Man in the Mirror

Before...

When people say their dreams are crushed, I never really believed it was possible. But then it happened and I realised your dreams really could fade out of existence in a split second, as if they were, crushed. It's a daunting prospect, knowing that everything you have been trying for could evade an acknowledgement because of one action, one event. In the click of your fingers, your life could change perspective. Forever.

That is my childhood in a nutshell. Needless to say that I had a pretty disappointing one probably because that was when it happened. Although, in fairness, I had a terrible childhood anyway.

Being born in France, it is easy to assume that I lived in vast areas of French countryside with green rolling hills that stretched for miles or perhaps in romantic towns like Paris with the Eiffel Tower that loomed into view just outside the window. But no. In an area where you step outside your pristine front door and all you can smell is the sweet scent of freshly baked bread or homemade cheese straight from the pantry. But no. It's funny because France puts on such a visage for the tourists, but really, it's all a façade because deep down, beneath all the gleaming monuments and elegant wineries, it's a slave- driven power house.

You see, I would know because I lived in the slums of the city of Bordeaux for my whole childhood. Same house. Same life. Nothing changed and you may be thinking, "he's a good linguist" but actually, English is my mother tongue. My mother is American and came to Bordeaux in search of income after the Wall Street Crash left her whole family out of work, even generations later. She met my father and remained in Bordeaux to be with him. However, the Wall Street Crash left her almost broke, so she resorted to the slums which is a land of complete misery. Normally, you would expect to open the curtains and see bright blue skies that stretch on forever. The birds would sing their unique tunes and fill your ears with so much song, that you can't help but smile at the morning that has laid itself before you. However, you could say that Bordeaux is a very unique city but from the opposite perspective. You daren't open your curtains because if any of the numerous colonies of homeless people notice a single form of life from the house opposite, you will wish you hadn't. Swarms of homeless people congregate together and form an angry mob that bashes the once pristine door so hard that you fear it will not hold. Demanding money. Demanding food. For a six year old, it used to be terrifying, especially when you couldn't even speak their language.

That was before you even entered the outside world itself. Trudging the thirty minute journey to the city centre, your eyes fixating on the stacks of litter jumbling the pavements. Rats scuttling beneath your feet. It was amazing you could actually stand up, let alone see glimpses of the road embedded in that layer of muck that filled every street. To me though, this was the norm. I knew no different so would continue to stare blankly into the dull houses that towered menacingly over me like superior beings. The roaring of engines and putrid black vapour that encased the city centre was a familiar sign of where I was. It was impossible not to let out a meagre cough as you entered the abyss beneath the blanket of fumes. The density of the smoke that would fill your lungs, created a thick barrier, blocking any oxygen from entering. The wheezing, gasping sound of passers-by was no surprise in this city.

Then, there was my father; another thing to ruin my childhood. He used to work in the quarries on the edge of Nice so spent weeks away from home at a time; sometimes even years. But, even on those minuscule occasions when he did return, that still wasn't much fun. You see, he is French. Naturally, considering he lived in France all his life but I speak English. This huge language barrier meant that the small handful of times when he did come home, we never really spoke to each other anyway. Working in a quarry, he never had the opportunity to learn English and I went to an English school in France so I was never really taught the French language unless you count French club as it. Plus, when you only see your dad a handful of times a year, was there really much point? Therefore, I never really spoke to my dad at all during my first years of life. We would kind of glance looks at each other if we passed in the house but in true honesty, I didn't really know much about him at all. Dinner times were always interesting. He would sometimes murmur a request for the bowl of salad or the ketchup and my mother spoke enough of the language to hold conversations with him, not that me or my brother knew what they were saying. So why did he ruin my childhood? Well... He's my father and I have never held a conversation with him because the language barrier splits us apart. He was away so much that he never taught me anything and my mother was too busy with work to find the time to teach me French. Bitter sadness always shook through my body when he was at home. How I dreamed for someone to spend time building go-karts with me or take me to various stadiums to watch football. But no. I could swear that he didn't even care. We never spoke and I wasn't sure we ever would.

Hi guys!! Sorry if you find this chapter quite boring but I did it so you could have some background as to his life before. Please vote, favourite etc. if you like it so far and please remember that this plot is mine so anyone found with this plot line will be prosecuted for copyright. Thanks. Lotto xxxx