*SLAP*
Another harsh beating from daddy, and then a whimpering from mummy. I close my eyes and count sheep, but the sounds don’t go away.
“YOU DARE TRY TO…” I don’t want to hear the rest of it. ‘Tomorrow everything will be fine.’ I remind myself. I try to think of the happy times. My mummy beside me, singing me a song and saying the same fairytale again. Tears well up in my eyes. “… Mark my words. Now come on, get up.” His voice was low and dangerous. I heard his feet stomping up the stairs. His angry, angry footsteps were heard near my door.
I hid myself in my blanket and shut my eyes close, my heart was thudding in my chest. I try to stop it but no, it doesn’t. I take a few more deep breathes, and suddenly I open my eyes and it’s dawn.
I could sleep no more, and so I got up from my bed and went to the bathroom. I heard the clanking of utensils downstairs and figured mummy might be making breakfast. When I went downstairs, I could guess what she was making, toasted bread. It was always toasted bread. And at times maybe some scrambled eggs, but it was mostly toasted bread. That’s why I never ate lunch in school, or else I won’t have any friends. “Hey sweetie.” Mummy cooed, she had dark bags under her eyes. I ignored her. “Here’s your breakfast, sweetie.” When I looked at her face, I saw swollen purple lips, a black eye and her pale self. “Mummy…” I gazed at her in disbelief. This can’t be my mummy. She looks- she looks- dead. “Honey…” her hand reached out for my hair. I slapped her hand away and ran, ran and ran.
‘This can’t be my parents. Mummy isn’t like this. Daddy isn’t like this.’ I felt my lips quiver, a warmth spread over my cheeks, I started tearing up. ‘NO!’ I wiped my eyes and straightened myself. ‘I will not cry. I’m a boy. Boys don’t cry. Only weakling boys will cry.’
I went to school, my friends shouldn’t see my crying face so I washed my face before I went to my classroom. As soon as I entered the classroom, I went to my seat. “Thomas, aren’t you gonna greet the teacher? Let alone asking for permission to enter.” My teacher, Ms. Winston, asked. “No.” I replied with a straight face. “And why is that?” She asked again. ‘Is she gonna keep asking me questions like this?’ I thought and got annoyed. “Because I don’t want to!” I yelled.
“That is not the way to answer!” She shouted back. “I don’t care!” I shouted at her and crossed my arms. Ms. Winston just shook her head and began the lesson.
After class, we went for recess. What I usually do in recess is walk and watch the other kids play, I don’t play, there’s nothing good about playing if you can only lose and others win. Just then, a bunch of kids a grade over me came to me. “Kiddo, where are your mommy and daddy?” One of the boys pouted and the others snickered. “They’re at home. Why? Do you have any problem?” I asked back, I knew these kids were up to no good. “Aww, the little kid is getting angry.” They laughed. I had a weapon with me, a pen. I held onto it in my pocket. “What work does your daddy do? Cleaning the streets?” One of them asked. The rest of them continued sniggering. “He’s a taxi driver.” I said in a low voice. The kids laughed their heads off, “a taxi driver? Can he drive us to the playground today? Oh wait, no. He doesn’t even have his own car!”
I couldn’t take it anymore, I leaped on the boy who kept asking these questions, took my pen and began scribbling on his face. Harshly. He needs to feel all the pain I feel. He deserves it. The other kids tried to pull me off of him. But I screamed at them, showing my razor sharp pen. Blood spilled from a scratch on the boy’s face. He began crying. I smiled. “Who’s the one crying like a girl now?” I asked him back. A teacher came running and pulled me away from him. I knew if I scribble on the teacher I’ll be in big trouble so I kept it to myself.
After a long hour of the principal asking stupid questions ‘why?’ ‘Who?’ ‘What?’, Ms. Winston came and took me to class, before entering the classroom, she said to me, “I know how you feel, Thomas. I know about your parents, I had such parents too.” She looked at me with a weak smile. I looked away, if I look at her, I’ll start crying. “Thomas, this pen you used as a weapon.” She took the pen from my pocket. “I know you couldn’t control it, you couldn’t control the feeling of wanting to hit that kid, and that’s why you used the pen. But did you know, you could control those feelings just by using this pen?” I shook my head and looked up at her calm face. She kneeled down in front of me. “Take this pen home and write your feelings down in a book, everyday.”
“That’s like writing a diary. That’s not cool. That’s girlish.” I shook my head and crossed my arms.
”It’s not girlish. It’s how a human being controls his feelings.” She put her hand on my shoulder. Then suddenly she pulled me to her and hugged me tightly. “It’s ok.” She croaked, rubbing my back. “Everything will be alright, soon. I’m sorry, wait.” She wiped her tears under her glasses. “Thomas,” she continued, “I know you don’t understand why I’m being like this, but it’s because I know how you feel. And I don’t want you to go through this.” She took deep breathes. “Thomas,” she took my hand and kept the pen on it. “This pen can save your life. I know you’re only a little kid and you don’t understand but trust me, write your feelings with this pen and believe that everything will be alright, ok?”
“Ok.” I nodded my head. She smiled through her tears and let me go into the classroom. My maths teacher was there and had started teaching the multiplication table of 15 already. “May I come in, sir?” I asked politely. He smiled and said, “yes, you may.”
As I sat on my seat, he declared in the class, “now that is how a gentleman should be.” He began clapping his hands and the rest of the class looked at me and clapped too. I smiled, ‘all I had to do was be nice.’
And from then on I kept a diary, hidden away from my parents and friends. It has helped me a lot. No matter how angry or scared or sad I got, I knew I could write all this in my diary.
Even after I grew up to be a man, I cry and I laugh, knowing I’m a human and I have such feelings. I still have my first diary, and I still use the pen I used to hurt that boy, the pen that helped me control my feelings. And none knew who made me the man I am today.
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This is a fictional story. Not based on my life.
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