Roxan ~ In My Life with the Beatles

5

1958 ~ 16yo

After a while I realised the only way out was to get away from the house as much as possible. I wandered the streets instead of being home. I didn't invite friends, or in fact, have any friends. I pretty much alienated anyone trying to get close by then. 

My whole personality changed, my demure, my outlook, the way I wanted people to see, or should I say, not see me, shifted.

With some sewing scissors I hacked my hair off in the park toilets and having taken my brothers bits of clothing that he left behind I metamorphosed into a different person. Hiding scars and bruises was my first thought but after putting on the dark coloured jeans which I needed to roll up at the bottom (as I was a tad shorted than James), black shirt and old black bomber type jacket I felt taller, stronger and more capable to hold my course. Instead of listening to someone else kick it to the kerb.

Starting back at school was hard as can be but I was determined that part of my life was what I needed to keep the rest of me afloat. I was smart. I could excel and I would finish school making sure I was able to get out of this hell hole of a town or life at least.

Oh... the looks I got!! 

The girls would walk the opposite side of the street in town or hallway at school to get away from me. The guys were perplexed some thinking I was wanting to be with them (which I definitely wasn't) others wanted to fight me as if I was a rival on their turf. 

I just ignored the lot... sat at the back, close to the window and often was found gazing out over the concrete school grounds more often than not soaked in that days miserable rain. If I had already finished my work, I would be doodling and writing poems and stuff usually. One ear listening out for the teacher of the hour. Always, I always was handing in my work (usually after everyone had left the room), excelling in my exams and getting my grades high enough to do what I wanted, what I needed to do.

The beatings didn't stop though nor his disgusting touch on my body. I still needed to look out for mum and to eat. I hadn't a job so no money meant home for food, for now... If he didn't catch me at home he would have a couple of his 'trusted' police mates keep an eye out on the streets. They then kindly (blah) delivered me home or to the station for his amusement and my dose of terror. 

The station was usually worse, as I was being shoved in a cell for no reason. But it was nice and handy for him to drag me out running his grubby fingers over my body and usually a whole lot worse. Many times I have been stung by the burns of his cigarette or fist giving me black eyes.