*Insert Witty and Insightful name here*

Here's my assignment piece, its halfway between character from an object and important event in a character's life.



Why am I here?
I could have asked myself that question a thousand times before now, but what answers would I get? What satisfaction would I find?

I never used to think how many people in the world doubt their self-worth, question their place. I never used to think about mine; much of it was all ready set.

I don’t remember much of my early life; everything I know to be true has a coating of oil. Where I come from, that’s normal. You either find a use or find a door; no one escapes with their soul. When I was fifteen my Dad turned to me, said, ‘Tez, you’re old enough to get a job’ and handed me a wrench. Best thing the bastard ever did.

For weeks I slaved in that shoddy garage, grease and dirt all the way up to my elbows, while he swanned around Majorca with his Mistress. It was my responsibility to take care of my mother, who exploded into tears at the slightest mention of any word related to him.

I got my first taste of heroin that summer. That light headed feeling, bringing with it a beautiful kind of knowledge - that I wasn’t me and nothing mattered.

Any crisis involving my mother automatically involved her. Aunt Stephanie. The evil kind of slut that lies about everything. I’d hated her for so long I didn’t even remember why; only that many a time after shooting up I would discover her in the kitchen, mimicking sympathy along with everything else.

Maybe it was because I knew she was poisoning my mother’s brain. Perhaps it was because she called me ‘Terrence’, just like Dad did before I begged him to call me otherwise. I didn’t know what it was, but there something about her that disturbed my inner spite.

Maybe it was because my mother listened to her, more than she had ever listened to me. A quick ‘thank you’ was all I got when I handed over my wages, a smile when I told her to turn off the television- my father wasn’t dead, there was no reason for him to appear on the news. She never listened, though; whenever I found Aunt Stephanie there, like some platinum blonde Mother Theresa, my mum would be on the couch in her dressing gown, hypnotised by the nine o’clock news.

It was because my mother listened to Aunt Stephanie that I ended up here - a place I only ever entered in my nightmares. A place for fuckers like Dad, who used their brains as weapons. A place where Aunt Stephanie would use my absence to dig her false nails into mother and make her into something twisted.

I only ever wanted to work in the garage, fix cars for the rest of my life. Watch as day after day, stranger after stranger drove away with my dreams. It was fine, I didn’t care. I had everything I needed in a heroin shot. A reminder of my place.

Staggering home one night into the hornet’s nest, I arrived to find the Queen set upon her throne, eyes square upon me. The room lay silent, not even the television played for the couch, which lay empty. My mother, pale and dishevelled, stood next to Aunt Stephanie - a plate of custard creams in hand.

“Terrence,” she said, shuffling over and wrapping me into a clumsy kind of embrace. “Me and your Aunt Stephanie have been talking…and…”

Her words were interrupted by the crashing of a plate on the floor and several custard creams hitting the carpet. Aunt Stephanie’s eyes fell to the crumbs and then back to me as mother kneeled to clear the mess.

“We have been talking,” she said, over the muffled sobs. “You deserve better than to run after your mother all the time - and the way things are going you’ll never better yourself. I’ve been asking round and managed to get you an interview at North University. You’ll be studying business - how’s that?”

She spoke so cheerily, the anger rose up in me like a dozen pinpricks. Everything about her pissed me off; the way her perfume lingered on everything of ours, how her possessions appeared in our house as if marking her territory.

“You don’t care whether or not I’m happy,” I snarled. “You only want me gone!”

It was true - she knew it - it was scrawled across her face like some childish memo. Somewhere from the carpet my mother screamed for me to be quiet, but I knew I was right and victories over Aunt Stephanie came so rarely.

Staring into her chalk skin and rose petal cheeks, I grinned at my own triumph. Chuckled under my breath louder than I meant to.

“It’s true isn’t it, you just want me gone so you can take everything that’s mine, like you’ve all ready taken everything of mum’s,” I roared.

Aunt Stephanie sighed, closing her eyes. She was older than mother; I never noticed it until then.

“I think you’ve made a mistake, Terrence,” she said.

She said it so calmly, so delicately - the anger rising up in me shocked even myself. I wanted to hurt her, maim her. Punish her, for existing.

I barely heard my mother’s screams as Aunt Stephanie’s rose cheeks twisted back in recoil from my knuckles, barely noticed as she fell back against the table. I didn’t know what I had done. Only knew that I was justified.

The euphoria soon passed, replaced by the thorny grip of mother’s fingers and her voice bellowing in my ear. How dare I hit Aunt Stephanie, after everything she had done for us?
I heard everything she said, but didn’t focus on the words, just laughed. I knew it was wrong to lash out at a woman but right then, felt redeemed. I knew I couldn’t possibly explain these things to Mother - where was the point in trying?

I was the talk of the village in three short hours; everyone within a four house radius had seen mother usher my bloodied aunt into the car, apologising for me all the while. Lack of detail of course, had given way to make-believe. By the time I arrived at my mate’s flat, everyone believed I had broken her ribs.

Luckily, he was having a party at the time and set me up without so much as a question. I laid on the couch, his music thudding through the walls, just thinking about Dad, wondering for the first time what he was doing. Was he even in Majorca, or was that another fucking lie?

Before I left, mother had shoved a small box into my stomach, containing what I thought to be the vests and cigarettes that littered my room. The thrall of the party echoed in my ears, the sounds of strangers laughing with shots in their hands. Shots of another dream. I wanted to join them but knew that I couldn’t.

Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, I dragged out the last of my final shot. The scratch to the skin was instant release to everything - even the music around me seemed to slow. Falling to the floor, I shut my eyes for a moment, taking in this ecstasy. I didn’t care anymore what became of me; if I had to, I would stay there on the floor forever.

My eyes fell on the box near my field of vision and lazily, I reached for it. I wanted to burn whatever was in it, start afresh with nothing but the clothes on my back. Ripping open the box, I stared as a tub of wax crayons fell out, followed by a colouring book, messily shaded, ’Terrence’ scrawled on the inside cover in a childish hand.

There were other objects inside the box fitting much the same description - an old football, deflated and peeling, a teddy bear with no eyes, a pack of cards, ripped and torn in several places - objects I had known, but no longer remembered. Reaching my hand to the bottom of the box, I found a slim photograph in a silver decorated frame. The room was dark, but I could see what it showed - our family long before that moment. My father, his hair in a pony tail, gripped my mother’s waist as if he should die. I stood beside them, seven years old - a brand new football in my arms - embraced by a grinning blonde woman.

Screaming, I hit the picture against the floor. The glass of the frame shattered against the carpet, cutting into my skin. Closing my eyes, I absorbed the familiar iron smell, stepping through the gates of another world.

This other place was full of light, green and warm. Realisation dawned that I was the boy in the photograph, kicking my football to and fro - scattering birds in a flurry of feathers. I laughed as they danced over my head, oblivious to a ginger tom hidden in the blossom tree.

I had no idea what place this was I had fallen into, but it’s lurid colours cheered me somewhat from my situation. A bungalow sat behind me with cream coloured walls. I knew I had seen it somewhere, but right then it did not matter, as I felt myself laugh, deeply and from the bottom of my stomach, as I took hold of the football once again.

The back door opened as I launched the ball at the blossom tree, my heart leaping into my chest as it ricocheted towards the house, smashing the kitchen window. Glass slivers landed all around my feet and, kneeling to pick them up, I winced as blood crawled over my fingers, a familiar voice sounding behind me - calling my name.

I turned towards it and saw her there, glass of lemonade in her hand. Aunt Stephanie. All at once I understood, it was her house, her garden. Her window I had smashed. All of a sudden, I knew why I was there.

She did not shout at me, instead gazed at the mess I had made and back to me. An unknown feeling crept over me, a kind of dread.

“I think you’ve made a mistake, Terrence,” she said, dropping the lemonade to the ground, shattering the tumbler as it made contact.

I watched the cloudiness seeped through the grass, making contact with the spots of blood on the glass. It all seemed so familiar and I knew there was a part of me screaming to bolt.

Turning my head away from her gaze, I saw the tom cat swipe out from the blossom tree, devouring a sparrow perched on a nearby branch. Felt her steel grip on my arm, dragging me to my doom. This time, I was screaming, for now I remembered everything.

Yelling, trying to wrench my hand out of her grip, I saw the object of my demise, the thorn bush behind the bungalow - unkempt and blackened by years of neglect. Sharpened, by years of
malice.

I remembered now, the day Aunt Stephanie appeared at our house, weeping at the loss of her husband - the man she left the village for all those years ago. The only solemn vow they made together was a rose bush in the garden - now a bag of thorns.

I felt my stomach lurch against the skin as the thorns appeared in view; giant claws of a panther, ready to swallow me whole. Twisting my wrist in an iron grip, she made to throw me inside, and whimpering, I pushed my body against her. Anything to escape this fate she had decided for me.
Closing my eyes, I didn’t dare look into hers, for fear of what might be looking back.

“Please Aunt Stephanie,” I heard myself whisper. “I promise I’ll be good.”

Braving the beast, I opened my eyes and slowly gazed up into her face, trying my hardest to push a shaky smile across my face. Aunt Stephanie wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t doing anything - just watching.

Slowly, carefully, the sides of her mouth began to lift into the foundations of a smile and my heart rate began to slow. The grip on my wrists loosened and for a moment, I considered my safety. Her smile broadened and then, then there was only thorns.

I never got see what happened next. The muffled surroundings of my mate’s flat came back before I had a chance to see. Picking myself up from the carpet, I rubbed the back of my head with a bloody hand and gazed over at the ripped box.

I never did find out why mother sent that box to me, all I knew was the items in that box were the only things in the world incapable of betraying me. Reaching into it one last time, I felt my fingertips land on solid metal. Curiosity took over me and I pulled the object from the box, finding a wrench that I used at work.

Tightening my hand around it, I knew that I was justified.