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02: Let Me Help

02: Let Me Help

            Charlie falls back against the blue netted cage, which contains dodge balls, one with a red smear on it from that one time when Amy Vancouver was feeling particularly vindictive and approached Zooey Baker from behind and hit her with the dodge ball right on the head, making sure it followed her through until she hit the ground – soccer balls, most of which need inflating again, but the Coaches are lazy and expect all of us to do their jobs for them. There’s even a misplaced tennis ball, nestled right in the corner, most likely when Caggie was responsible for collecting the last couple tennis balls only half an hour ago, and was rushing to get them away then go to change. His white polo rises as his arms reach above his head, knuckles turning white when he grips right onto the top of the cage, he starts to lean precariously forward, tipping it forward slowly, and the brown and black basketball which has BHS writ in marker in big black letters, rolls forward right to the edge, then he lets go, letting the cage thump once it lands on all fours upright, but his arms remain wrapped around the metal cage.

            His eyes slowly flutter closed when he looks down at the weathered book resting between his two feet. The black and white of his converse frame the red leather cover of the diary – which, as an inanimate object, is able to create an anxiety shift which not many people themselves can generate. The left corner is worn right down, curling back, unable to stay flat. If Devin was able to write in it, I can imagine her damaging the spine whilst her pen scratches along the surface of the off-white pages the words which paint her lasting memory, telling a story which she didn’t say through words. The black of his eyelashes leave shadows on his sharp cheekbones, and he stays like that, for a while, for minutes, for what feels like days, then his eyes open slowly, and the haunting mix of green and grey flicker across the cupboard, back down to the diary, up to his arms, and he tenses them, watching how his veins push against his pale skin, then back to the diary: the new centre of all of his thoughts.

            It commands attention, Devin’s Diary not having the exact words printed on the red leather, there’s no need, it speaks for itself, with no words, no phrases, nothing but a slab of red leather which is heavily wrinkled and cracked, telling a story of wear and tear. “Do you want to read it?” His lips barely move to form the words which inevitably leave his mouth. I stand straight against the other wall, looking down at the book lying between both of his feet. The white plastic tips of his trainers are dirty, along with the laces which look a few shades away from grey. The cage behind him jostles as he moves his arms behind him. He’s stronger than he thinks he is, and I’m reminded of those times when he would stop our conversations in my living room to go and help my Dad with whatever it was he was constructing this time. “Oh, come on,” he said, “let me help your Dad.” His help had been definitely appreciated, receiving bashful smiles from my Dad as he’d natter on about his motivation for ordering flat-pack drawers from Ikea, calling him boy, and saying there was no need for the help, an old guy like him could manage. Charlie would insist, seeing it as his duty to offer his help wherever necessary.

            Charlie wants to read the diary, I can tell. There’s a dip between his eyebrows, and his lips are pinched together tightly. Black hair hangs over his forehead in unintended bangs, and this time, he doesn’t stop to push them back out of his face like he usually would. A gradual pink hue travels up his neck, over his chin and through his cheeks, and I realise he’s holding his breath – the chest behind the white polo shirt isn’t rising nor falling, it’s completely still, doing nothing at all. “Stop it,” I tell him, knowing exactly what he’s doing. His lips do their best to tilt into a smirk, but his concentration remains on holding his breath. “Charlie!” I panic, for his pathetic attempt, for the possibility that he may never breathe again, much like Devin, who can never experience the rush of blood pounding in her ears, or feeling warmth come from someone else’s touch. “Don’t,” I try my best to warn him, his actions are idiotic, and it’s been too long, far too long, and I’m growing worried. “Charlie!”