any minute he could touch you up, changing you to his way of thinking."

What the fuck?

"And then where will that leave me? Without grandchildren, that's where. The laughing stock of the community, and my God, boy, if you ever do that to me I'll...” She whips her hands down by her sides and stalks to the sink, plunging her hands into the soapy water and scrubbing a plate that doesn't need scrubbing at all. “Well, now you know how I feel, so if you ever let him inside this house, I'll whip your arse, do you understand? You're never too old for a clout."

I study her back, the rigidity of it, and a wave of hate sweeps through me. I could step forward now and grip her hair, shoving her face into that water, holding her there until she can't breathe, until she's—

Fuck it. I won't go down that road. Won't let her bait me. She wants an argument, that much is obvious, but I'm not giving her the satisfaction. No, she can stew in her anger, thinking disgusting things and justifying her reasons for doing so. I'll never understand her and don't want to try. She's polluted, just like those blokes at the shop, unable to see past the idea of someone being queer to what lies beneath—a human being who needs love just like anyone else.

Her curlers bob with her jerky movements, and she places a plate in the drying rack, hands back in the water, feeling around for something to wash. Finding nothing, she turns and looks around the kitchen, seizing on an already clean chopping board. Scourer in hand, she rasps it against the wood, the sound bringing to mind the time Dad built the garden shed. Resentment sails through me that he's gone, and I glare at the woman who gave birth to me, wondering what quirk of fate made her my mother and who ‘up there’ found it funny to put the two of us together. Well, I'm not bloody laughing. My emotions harden further, and I mentally add another row of bricks onto the existing wall between us. One day soon that wall will be impossible to look over, impossible to walk around, and I'll be done here. Done with her.

"I'm going to bingo presently,” she says.

"Oh, right."

"But I've just remembered something else I need from the shop."

My jaw muscles flex, and I inhale quietly. “What's that then?"

She picks up the washing-up liquid, the clear bottle showing nearly full contents, then slams it back onto the worktop. “You can never have enough washing-up liquid."

I turn from her and leave the kitchen, refusing to ponder on the way her mind works and why she acts as she does. Resigned to yet another walk, I pull open the front door and step outside. Ryan's sitting on the kerb with his back to me, smoking. The light breeze tousles my hair, and he blows a stream of smoke upward. For a moment the cloud is stark against the darkness then disappears, another joining it after he inhales and exhales again.

"She wants washing-up liquid,” I say and shove my hands in my jacket pockets.

Ryan turns his head and looks at me over his shoulder. “You're fucking joking!"

"Nope.” I'm embarrassed. Eighteen years old and embarrassed that I can't stand up to my tyrant mother.

Ryan rises and flicks his lit cigarette to the ground. It bounces, brief sparks flying, and comes to rest on the other side of the road. The end still glows, a bright orange nugget in the gloom, another puff of breeze making it flare brighter before it douses completely.

"Come on,” he says, cocking his head. “Best be getting a move on."

He knows a little of what she's like, but if he knew the truth—the real truth...

"Yeah. Hopefully she'll be at bingo when we get back. If she is, d'you wanna come in?"

He gives me a sidelong glance. “You reckon that's wise?"

"No, but fuck it, we've got away with it before."

"Yeah, but I don't fancy climbing out of your window and jumping onto the back porch roof any time soon."

We laugh, the tension easing, and walk the rest of the way in silence, me wondering what he's thinking. My situation must be alien to him. He probably can't understand why I stay, but I'm not like him, filled with courage. Could I tell her what I really thought of her? If pushed, I reckon I could, but as it stands...well, I'll just have to carry on as I am, won't I?

The house stands as though abandoned when we get back, the lights out, the curtains shut tight. I slide my key into the lock and motion for Ryan to stay outside for a minute. It wouldn't surprise me if she sat inside in the dark, waiting to see if I brought Ryan indoors. She's done it before, but luckily Ryan heard her voice and retreated out the door, closing it quietly so she wouldn't realise we'd been about to sneak up to my room. Only to shoot the shit, play on my Play Station, nothing untoward, but still, Mum would have suspected otherwise.

Seeing the house is clear, I call Ryan inside and, as he closes the front door, I go into the kitchen and put the washing-up liquid in the cupboard beneath the sink. I take a bottle of Coke out of the fridge—bought it earlier this morning when I got Mum's paper from the shop—and collect two glasses from the cupboard over the cooker. Back in the hallway, I smile at Ryan, even though he can't see it in the dark, and walk upstairs, pleased to hear his footsteps as he follows.

Wary, I push the door to my room open, expecting to find Mum sitting on my bed. I flick the light switch and blush at the state of my room, shown in all its cluttered, untidy glory under the harsh illumination of the bare ceiling bulb.

"Uh, excuse the mess,” I mutter, stepping forward to scoop up a pile of dirty clothes and shoving them into the laundry bin. I hadn't anticipated Ryan coming in tonight; otherwise I'd have cleaned up a bit. He's only ever seen it presentable.

"No probs,” he says, flinging himself on the bed, unfazed. He grabs the Play Station control and nods at the TV. “Boot it up, then."

I do then take off my jacket and flop on the bed beside him, reaching to my bookshelf to get the other control. The game starts, and we spend the next hour or so battling it out, Ryan winning every time, as usual. After the best out of five, I drop the control down the side of the bed, and it clonks as it hits the floor. I lie on my back, head against the pillow, and stare at the ceiling. Ryan is close, too close, yet not close enough. His body heat warms my bare arm, and I wonder what it would be like to press my skin to his, feeling it fully, properly.

"You ever thought about leaving here?” he asks, leaning over me to put the controller on the bookshelf.

His belly touches my side, and my stomach flips over. My cock twitches, and I will it not to harden, exposing how I feel for him when he might not appreciate my erection. If he isn't gay, if I've misinterpreted...shit, I'd hate to lose our friendship.

"Um, many times.” I casually lay my hands over my crotch and hope he hasn't spotted my burgeoning cock. Shit!

"So what's stopping you?” He moves away, settling next to me, resting on his side, face propped in his hand, elbow digging into the mattress.

"Money. Guts.” I swallow, pushing away images of what could have happened just then if I'd lifted my hand and twined my fingers in his hair. If I'd trailed my hand down his cheek, his chest, and to his groin...

"You could get a bedsit and afford it on your wages. If you did extra shifts at the pizza place you'd manage. As for having guts...one day she'll piss you right off, and you'll walk, no problem."

"I s'pose. I want to get out. Get out of this town, too, if I'm honest."

Ryan sits up, his fingers curling around my wrist. “Really?"

I stare at his hand, the contact searing, fucking great, and he releases his grip, retaking his former position. I will him to put his hand back so I can feel that rush again, but he doesn't.

"Yeah, really. I hate this place. Bunch of bastards.” I turn my head to look at him. “Don't you feel like running away? Do you see yourself living here for the rest of your life, stuck in a damn rut, seeing the same faces day in, day out? Hearing the same old shit regurgitated again and again?"