Kids

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There’s a memory of me plunging my hand into a plastic jar full of Opal Fruits on my fifth birthday. I was in some kind of nursery school located on a road called Pastures Way. Whenever it was your birthday, you got to grab as many sweets in one go, and then you blew out the candles on this cake that everyone would share among themselves. There was this girl I dated. Once a week the class would walk down to the local swimming pool. You walked boy girl, boy girl, and each pair had to hold hands. Me and my girl, we always walked together and held hands. This one time, she was walking past this chain-link fence that stretched the length of a private playing field, and this industrial nail was sticking out and tore the flesh on her right arm as she walked unaware of its looming presence. There was blood and screaming, and as much as my infant self loved her, I loosened my hand from hers and turned the other way feeling lightheaded and rather sick as she rolled around on the pavement behind me. Reminds me of the time when Sarah was pregnant, and we were on holiday with my parents one summer for my birthday. It was late in the evening, and she was lying on top of me in bed, and while we were talking, I saw her eyes focus on something above and beyond my shoulder. She didn’t have to say anything, for I could see it in her eyes. Without thinking, I threw her off and danced about swearing with little regard for her well-being as she just about managed to stop herself from tumbling to the floor. Eventually, the spider was killed with a tennis racket but only after a great deal of procrastinating on my behalf. And then there was the time I dated a girl in junior school. Her name was Jennifer, I think, and I publicly dumped her for picking her nose during assembly. She was a nice girl and all, but at that age, such acts were unforgivable in the cutthroat world of the playground. How dreadful considering my own such filthy habits. Remember the time I nearly had someone’s eye out with a misplaced throw of a dart in the social club during lunch time? How about the time I threw dirt in the eyes of a rival only for someone else to take the blame? Or what about that fight I was in when I kicked that ginger kid in the balls causing him to fall backwards wailing and crying while holding his shattered dreams? He was a common ginger, though, so he kinda deserved it. I was having a bath earlier on after my dream. In the dream, I revisited the time X and I last made love. During the act, she had whispered something into my ear. Not in real life, but in the dream, and while taking my bath and peeling back my foreskin, I was trying to find her words and along came all these memories and visions. Every time I catch a glimpse of her, she keeps on shifting, and the echoes of her words shift along with her.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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