My boyfriend gave me an opening line to a story which I found odd, but it was surprisingly interesting to write a stream of consciousness from it. While we, my boyfriend, his friends and I, were in Longleat Center Parcs, this is when I wrote this. I am still there, and I haven’t finished the story, but I would like to share this before I ruin it. The bit in bold is what he gave me to write about, not that I have written much about it yet.
Eggs. Bacon. A gun. That’s what the boy bought. Why? He was hungry, and it was dawn and ready for the first meal of the day. The gun? He was so tall that his head was in the solar system, so they didn’t even question his age. His mind was in a daze and the world was a spin of circles and spheres and cylinders wrapped around his ears. In this time-consuming moment, his appetite was huge for the revenge he had never gotten throughout his very little childhood, and ten years later, he was ready to fight back with a full stomach.
His serene silhouette sat as a two-year-old in his mothers’ arms, the cuddle was delicate, but distant. His mother was attached to her employment; constant phone calls to her clients, offering acts and money and acts and money. He didn’t even know what her job was, or is, or ever would be. She had a phone sewn onto her ear, and with the press of a button she could answer the concurrent calls, speaking to multiple people at every moment possible. What time did she have for him? He was a doll. Plastic, a façade of a child. And nothing was going to get better until her company booted her straight out of the archway and into hell.
He got shoved into the saturation of bath water, in which his mother had just soaked in, where she removed the hair from her legs, ready for her tenth consecutive date. Despite her delightfully vile relationship with her job, she always found time for a romantic rendezvous every day, with a different man, every time. His petite body drowned in the water until his mother cared enough to stop fiddling with her tangled hair and bring him up to breathe. The oxygen gushed in and out of his lungs like it were trapped in an elastic band, but his mother never cared to notice while she admired her sinfully smooth skin.
He, despite being only two years into his life, felt isolated in an ice cube. His mother may as well have poured water over his body, and crammed him in the freezer. God knows his life would have been better as an ice sculpture. His mother wouldn’t know, she didn’t pack all of her concerns into her son’s wellbeing, not even one concern. His mother would not delve into his world and think, what should I be doing for my son? The word cherishing never filled her brain, as if her vocabulary was so insufficient that she only knew words like, selfishness, bitterness, and sex.
From shadow to shadow, the boy grew up into a fine seven-year-old. The word fine has too many definitions to have clarity, but it is imagined that he was the most negative definition due to his damaged infancy. His school uniform was persistently too tight, or too stretched, or too stained. He begged his mother for a new set of clothes, or to use the washing machine for anything but her own clothes, but nothing came of it. Albeit she had a successful business in which it gave her millions of pounds a year, her son got a marginally miniscule sum of her income. And she would frequently tell him that she was bankrupt, which would be somewhat surprising and deceptive, or she really was insolvent due to her compulsion to not being able to wear the same pair of shoes twice in a lifetime.
The beginning of his junior school experience was a day-to-day torture of struggling into his polo-shirts and shorts, and the other children picked on him and teased his voluptuousness. Ironically, his weight was under the average, as his mother didn’t feed him properly. There was always an endless supply of peas and beans and cheese, so most of his meals consisted of cheese on toast, or beans on toast, and then peas. He was very restricted of what he could consume, due to the selfishness his mother endured in; he was frightened that the egotism would be hereditary, and he was apprehensive with good reason.