"Do you like that, you wimpy fuck?"
He asked his audience – a group of 20 to 25, 14 year old boys – if anyone would notice if he cut me. His hard stare darted around the room. Each boy, in-turn. shook their heads and looked away.
A few minutes later, Barry and his pals spat at me as I climbed into the PE basket – the one for stinky clothes that needed to be washed. I did it because he asked me to. I was too frightened not to. They flipped the basket. Over and over, laughing like hyena's. I curled up inside, cried, and wished I was dead.
A few minutes later they had exhausted themselves. Barry threatened to fuck me up if I got out. Not that I could. The PE basket was heavy. It was upside down. I was surrounded by dirty gym clothes. Lid underneath me and the weight of the basket, base, wheels above.
The pack took turns telling me, in detail, what would happen to me and my family if I got out before they said I could. And when that got boring for them they continued to entertain the room with gory role play scenarios of the rape and torture of my Mum.
“Ugh, Barbara, you fucking like that? Huh? Knifed in the fucking pussy?”
"Bet you do..!!"
Barry's stories were punctuated with nervous laughs from the other boys. I couldn't see them, but I could feel the nervous tension in the room. The only person that wanted to be there was Barry.
The bell rang for the next class then they left me. PE finished at 3:30. The cleaners found me in the basket at around 6.
My Mum shouted at me when I got home late.
“ALWAYS SO THOUGHTFUL!”, she screamed sarcastically…
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1 comment:
This sort of scenario played out repeatedly in my home. The weapons were always fists. Usually my father's. Once I struck him back. He got a gun and left to kill himself. My mother fought him back into the house. And it was, as it always was, all my fault.
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