That Little Boy

That Little Boy

Little Alexander Adrian Roberts, the boy at the back, the one who doesn’t talk the one in long sleeves. Hunched back, head down, pen making scratching sounds every now and then: ‘Scritch- scratch, Scritch- scratch’. There’s a sound, a shift of a chair from the direction of the teacher’s desk and suddenly eagle eyes are upon her, watching, assessing.

This is the story of that little boy, the one in the long sleeves, the one that always changed in the bathrooms- as if he had something to hide.

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He’s always there at the back, listening in and looking ‘round. When his name is mentioned I see the way he looks. His eyes wide, almost pleading, and his mouth slightly open as if he were about to answer, but then quick as a mouse, he’s back to routine. His head down, back hunched- the epitome of concentration.

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I catch them staring, all the time, I do. I don’t think they’ve noticed that I know what they’re up to. Their quick furtive glances and the tell tale swish of their hair, I can always tell. There’s Michael, he’s watching me again, with those sad eyes- so close yet so far away. He catches my eye, he’s seen me looking. I watch as his brow folds into a crease- oh what have I done? Now there’ll be hell to pay.

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I think he’s in trouble, in fact I know he’s in trouble. With who, exactly, I’m not sure but he must get them from somewhere- those horrible things that mar his skin. He doesn’t have the guts to be doing it to himself so there must be an external cause, question is what?

They’re afraid to go near him y’know; they think he brings bad luck. I suppose he’s not too bad. Maybe… if he was a bit more open…

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He’s back again, the little dear. It’s back to his corner, always in the shadows and never in plain sight. He’s got new ones, fresh ones and there’s more than the last time. I see the other children, all skirting around him. The poor boy’s a darling, forever asking if I need help- he’s so considerate of an old woman’s feelings. There’s never a shout to his name, that one, unlike the other little terrors. I see those books he reads; they’re always the same ones. And that ‘web-site’ he’s always on, on that new- fangled ‘com-puh-tar’. I think he’s searching for someone, someone special.

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The Brat is back, back to haunt me and run me out of house and home. Look at him! The way he stands, his head up eyes constantly darting around, watching, waiting, flinching. The disrespect for his betters is evident- just like his good- for- nothing mother. How dare he be like her, have her mannerisms and her insufferableness? He needs a lesson, that one… hmm. Drink running dry- ah, ‘Boy! Get me another one!’ look at that waif, scuttling along, he better return fast- before I get angry.

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There he is. I don’t think he’s aware of the way they look at him. Maybe he has… he’s ever so quiet. Oh, what happened to his face? It’s worse than before! I think he needs help, and fast. I don’t know how he gets them but I’ll find out whatever it is and stop it before he gets hurt too bad- before it’s too late. I’ve got to stop it, whatever it is. Maybe I should follow him, just in case…

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I can feel her. I think she knows but- she can’t know. NO-ONE can know. Father will be angry, I just know he will, I’ve got to throw her off. I’ve just got to! A left, then a right, then down Dury Lane. Over the fence and- ouch! Searing pain, but there’s no time for that- she’s closing in. I have to run, it might hurt but this is more important. I don’t think I’ll make it through another one of father’s ‘lessons’.